viridian-dagger

[viridian-dagger]

Seiðr of a Death Singer - One

Rating: Explicit/Mature - 18+ only! Minors DNI

Warnings: named/minimally described oc, mute!oc, attempted hanging, violence, fear, Sihtric is in his emo era, Finan is a snarky bastard... we're pretty tame for now lol

Word count: 4.3k

Author's Note: taglist is open, cross posted on ao3, and beta read by @witchoftheewilds

Series Masterlist

Røskva stared up at the stars between the branches of the tree, dazed. The only thing she knew for certain was that she lived — which was evident by the pain radiating from where she had fallen and the feeling of the noose still tight around her throat. But the cut rope swinging idly from the tree and a pair of eyes hovering over her was what gave her pause.

“Lady, we must flee,” he whispered, “let me help you.” She nearly reached for his hand, bewildered but grateful, until she saw the glittering blade in her periphery.

Fear flooded her as she scrambled to her feet, brandishing her shard of pottery and baring her teeth. She would not let another man take her. 

“Woman, I'm trying to save your life!” He hissed as she slashed out at him. “I am a Dane! I will not let these Christians kill you without reason.”

She narrowed her eyes and slashed again, but he was quick and strong, grabbing her wrist and twisting until she dropped the shard with a soundless scream. 

“I swear on Thor’s Hammer I will not let harm come to you from me, my men, or any others, but we must leave,” he ground out, staring her in the eyes. She snarled at him and darted away, hearing him growl as she ran. 

It was only then she realized what was happening. There were flames everywhere and people running; it was chaos. She hoped they all burned, the priest most of all. But he appeared in front of her, a dagger in hand. 

“You heathen bitch!” He spit, ambling at her. She felt the sting of the blade against her collarbone as he swiped at her. 

Røskva saw him turn toward her, evil glinting in his eyes, but the same moment she saw the handle of an axe crack into the priest's temple, she felt a hand grasp her arm and yank her back into a firm chest. She tried to scream and fight her way out of the hold, but the strong grip did not falter and her voice continued to fail her.

“Christ, woman, we're trying to save your arse,” a thick accent called out from behind her. “Stop tryin’ to get yourself bloody killed for a minute, aye?”

She whipped her head around to glare at whoever spoke, and found a smirking face belonging to a broad, bearded man.

“Finan, ready the horses. We must go now,” the man holding her said, lifting her off the ground as she kicked and tried to shriek. 

“Lord, are you sure we should take her?” A meek voice asked as she was tossed unceremoniously into a saddle.

“I swore she would come to no harm,” the man said, swinging himself up onto the horse behind her. She squirmed and fidgeted in the saddle, trying to put distance between them. But a strong arm bracketed her waist as he urged his horse forward.

She looked around wildly as they rode, the full moon breaking through the clouds and bathing them in light. Røskva could only see there were three men with them, but the landscape blurred as her eyes filled with tears. 

She was defenseless, and at the mercy of men yet again. She had no weapon to grant her entrance to Valhalla, and had no hope to be spared a painful death. The man who had freed her seemed to be Dane, but the man with the accent did not seem to be. Røskva had no idea what these men wanted with her, nor could imagine how more suffering she could endure. 

By the time their horse came to a stop, Røskva’s tears had dried and she was prepared to face death. She sent prayers to the Gods as she was pulled off the saddle and set on her feet.

“We will rest here for the night,” the Dane who cut her noose said to the others before turning to her. His eyes were shockingly blue, and held no anger, but she knew how easy it was for some to hold a lie on one's face. 

Something about him looked familiar to her, but she knew she'd never seen him before. She had memorized the faces of Kjartan’s men in fear of ever coming across them, and he was not one of them. But anxiety sparked in her heart when she saw him pull a dagger from his belt. 

He must have sensed her fear, taking a step back and raising his hands. “I am Uhtred Ragnarsson of Bebbanburg. I do not wish to harm you, only to cut the rope from your neck,” he said softly, as if he was talking to a scared animal.

Despite his actions, she couldn't find it in herself to step toward him. The blade in his hand was too much of a threat still as her gaze flickered between it and his eyes.

“If I give this to you to cut the rope from your neck, do you swear you will not turn and run?” He sighed, sounding frustrated. She raised an eyebrow in confusion, wondering why he wasn’t more concerned that she would try to kill him with it, but he only smiled softly in return. “It was a gift from my brother, and I am attached to it.”

Røskva thought for a moment before nodding, reaching her hand out for the dagger. Uhtred’s smile grew as he flipped it in hand, placing the hilt in her open palm. She was quick to cut the rope around her throat, hissing as her finger brushed against the slice on her chest.

“Lord, I will take first watch. Finan is skinning the rabbits and Osferth started the fire,” a man said from behind her. The voice had her whipping around to stare into the eyes of a man she never thought she’d see again. Sihtric, her mind sighed. But the man who stood before her barely resembled the boy who had left her all those years ago. Time had given him strength and confidence; he stood unburdened by the weight of his birth and left behind a warrior, seax in one hand and axe in the other.

But as quickly as joy had filled her, rage burned it away and left disgust. He had abandoned her with his cruel father for years . He swore he would return for her and never came. Instinct had her stepping toward him as he gaped at her like a fish. “Røskva?” He whispered, the disbelief in his voice fueled her rage as she swung at him, her fist catching his jaw and sent him sprawling on the ground, staring up at her in confusion. 

She wished she had a voice to scream at him, to lay bare her rage and disappointment and disgust, but the only sound that left her ruined throat were pitiful ragged puffs of air. Her rage bubbled again, desperate and feral for blood as she felt the weight of the dagger in her hand.

But before she could act, she was lifted off the ground once more and the blade pried out of her hand. “Christ, what’d you do to her to make her want you dead? You can’t be that terrible at humpin’ lasses,” the man with the accent joked as he ran up to Sihtric, pulling him off the ground. She bared her teeth at the both of them, noting the cross he wore around his neck. She couldn’t bear to look at either of them, disgust and hatred flaring in her chest.

“Sihtric, how do you know this woman, and why does she wish you dead?” Uhtred demanded, the slight growl in his chest reverberating in her body where it was pressed against him.

“Her name is Røskva, Lord,” Sihtric said, still sounding like he could not believe what he was saying. “She is the one I spoke to you of, the seer Kjartan stole…” The sound of the cursed man’s name on his lips had her snarling at him again.

“Do not lie to me, Sihtric,” Uhtred growled, “We know she is long dead.”

“No, Lord! I can prove it,” Sihtric said firmly, “She bears a tattoo that matches the one on my chest; it is on the back of her neck.”

“We could also ask her name, Lord,” the meek voice added from her periphery. She turned to see a young man, dressed like the grey rats. Fear gripped her as she tried to wriggle out of Uhtred’s hold and bolt away from him, but his hold around her waist simply restricted as he lifted her off the ground, her toes barely brushing the grass beneath her bare feet.

“Christ, Osferth, I didn’t know the sight of your face alone could frighten anyone,” she heard the man with the accent laugh, “We can make a warrior of you yet, baby monk!”

“Stop antagonizing him, Finan, and help me check her,” Uhtred sighed, before his low voice was in her ear, “Unless you wish to stop fighting me.”

A gentle hand gripped her face and turned her while another brushed her hair back from her nape, revealing the mark. “Sweet merciful Christ, it is her,” the man who she assumed was Finan whispered as both sets of hands fell away and she was back on her own feet. The arm around her waist still remained, but it did not confine her any longer.

“Røskva,” Sihtric said softly, and her eyes burned with tears. How could he speak to her like he hadn’t abandoned her to suffer for years? “How is it you live?”

Her head snapped toward him and glared; his hands were outstretched toward her and his eyes were a mixture of heartbreak and joy. She opened her mouth to scream at him, but all that escaped was a pained croak.

“Lady Røskva, were you harmed?” The monk, she assumed was Osferth, asked shyly, extending a hand towards her but she backed away, bumping into the solid chest behind her. She froze, feeling like an animal caught in a trap. But she was no rabbit to be caught and skinned; she would gnaw her own leg off if it meant freedom.

“Lord, I think we need to give the lass some time,” Finan said softly. Her eyes darted to his, and in them she found understanding and empathy. “She nearly died tonight, she deserves to rest. We can have her answer all our questions after we get to Eoferwic.”

Uhtred sighed, retracting his arm from her and stepping away. “Finan is right,” he admitted. Røskva found herself confused by it — they called him Lord, and deferred to him, but he seemed to… care about them. She couldn’t help but think of how Kjartan took pleasure in killing and maiming those who questioned him or offered insight, and the way the Abbess would reprimand the sisters who dared to defy her. 

The hand entwining with hers made her jump, snatching the appendage away and striking out to slap the hand that dared to touch hers. The familiar knobby fingers and rough palm remained outstretched towards her, frozen in place as she traced the length of his arm up to find his eyes.

The mismatched irises were too close, but she was rooted in her spot as he stared at her, and for a second she felt time fold in on itself. She was 15 again, staring into the eyes of the boy who loved her. But she blinked, and he was gone. In his place was a man, a warrior, who had made a name for himself and forgotten the oath he swore. She couldn't help but sneer at the glittering silver arm bands or the silver beads in his hair or the furs he wore. He had traded her life for his own glory.

“It might be best to give her some space, Sihtric,” the monk added softly, “It has been years, and she is frightened, and injured.”

Sihtric shook his head and looked back at her, eyes pleading, “Røskva, please, I—” he whispered again, but was cut off by Uhtred.

“Leave her be,” he snapped, eyes hard. “Go eat while I speak to her, and start your watch.”

Sihtric looked torn, but Finan’s hand on his shoulder tore him away, slumping in defeat as they walked toward the small fire with Osferth trailing behind them.

“Are you injured?” Uhtred asked softly. She shook her head and stepped backwards, away from him. He looked almost pained at her hesitation, but understanding swam in his gaze. “I swore it once, but I will swear again if it soothes you, I will not harm you nor allow harm to come to you. We are heading south, to Witancaester, to the King. We will take you wherever you wish to go after.”

She narrowed her eyes at him warily, still unsure. There was something familiar about him still, but she could not place it.

He sighed softly, head dropping forward in frustration, “Gods, where is Hild when I need her most,” he asked, seemingly to himself before meeting her eyes. “I know you do not trust us, but if you allow it, we will help you.”

She frowned, too many questions swirling in her mind. The haze of rage she had felt seeing Sihtric lifted and now all she felt was confusion, pain, and the sting of the cold. She nodded, the bone deep exhaustion hitting her all at once. 

She was startled, feeling something warm settle onto her shoulders, “Come, we will sit by the fire, and then we will sleep,” Uhtred said softly, hand on her back guiding her toward where Finan and Osferth now sat alone. Sihtric was nowhere in sight, but she felt his gaze on her like a weight.

The mood around the fire was tense. She picked at the meat in silence — making sure she saw them eat before she took a single bite — as Finan and Uhtred spoke in hushed tones and Osferth stole glances at her while he thought she wasn’t looking. She was too spent to care.

Dread pooled in her gut as she felt herself slipping out of consciousness, but it was not sleep that pulled her under. The vision was brutal, so much death and suffering. Swathes of dead men on battlefields, some Dane, some not. She saw grey rats, tortured and flayed alive by a woman cursed by the Gods. A warrior, the one who killed Kjartan, dying in his bed, doomed to roam Niflheim. A woman, terrorized by a man and dying trapped as a fire took her home. Uhtred, weak and cursed, dying painfully in his sleep. Heads on pikes that she could not recognize, save Finan, Osferth, and Sihtric.

Røskva jolted out of sleep with a soundless scream, unable to determine where she was for a moment, seeing nothing but the blinding light filtering between the leaves of the trees above her head and the smoldering ruins of a fire. The memories flooded back to her when she found the young man, Osferth, staring at her with a tight smile. She flinched as he took a step toward her, hissing as her body fell into the log at her back.

He looked ashamed for a moment and took a step backwards, putting his hands behind his back. “Good morning, Lady Røskva,” he said, his voice soft. “Uhtred said we will be leaving soon. He wanted to warn you that you will be riding with one of us today, as we only have four horses. We ride for Eoferwic, and it shouldn’t take too long to get there.”

She nodded, turning away from him, brushing the hay and dust off the rough spun dress she wore, frowning at the cross on the chest. The sound of him clearing his throat stole her attention again.

“Sorry, just… we want to speak to you, and you… haven’t spoken. We were wondering if you were injured somehow, your throat we mean,” he implored. All she could do was nod and stare at him expectantly as understanding bloomed on his face. “Yes, I see. This is a problem then.” He said mostly to himself, eyebrows furrowing, before his focus darted back to her. “We will figure something out. I’ll leave you to your preparations.”

Without another word, he spun on his heel and walked away, leaving her to her thoughts. Osferth was nothing like the other monks she had met; he seemed shy, almost unsure of himself. He was also little more than a boy, desperate to be a man. Most of the monks at the monastery were fully grown men, some old enough to be grandfathers many times over. 

She forced herself onto her feet, wincing at the aches she felt in her body as she walked over to where the men were standing with their horses, ignoring the weight of Sihtric’s eyes on her as she hobbled over. 

“Well good morning, gorgeous,” Finan smiled brightly, sending her a wink. She narrowed her eyes at him in return, eyes catching the cross around his neck, which only made his smile grow. “Lord, we should travel with a woman more often, she just brightens up the mood doesn’t—have you been walkin’ around barefoot? It’s bloody freezing out!”

She didn’t have time to protest even if she could have as a pair of hands grabbed her by the waist and lifted her onto the back of a horse, while another pair of hands grabbed her ankle. 

When she saw the edge of the tattoo on his neck, she kicked out, trying to free herself from his grip but his hands remained firm as Sihtric leveled a glare at her. “You are the one who warned me of how quickly frostbite can spread. Let me check, and then I will leave you be,” Sihtric demanded, a slight growl in his voice making her huff, but she allowed him to continue with a roll of her eyes. 

She glared at the top of his head as he checked her over, but no longer fought his hold. It didn’t take him long to determine she was clear of blackened skin. 

“Christ, woman! In the future, let us know if you're out here in the snow with nothing but your skin to keep you safe. I'd like for all of us to keep our limbs!” Finan all but shouted at her. 

“We will get you proper clothes and new boots in Eoferwic,” Uhtred said decisively. “You will ride with Finan today.”

“Lord, I think she should—” Sihtric started but Uhtred cut him off with a growl. She watched as Sihtric snapped his mouth shut and nodded, walking away from the group. 

“Ignore him, he's been actin’ a fool lately,” Finan scoffed, giving her a playful eye roll, but Røskva could hear the tightness in his voice. “He told us all about you though. Spoke nothin’ but good of you,” he said, giving her a smile. His words and the teasing lilt of his tone did nothing to quell the white hot rage she felt.

She turned away from Finan, trying her best not to glare at the stranger who wore the skin of the person who she once trusted with her life. To hear that he spoke of her — like a conquest no less — to these strange men had her hands shaking as she resisted the urge to jump off the horse and beat Sihtric bloody with her bare hands.

Røskva couldn’t bear to look at him, nor the other men, while they packed up the camp. “We are about to head out, Lady,” Osferth said quietly as he passed by her horse. She ignored the monk as he disappeared from her view.

She was determined to ignore Uhtred as well, but he walked up to her, staring expectantly until she sighed and acknowledged him. She found him to be annoyingly pretty with mischief in his eyes, but there was a haunted sadness that clung to him. 

“Until we reach Eoferwic, you should wear these to keep the frost at bay,” he said, grabbing her ankle and slipping her foot into a too large boot. Her mouth hung open in shock as he repeated the action with her other foot, nodding in satisfaction when he was done and walked away without a word. 

“I hope you don’t mind sharin’ with me today,” Finan teased, hoisting himself onto the horse behind her. “I hate to break it to you, love, but you're gonna need to sit astride if we're to make good time,” he said in her ear before hooking an arm under one of her legs and swinging it over the neck of the horse. 

The yelp that escaped her throat was barely a sound, more a squawk than anything. She hated how these men manhandled her and laughed at her discomfort. 

She fought the urge to slap his hands away when his arms wrapped around her, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from a pointless, soundless scream in frustration. “Don’t be afraid to hold onto me, we got places to be and can’t be slowin’ down for much else,” Finan said softly in her ear before nudging his horse forward.

The ride was much different than the night before — they weren’t riding like their lives depended on it, and watching the scenery fly by in the daylight was exhilarating even if she was dreading having to spend more time on a horse. She was desperately uncomfortable — her thighs burned from the effort of being spread so wide on the horse, her skin prickled with chills as the frosty air permeated her simple shift and the fur Uhtred had set on her shoulders, and her hips ached something awful as she refused to recline backwards into Finan’s embrace.

He was more polite than she thought he’d be; his arms remained around her, just tight enough to keep her safe and rooted in her seat, but did not try to pull her closer nor did his hands wander. She had almost convinced herself that she may have misjudged him when he leaned forward, his breath fanning against her face. “It won’t hurt you nothin’ to relax, love,” he said, almost conspiratorially. “In fact, I bet you could sleep clear to Witancaester and I’d keep you upright.” She ignored him, maintaining her posture as he snickered in her ear. 

The rest of the ride was silent between them — Finan and Uhtred often rode together to discuss plans, Sihtric and Osferth both taking turns riding ahead and reporting back. Each time, Sihtric‘s eyes were desperate to meet hers, something sad and imploring in his gaze, but she stared ahead.

It was nearly nightfall when Sihtric rode back again, but his eyes no longer tried to find hers. He was focused on Uhtred. “Steapa is waiting outside the city — there is news from Alfred.”

She watched Uhtred hesitate for a moment before he nodded. “We ride hard and hear the news,” he said, throwing her and Finan a look. The arm around her waist tightened and they took off, riding hard and fast. If she hadn’t been so terrified she might have enjoyed it, but the unease that settled on the group at the mention of this man had her mind spinning.

It wasn’t long until they reached a lone rider lingering near the road, half hidden in the thicket. “Steapa!” Uhtred called out, directing his horse toward the man as they slowed their horses.

“Big man!” Finan shouted at the same time. 

“Must you antagonize him, Finan?” Osferth sighed. Finan laughed and she gasped, realizing that she could feel the rumble of it where his chest was pressed to her back; she hadn’t noticed that she had relaxed against him as they rode. She tried to make space between them, but Finan’s grip was firm, keeping her body pressed to his. 

“Uhtred,” the man greeted them as they rode closer. The man was a giant, and clearly a Saxon, which made her nervous. She tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible, not wanting this man to turn on her, and in turn, turn on Uhtred. He had sworn her an oath, but she wasn’t sure he could defeat this mountain of a man. “I see your Irishman lives… a pity,” he said apathetically, not bothering to look at Finan.

“You love me, big man, don’t deny it,” Finan teased. 

“What news from the King?” Uhtred asked.

“His majesty rides to Aescengum. You are to meet him there,” the man said, eyes sliding over all of them before fixing on her. He narrowed his eyes and assessed her for a moment, silent, before turning his gaze back to Uhtred. “We leave now.”

Uhtred shook his head, unbothered by the man. “We must stay the night and ride toward Aescengum at first light. There are supplies we need before we can leave, else I would join you.”

The man’s eyes cut to her again, narrowing again, before he nodded. “I will inform the King,” he said. The words sounded like a threat, but Uhtred seemed unbothered.

“You do that, big man,” Finan’s voice so close to her ear made her jump. She turned to see his chin hovering above her shoulder, lazy smirk plastered on his face. “We are tired, hungry, and in need of ale, lord. Might we leave and settle at the inn while you finish your business?”

“Aye. Finan, take our guest to the inn and wait for me there,” Uhtred said dismissively. Røskva did not miss the glance he sent to her, pleading in his eyes. 

“Aye, Lord,” Finan replied before turning them toward the road, urging his horse forward. “You should feel right at home, lady, we're in Dane territory,” he said in her ear.

Series Masterlist

[viridian-dagger]

"Destiny is all."

i generally have a strict rule about reading the books first before watching a series based on them, but i cheated with "the last kingdom". i enjoyed this very much, tho have no idea how different it is from the written story yet. they're on my summer book list this year!

[viridian-dagger]

One of the many things I like about Alexander is that his eyes express so much emotion and he makes me cry instantly 😭

[viridian-dagger]

Alfred's Dream of England // Day 1 // Favourite scene Aethelstan. The first king of the English // The Last Kingdom S5E1

Uhtred: You think you're ready to slaughter a beast? Aethelstan: You know I am.

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alfred saying wise things just for his fuckass boyfriend to ruin the moment

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I’m in my Arnas Fed and Mark Rowley era, nothing but these men.

[viridian-dagger]

another day, another episode, another meme

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Putting all my money on Teleporno 👀 y'all can kill me when he turns out to be Saruman or smth

Part: 194/?

[viridian-dagger]

when in doubt about whether or not to make a thing, do it for your 3 hardcore fans.

[viridian-dagger]

Seiðr of a Death Singer - One

Rating: Explicit/Mature - 18+ only! Minors DNI

Warnings: named/minimally described oc, mute!oc, attempted hanging, violence, fear, Sihtric is in his emo era, Finan is a snarky bastard... we're pretty tame for now lol

Word count: 4.3k

Author's Note: taglist is open, cross posted on ao3, and beta read by @witchoftheewilds

Series Masterlist

Røskva stared up at the stars between the branches of the tree, dazed. The only thing she knew for certain was that she lived — which was evident by the pain radiating from where she had fallen and the feeling of the noose still tight around her throat. But the cut rope swinging idly from the tree and a pair of eyes hovering over her was what gave her pause.

“Lady, we must flee,” he whispered, “let me help you.” She nearly reached for his hand, bewildered but grateful, until she saw the glittering blade in her periphery.

Fear flooded her as she scrambled to her feet, brandishing her shard of pottery and baring her teeth. She would not let another man take her. 

“Woman, I'm trying to save your life!” He hissed as she slashed out at him. “I am a Dane! I will not let these Christians kill you without reason.”

She narrowed her eyes and slashed again, but he was quick and strong, grabbing her wrist and twisting until she dropped the shard with a soundless scream. 

“I swear on Thor’s Hammer I will not let harm come to you from me, my men, or any others, but we must leave,” he ground out, staring her in the eyes. She snarled at him and darted away, hearing him growl as she ran. 

It was only then she realized what was happening. There were flames everywhere and people running; it was chaos. She hoped they all burned, the priest most of all. But he appeared in front of her, a dagger in hand. 

“You heathen bitch!” He spit, ambling at her. She felt the sting of the blade against her collarbone as he swiped at her. 

Røskva saw him turn toward her, evil glinting in his eyes, but the same moment she saw the handle of an axe crack into the priest's temple, she felt a hand grasp her arm and yank her back into a firm chest. She tried to scream and fight her way out of the hold, but the strong grip did not falter and her voice continued to fail her.

“Christ, woman, we're trying to save your arse,” a thick accent called out from behind her. “Stop tryin’ to get yourself bloody killed for a minute, aye?”

She whipped her head around to glare at whoever spoke, and found a smirking face belonging to a broad, bearded man.

“Finan, ready the horses. We must go now,” the man holding her said, lifting her off the ground as she kicked and tried to shriek. 

“Lord, are you sure we should take her?” A meek voice asked as she was tossed unceremoniously into a saddle.

“I swore she would come to no harm,” the man said, swinging himself up onto the horse behind her. She squirmed and fidgeted in the saddle, trying to put distance between them. But a strong arm bracketed her waist as he urged his horse forward.

She looked around wildly as they rode, the full moon breaking through the clouds and bathing them in light. Røskva could only see there were three men with them, but the landscape blurred as her eyes filled with tears. 

She was defenseless, and at the mercy of men yet again. She had no weapon to grant her entrance to Valhalla, and had no hope to be spared a painful death. The man who had freed her seemed to be Dane, but the man with the accent did not seem to be. Røskva had no idea what these men wanted with her, nor could imagine how more suffering she could endure. 

By the time their horse came to a stop, Røskva’s tears had dried and she was prepared to face death. She sent prayers to the Gods as she was pulled off the saddle and set on her feet.

“We will rest here for the night,” the Dane who cut her noose said to the others before turning to her. His eyes were shockingly blue, and held no anger, but she knew how easy it was for some to hold a lie on one's face. 

Something about him looked familiar to her, but she knew she'd never seen him before. She had memorized the faces of Kjartan’s men in fear of ever coming across them, and he was not one of them. But anxiety sparked in her heart when she saw him pull a dagger from his belt. 

He must have sensed her fear, taking a step back and raising his hands. “I am Uhtred Ragnarsson of Bebbanburg. I do not wish to harm you, only to cut the rope from your neck,” he said softly, as if he was talking to a scared animal.

Despite his actions, she couldn't find it in herself to step toward him. The blade in his hand was too much of a threat still as her gaze flickered between it and his eyes.

“If I give this to you to cut the rope from your neck, do you swear you will not turn and run?” He sighed, sounding frustrated. She raised an eyebrow in confusion, wondering why he wasn’t more concerned that she would try to kill him with it, but he only smiled softly in return. “It was a gift from my brother, and I am attached to it.”

Røskva thought for a moment before nodding, reaching her hand out for the dagger. Uhtred’s smile grew as he flipped it in hand, placing the hilt in her open palm. She was quick to cut the rope around her throat, hissing as her finger brushed against the slice on her chest.

“Lord, I will take first watch. Finan is skinning the rabbits and Osferth started the fire,” a man said from behind her. The voice had her whipping around to stare into the eyes of a man she never thought she’d see again. Sihtric, her mind sighed. But the man who stood before her barely resembled the boy who had left her all those years ago. Time had given him strength and confidence; he stood unburdened by the weight of his birth and left behind a warrior, seax in one hand and axe in the other.

But as quickly as joy had filled her, rage burned it away and left disgust. He had abandoned her with his cruel father for years . He swore he would return for her and never came. Instinct had her stepping toward him as he gaped at her like a fish. “Røskva?” He whispered, the disbelief in his voice fueled her rage as she swung at him, her fist catching his jaw and sent him sprawling on the ground, staring up at her in confusion. 

She wished she had a voice to scream at him, to lay bare her rage and disappointment and disgust, but the only sound that left her ruined throat were pitiful ragged puffs of air. Her rage bubbled again, desperate and feral for blood as she felt the weight of the dagger in her hand.

But before she could act, she was lifted off the ground once more and the blade pried out of her hand. “Christ, what’d you do to her to make her want you dead? You can’t be that terrible at humpin’ lasses,” the man with the accent joked as he ran up to Sihtric, pulling him off the ground. She bared her teeth at the both of them, noting the cross he wore around his neck. She couldn’t bear to look at either of them, disgust and hatred flaring in her chest.

“Sihtric, how do you know this woman, and why does she wish you dead?” Uhtred demanded, the slight growl in his chest reverberating in her body where it was pressed against him.

“Her name is Røskva, Lord,” Sihtric said, still sounding like he could not believe what he was saying. “She is the one I spoke to you of, the seer Kjartan stole…” The sound of the cursed man’s name on his lips had her snarling at him again.

“Do not lie to me, Sihtric,” Uhtred growled, “We know she is long dead.”

“No, Lord! I can prove it,” Sihtric said firmly, “She bears a tattoo that matches the one on my chest; it is on the back of her neck.”

“We could also ask her name, Lord,” the meek voice added from her periphery. She turned to see a young man, dressed like the grey rats. Fear gripped her as she tried to wriggle out of Uhtred’s hold and bolt away from him, but his hold around her waist simply restricted as he lifted her off the ground, her toes barely brushing the grass beneath her bare feet.

“Christ, Osferth, I didn’t know the sight of your face alone could frighten anyone,” she heard the man with the accent laugh, “We can make a warrior of you yet, baby monk!”

“Stop antagonizing him, Finan, and help me check her,” Uhtred sighed, before his low voice was in her ear, “Unless you wish to stop fighting me.”

A gentle hand gripped her face and turned her while another brushed her hair back from her nape, revealing the mark. “Sweet merciful Christ, it is her,” the man who she assumed was Finan whispered as both sets of hands fell away and she was back on her own feet. The arm around her waist still remained, but it did not confine her any longer.

“Røskva,” Sihtric said softly, and her eyes burned with tears. How could he speak to her like he hadn’t abandoned her to suffer for years? “How is it you live?”

Her head snapped toward him and glared; his hands were outstretched toward her and his eyes were a mixture of heartbreak and joy. She opened her mouth to scream at him, but all that escaped was a pained croak.

“Lady Røskva, were you harmed?” The monk, she assumed was Osferth, asked shyly, extending a hand towards her but she backed away, bumping into the solid chest behind her. She froze, feeling like an animal caught in a trap. But she was no rabbit to be caught and skinned; she would gnaw her own leg off if it meant freedom.

“Lord, I think we need to give the lass some time,” Finan said softly. Her eyes darted to his, and in them she found understanding and empathy. “She nearly died tonight, she deserves to rest. We can have her answer all our questions after we get to Eoferwic.”

Uhtred sighed, retracting his arm from her and stepping away. “Finan is right,” he admitted. Røskva found herself confused by it — they called him Lord, and deferred to him, but he seemed to… care about them. She couldn’t help but think of how Kjartan took pleasure in killing and maiming those who questioned him or offered insight, and the way the Abbess would reprimand the sisters who dared to defy her. 

The hand entwining with hers made her jump, snatching the appendage away and striking out to slap the hand that dared to touch hers. The familiar knobby fingers and rough palm remained outstretched towards her, frozen in place as she traced the length of his arm up to find his eyes.

The mismatched irises were too close, but she was rooted in her spot as he stared at her, and for a second she felt time fold in on itself. She was 15 again, staring into the eyes of the boy who loved her. But she blinked, and he was gone. In his place was a man, a warrior, who had made a name for himself and forgotten the oath he swore. She couldn't help but sneer at the glittering silver arm bands or the silver beads in his hair or the furs he wore. He had traded her life for his own glory.

“It might be best to give her some space, Sihtric,” the monk added softly, “It has been years, and she is frightened, and injured.”

Sihtric shook his head and looked back at her, eyes pleading, “Røskva, please, I—” he whispered again, but was cut off by Uhtred.

“Leave her be,” he snapped, eyes hard. “Go eat while I speak to her, and start your watch.”

Sihtric looked torn, but Finan’s hand on his shoulder tore him away, slumping in defeat as they walked toward the small fire with Osferth trailing behind them.

“Are you injured?” Uhtred asked softly. She shook her head and stepped backwards, away from him. He looked almost pained at her hesitation, but understanding swam in his gaze. “I swore it once, but I will swear again if it soothes you, I will not harm you nor allow harm to come to you. We are heading south, to Witancaester, to the King. We will take you wherever you wish to go after.”

She narrowed her eyes at him warily, still unsure. There was something familiar about him still, but she could not place it.

He sighed softly, head dropping forward in frustration, “Gods, where is Hild when I need her most,” he asked, seemingly to himself before meeting her eyes. “I know you do not trust us, but if you allow it, we will help you.”

She frowned, too many questions swirling in her mind. The haze of rage she had felt seeing Sihtric lifted and now all she felt was confusion, pain, and the sting of the cold. She nodded, the bone deep exhaustion hitting her all at once. 

She was startled, feeling something warm settle onto her shoulders, “Come, we will sit by the fire, and then we will sleep,” Uhtred said softly, hand on her back guiding her toward where Finan and Osferth now sat alone. Sihtric was nowhere in sight, but she felt his gaze on her like a weight.

The mood around the fire was tense. She picked at the meat in silence — making sure she saw them eat before she took a single bite — as Finan and Uhtred spoke in hushed tones and Osferth stole glances at her while he thought she wasn’t looking. She was too spent to care.

Dread pooled in her gut as she felt herself slipping out of consciousness, but it was not sleep that pulled her under. The vision was brutal, so much death and suffering. Swathes of dead men on battlefields, some Dane, some not. She saw grey rats, tortured and flayed alive by a woman cursed by the Gods. A warrior, the one who killed Kjartan, dying in his bed, doomed to roam Niflheim. A woman, terrorized by a man and dying trapped as a fire took her home. Uhtred, weak and cursed, dying painfully in his sleep. Heads on pikes that she could not recognize, save Finan, Osferth, and Sihtric.

Røskva jolted out of sleep with a soundless scream, unable to determine where she was for a moment, seeing nothing but the blinding light filtering between the leaves of the trees above her head and the smoldering ruins of a fire. The memories flooded back to her when she found the young man, Osferth, staring at her with a tight smile. She flinched as he took a step toward her, hissing as her body fell into the log at her back.

He looked ashamed for a moment and took a step backwards, putting his hands behind his back. “Good morning, Lady Røskva,” he said, his voice soft. “Uhtred said we will be leaving soon. He wanted to warn you that you will be riding with one of us today, as we only have four horses. We ride for Eoferwic, and it shouldn’t take too long to get there.”

She nodded, turning away from him, brushing the hay and dust off the rough spun dress she wore, frowning at the cross on the chest. The sound of him clearing his throat stole her attention again.

“Sorry, just… we want to speak to you, and you… haven’t spoken. We were wondering if you were injured somehow, your throat we mean,” he implored. All she could do was nod and stare at him expectantly as understanding bloomed on his face. “Yes, I see. This is a problem then.” He said mostly to himself, eyebrows furrowing, before his focus darted back to her. “We will figure something out. I’ll leave you to your preparations.”

Without another word, he spun on his heel and walked away, leaving her to her thoughts. Osferth was nothing like the other monks she had met; he seemed shy, almost unsure of himself. He was also little more than a boy, desperate to be a man. Most of the monks at the monastery were fully grown men, some old enough to be grandfathers many times over. 

She forced herself onto her feet, wincing at the aches she felt in her body as she walked over to where the men were standing with their horses, ignoring the weight of Sihtric’s eyes on her as she hobbled over. 

“Well good morning, gorgeous,” Finan smiled brightly, sending her a wink. She narrowed her eyes at him in return, eyes catching the cross around his neck, which only made his smile grow. “Lord, we should travel with a woman more often, she just brightens up the mood doesn’t—have you been walkin’ around barefoot? It’s bloody freezing out!”

She didn’t have time to protest even if she could have as a pair of hands grabbed her by the waist and lifted her onto the back of a horse, while another pair of hands grabbed her ankle. 

When she saw the edge of the tattoo on his neck, she kicked out, trying to free herself from his grip but his hands remained firm as Sihtric leveled a glare at her. “You are the one who warned me of how quickly frostbite can spread. Let me check, and then I will leave you be,” Sihtric demanded, a slight growl in his voice making her huff, but she allowed him to continue with a roll of her eyes. 

She glared at the top of his head as he checked her over, but no longer fought his hold. It didn’t take him long to determine she was clear of blackened skin. 

“Christ, woman! In the future, let us know if you're out here in the snow with nothing but your skin to keep you safe. I'd like for all of us to keep our limbs!” Finan all but shouted at her. 

“We will get you proper clothes and new boots in Eoferwic,” Uhtred said decisively. “You will ride with Finan today.”

“Lord, I think she should—” Sihtric started but Uhtred cut him off with a growl. She watched as Sihtric snapped his mouth shut and nodded, walking away from the group. 

“Ignore him, he's been actin’ a fool lately,” Finan scoffed, giving her a playful eye roll, but Røskva could hear the tightness in his voice. “He told us all about you though. Spoke nothin’ but good of you,” he said, giving her a smile. His words and the teasing lilt of his tone did nothing to quell the white hot rage she felt.

She turned away from Finan, trying her best not to glare at the stranger who wore the skin of the person who she once trusted with her life. To hear that he spoke of her — like a conquest no less — to these strange men had her hands shaking as she resisted the urge to jump off the horse and beat Sihtric bloody with her bare hands.

Røskva couldn’t bear to look at him, nor the other men, while they packed up the camp. “We are about to head out, Lady,” Osferth said quietly as he passed by her horse. She ignored the monk as he disappeared from her view.

She was determined to ignore Uhtred as well, but he walked up to her, staring expectantly until she sighed and acknowledged him. She found him to be annoyingly pretty with mischief in his eyes, but there was a haunted sadness that clung to him. 

“Until we reach Eoferwic, you should wear these to keep the frost at bay,” he said, grabbing her ankle and slipping her foot into a too large boot. Her mouth hung open in shock as he repeated the action with her other foot, nodding in satisfaction when he was done and walked away without a word. 

“I hope you don’t mind sharin’ with me today,” Finan teased, hoisting himself onto the horse behind her. “I hate to break it to you, love, but you're gonna need to sit astride if we're to make good time,” he said in her ear before hooking an arm under one of her legs and swinging it over the neck of the horse. 

The yelp that escaped her throat was barely a sound, more a squawk than anything. She hated how these men manhandled her and laughed at her discomfort. 

She fought the urge to slap his hands away when his arms wrapped around her, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from a pointless, soundless scream in frustration. “Don’t be afraid to hold onto me, we got places to be and can’t be slowin’ down for much else,” Finan said softly in her ear before nudging his horse forward.

The ride was much different than the night before — they weren’t riding like their lives depended on it, and watching the scenery fly by in the daylight was exhilarating even if she was dreading having to spend more time on a horse. She was desperately uncomfortable — her thighs burned from the effort of being spread so wide on the horse, her skin prickled with chills as the frosty air permeated her simple shift and the fur Uhtred had set on her shoulders, and her hips ached something awful as she refused to recline backwards into Finan’s embrace.

He was more polite than she thought he’d be; his arms remained around her, just tight enough to keep her safe and rooted in her seat, but did not try to pull her closer nor did his hands wander. She had almost convinced herself that she may have misjudged him when he leaned forward, his breath fanning against her face. “It won’t hurt you nothin’ to relax, love,” he said, almost conspiratorially. “In fact, I bet you could sleep clear to Witancaester and I’d keep you upright.” She ignored him, maintaining her posture as he snickered in her ear. 

The rest of the ride was silent between them — Finan and Uhtred often rode together to discuss plans, Sihtric and Osferth both taking turns riding ahead and reporting back. Each time, Sihtric‘s eyes were desperate to meet hers, something sad and imploring in his gaze, but she stared ahead.

It was nearly nightfall when Sihtric rode back again, but his eyes no longer tried to find hers. He was focused on Uhtred. “Steapa is waiting outside the city — there is news from Alfred.”

She watched Uhtred hesitate for a moment before he nodded. “We ride hard and hear the news,” he said, throwing her and Finan a look. The arm around her waist tightened and they took off, riding hard and fast. If she hadn’t been so terrified she might have enjoyed it, but the unease that settled on the group at the mention of this man had her mind spinning.

It wasn’t long until they reached a lone rider lingering near the road, half hidden in the thicket. “Steapa!” Uhtred called out, directing his horse toward the man as they slowed their horses.

“Big man!” Finan shouted at the same time. 

“Must you antagonize him, Finan?” Osferth sighed. Finan laughed and she gasped, realizing that she could feel the rumble of it where his chest was pressed to her back; she hadn’t noticed that she had relaxed against him as they rode. She tried to make space between them, but Finan’s grip was firm, keeping her body pressed to his. 

“Uhtred,” the man greeted them as they rode closer. The man was a giant, and clearly a Saxon, which made her nervous. She tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible, not wanting this man to turn on her, and in turn, turn on Uhtred. He had sworn her an oath, but she wasn’t sure he could defeat this mountain of a man. “I see your Irishman lives… a pity,” he said apathetically, not bothering to look at Finan.

“You love me, big man, don’t deny it,” Finan teased. 

“What news from the King?” Uhtred asked.

“His majesty rides to Aescengum. You are to meet him there,” the man said, eyes sliding over all of them before fixing on her. He narrowed his eyes and assessed her for a moment, silent, before turning his gaze back to Uhtred. “We leave now.”

Uhtred shook his head, unbothered by the man. “We must stay the night and ride toward Aescengum at first light. There are supplies we need before we can leave, else I would join you.”

The man’s eyes cut to her again, narrowing again, before he nodded. “I will inform the King,” he said. The words sounded like a threat, but Uhtred seemed unbothered.

“You do that, big man,” Finan’s voice so close to her ear made her jump. She turned to see his chin hovering above her shoulder, lazy smirk plastered on his face. “We are tired, hungry, and in need of ale, lord. Might we leave and settle at the inn while you finish your business?”

“Aye. Finan, take our guest to the inn and wait for me there,” Uhtred said dismissively. Røskva did not miss the glance he sent to her, pleading in his eyes. 

“Aye, Lord,” Finan replied before turning them toward the road, urging his horse forward. “You should feel right at home, lady, we're in Dane territory,” he said in her ear.

Series Masterlist

[viridian-dagger]

PRESENTING LORD UHTRED OF MERCIA (FOR ONLY 3 SECONDS).

[viridian-dagger]

[viridian-dagger]

Uhtred & Finan - The Last Kingdom

[viridian-dagger]

Seiðr of a Death Singer - One

Rating: Explicit/Mature - 18+ only! Minors DNI

Warnings: named/minimally described oc, mute!oc, attempted hanging, violence, fear, Sihtric is in his emo era, Finan is a snarky bastard... we're pretty tame for now lol

Word count: 4.3k

Author's Note: taglist is open, cross posted on ao3, and beta read by @witchoftheewilds

Series Masterlist

Røskva stared up at the stars between the branches of the tree, dazed. The only thing she knew for certain was that she lived — which was evident by the pain radiating from where she had fallen and the feeling of the noose still tight around her throat. But the cut rope swinging idly from the tree and a pair of eyes hovering over her was what gave her pause.

“Lady, we must flee,” he whispered, “let me help you.” She nearly reached for his hand, bewildered but grateful, until she saw the glittering blade in her periphery.

Fear flooded her as she scrambled to her feet, brandishing her shard of pottery and baring her teeth. She would not let another man take her. 

“Woman, I'm trying to save your life!” He hissed as she slashed out at him. “I am a Dane! I will not let these Christians kill you without reason.”

She narrowed her eyes and slashed again, but he was quick and strong, grabbing her wrist and twisting until she dropped the shard with a soundless scream. 

“I swear on Thor’s Hammer I will not let harm come to you from me, my men, or any others, but we must leave,” he ground out, staring her in the eyes. She snarled at him and darted away, hearing him growl as she ran. 

It was only then she realized what was happening. There were flames everywhere and people running; it was chaos. She hoped they all burned, the priest most of all. But he appeared in front of her, a dagger in hand. 

“You heathen bitch!” He spit, ambling at her. She felt the sting of the blade against her collarbone as he swiped at her. 

Røskva saw him turn toward her, evil glinting in his eyes, but the same moment she saw the handle of an axe crack into the priest's temple, she felt a hand grasp her arm and yank her back into a firm chest. She tried to scream and fight her way out of the hold, but the strong grip did not falter and her voice continued to fail her.

“Christ, woman, we're trying to save your arse,” a thick accent called out from behind her. “Stop tryin’ to get yourself bloody killed for a minute, aye?”

She whipped her head around to glare at whoever spoke, and found a smirking face belonging to a broad, bearded man.

“Finan, ready the horses. We must go now,” the man holding her said, lifting her off the ground as she kicked and tried to shriek. 

“Lord, are you sure we should take her?” A meek voice asked as she was tossed unceremoniously into a saddle.

“I swore she would come to no harm,” the man said, swinging himself up onto the horse behind her. She squirmed and fidgeted in the saddle, trying to put distance between them. But a strong arm bracketed her waist as he urged his horse forward.

She looked around wildly as they rode, the full moon breaking through the clouds and bathing them in light. Røskva could only see there were three men with them, but the landscape blurred as her eyes filled with tears. 

She was defenseless, and at the mercy of men yet again. She had no weapon to grant her entrance to Valhalla, and had no hope to be spared a painful death. The man who had freed her seemed to be Dane, but the man with the accent did not seem to be. Røskva had no idea what these men wanted with her, nor could imagine how more suffering she could endure. 

By the time their horse came to a stop, Røskva’s tears had dried and she was prepared to face death. She sent prayers to the Gods as she was pulled off the saddle and set on her feet.

“We will rest here for the night,” the Dane who cut her noose said to the others before turning to her. His eyes were shockingly blue, and held no anger, but she knew how easy it was for some to hold a lie on one's face. 

Something about him looked familiar to her, but she knew she'd never seen him before. She had memorized the faces of Kjartan’s men in fear of ever coming across them, and he was not one of them. But anxiety sparked in her heart when she saw him pull a dagger from his belt. 

He must have sensed her fear, taking a step back and raising his hands. “I am Uhtred Ragnarsson of Bebbanburg. I do not wish to harm you, only to cut the rope from your neck,” he said softly, as if he was talking to a scared animal.

Despite his actions, she couldn't find it in herself to step toward him. The blade in his hand was too much of a threat still as her gaze flickered between it and his eyes.

“If I give this to you to cut the rope from your neck, do you swear you will not turn and run?” He sighed, sounding frustrated. She raised an eyebrow in confusion, wondering why he wasn’t more concerned that she would try to kill him with it, but he only smiled softly in return. “It was a gift from my brother, and I am attached to it.”

Røskva thought for a moment before nodding, reaching her hand out for the dagger. Uhtred’s smile grew as he flipped it in hand, placing the hilt in her open palm. She was quick to cut the rope around her throat, hissing as her finger brushed against the slice on her chest.

“Lord, I will take first watch. Finan is skinning the rabbits and Osferth started the fire,” a man said from behind her. The voice had her whipping around to stare into the eyes of a man she never thought she’d see again. Sihtric, her mind sighed. But the man who stood before her barely resembled the boy who had left her all those years ago. Time had given him strength and confidence; he stood unburdened by the weight of his birth and left behind a warrior, seax in one hand and axe in the other.

But as quickly as joy had filled her, rage burned it away and left disgust. He had abandoned her with his cruel father for years . He swore he would return for her and never came. Instinct had her stepping toward him as he gaped at her like a fish. “Røskva?” He whispered, the disbelief in his voice fueled her rage as she swung at him, her fist catching his jaw and sent him sprawling on the ground, staring up at her in confusion. 

She wished she had a voice to scream at him, to lay bare her rage and disappointment and disgust, but the only sound that left her ruined throat were pitiful ragged puffs of air. Her rage bubbled again, desperate and feral for blood as she felt the weight of the dagger in her hand.

But before she could act, she was lifted off the ground once more and the blade pried out of her hand. “Christ, what’d you do to her to make her want you dead? You can’t be that terrible at humpin’ lasses,” the man with the accent joked as he ran up to Sihtric, pulling him off the ground. She bared her teeth at the both of them, noting the cross he wore around his neck. She couldn’t bear to look at either of them, disgust and hatred flaring in her chest.

“Sihtric, how do you know this woman, and why does she wish you dead?” Uhtred demanded, the slight growl in his chest reverberating in her body where it was pressed against him.

“Her name is Røskva, Lord,” Sihtric said, still sounding like he could not believe what he was saying. “She is the one I spoke to you of, the seer Kjartan stole…” The sound of the cursed man’s name on his lips had her snarling at him again.

“Do not lie to me, Sihtric,” Uhtred growled, “We know she is long dead.”

“No, Lord! I can prove it,” Sihtric said firmly, “She bears a tattoo that matches the one on my chest; it is on the back of her neck.”

“We could also ask her name, Lord,” the meek voice added from her periphery. She turned to see a young man, dressed like the grey rats. Fear gripped her as she tried to wriggle out of Uhtred’s hold and bolt away from him, but his hold around her waist simply restricted as he lifted her off the ground, her toes barely brushing the grass beneath her bare feet.

“Christ, Osferth, I didn’t know the sight of your face alone could frighten anyone,” she heard the man with the accent laugh, “We can make a warrior of you yet, baby monk!”

“Stop antagonizing him, Finan, and help me check her,” Uhtred sighed, before his low voice was in her ear, “Unless you wish to stop fighting me.”

A gentle hand gripped her face and turned her while another brushed her hair back from her nape, revealing the mark. “Sweet merciful Christ, it is her,” the man who she assumed was Finan whispered as both sets of hands fell away and she was back on her own feet. The arm around her waist still remained, but it did not confine her any longer.

“Røskva,” Sihtric said softly, and her eyes burned with tears. How could he speak to her like he hadn’t abandoned her to suffer for years? “How is it you live?”

Her head snapped toward him and glared; his hands were outstretched toward her and his eyes were a mixture of heartbreak and joy. She opened her mouth to scream at him, but all that escaped was a pained croak.

“Lady Røskva, were you harmed?” The monk, she assumed was Osferth, asked shyly, extending a hand towards her but she backed away, bumping into the solid chest behind her. She froze, feeling like an animal caught in a trap. But she was no rabbit to be caught and skinned; she would gnaw her own leg off if it meant freedom.

“Lord, I think we need to give the lass some time,” Finan said softly. Her eyes darted to his, and in them she found understanding and empathy. “She nearly died tonight, she deserves to rest. We can have her answer all our questions after we get to Eoferwic.”

Uhtred sighed, retracting his arm from her and stepping away. “Finan is right,” he admitted. Røskva found herself confused by it — they called him Lord, and deferred to him, but he seemed to… care about them. She couldn’t help but think of how Kjartan took pleasure in killing and maiming those who questioned him or offered insight, and the way the Abbess would reprimand the sisters who dared to defy her. 

The hand entwining with hers made her jump, snatching the appendage away and striking out to slap the hand that dared to touch hers. The familiar knobby fingers and rough palm remained outstretched towards her, frozen in place as she traced the length of his arm up to find his eyes.

The mismatched irises were too close, but she was rooted in her spot as he stared at her, and for a second she felt time fold in on itself. She was 15 again, staring into the eyes of the boy who loved her. But she blinked, and he was gone. In his place was a man, a warrior, who had made a name for himself and forgotten the oath he swore. She couldn't help but sneer at the glittering silver arm bands or the silver beads in his hair or the furs he wore. He had traded her life for his own glory.

“It might be best to give her some space, Sihtric,” the monk added softly, “It has been years, and she is frightened, and injured.”

Sihtric shook his head and looked back at her, eyes pleading, “Røskva, please, I—” he whispered again, but was cut off by Uhtred.

“Leave her be,” he snapped, eyes hard. “Go eat while I speak to her, and start your watch.”

Sihtric looked torn, but Finan’s hand on his shoulder tore him away, slumping in defeat as they walked toward the small fire with Osferth trailing behind them.

“Are you injured?” Uhtred asked softly. She shook her head and stepped backwards, away from him. He looked almost pained at her hesitation, but understanding swam in his gaze. “I swore it once, but I will swear again if it soothes you, I will not harm you nor allow harm to come to you. We are heading south, to Witancaester, to the King. We will take you wherever you wish to go after.”

She narrowed her eyes at him warily, still unsure. There was something familiar about him still, but she could not place it.

He sighed softly, head dropping forward in frustration, “Gods, where is Hild when I need her most,” he asked, seemingly to himself before meeting her eyes. “I know you do not trust us, but if you allow it, we will help you.”

She frowned, too many questions swirling in her mind. The haze of rage she had felt seeing Sihtric lifted and now all she felt was confusion, pain, and the sting of the cold. She nodded, the bone deep exhaustion hitting her all at once. 

She was startled, feeling something warm settle onto her shoulders, “Come, we will sit by the fire, and then we will sleep,” Uhtred said softly, hand on her back guiding her toward where Finan and Osferth now sat alone. Sihtric was nowhere in sight, but she felt his gaze on her like a weight.

The mood around the fire was tense. She picked at the meat in silence — making sure she saw them eat before she took a single bite — as Finan and Uhtred spoke in hushed tones and Osferth stole glances at her while he thought she wasn’t looking. She was too spent to care.

Dread pooled in her gut as she felt herself slipping out of consciousness, but it was not sleep that pulled her under. The vision was brutal, so much death and suffering. Swathes of dead men on battlefields, some Dane, some not. She saw grey rats, tortured and flayed alive by a woman cursed by the Gods. A warrior, the one who killed Kjartan, dying in his bed, doomed to roam Niflheim. A woman, terrorized by a man and dying trapped as a fire took her home. Uhtred, weak and cursed, dying painfully in his sleep. Heads on pikes that she could not recognize, save Finan, Osferth, and Sihtric.

Røskva jolted out of sleep with a soundless scream, unable to determine where she was for a moment, seeing nothing but the blinding light filtering between the leaves of the trees above her head and the smoldering ruins of a fire. The memories flooded back to her when she found the young man, Osferth, staring at her with a tight smile. She flinched as he took a step toward her, hissing as her body fell into the log at her back.

He looked ashamed for a moment and took a step backwards, putting his hands behind his back. “Good morning, Lady Røskva,” he said, his voice soft. “Uhtred said we will be leaving soon. He wanted to warn you that you will be riding with one of us today, as we only have four horses. We ride for Eoferwic, and it shouldn’t take too long to get there.”

She nodded, turning away from him, brushing the hay and dust off the rough spun dress she wore, frowning at the cross on the chest. The sound of him clearing his throat stole her attention again.

“Sorry, just… we want to speak to you, and you… haven’t spoken. We were wondering if you were injured somehow, your throat we mean,” he implored. All she could do was nod and stare at him expectantly as understanding bloomed on his face. “Yes, I see. This is a problem then.” He said mostly to himself, eyebrows furrowing, before his focus darted back to her. “We will figure something out. I’ll leave you to your preparations.”

Without another word, he spun on his heel and walked away, leaving her to her thoughts. Osferth was nothing like the other monks she had met; he seemed shy, almost unsure of himself. He was also little more than a boy, desperate to be a man. Most of the monks at the monastery were fully grown men, some old enough to be grandfathers many times over. 

She forced herself onto her feet, wincing at the aches she felt in her body as she walked over to where the men were standing with their horses, ignoring the weight of Sihtric’s eyes on her as she hobbled over. 

“Well good morning, gorgeous,” Finan smiled brightly, sending her a wink. She narrowed her eyes at him in return, eyes catching the cross around his neck, which only made his smile grow. “Lord, we should travel with a woman more often, she just brightens up the mood doesn’t—have you been walkin’ around barefoot? It’s bloody freezing out!”

She didn’t have time to protest even if she could have as a pair of hands grabbed her by the waist and lifted her onto the back of a horse, while another pair of hands grabbed her ankle. 

When she saw the edge of the tattoo on his neck, she kicked out, trying to free herself from his grip but his hands remained firm as Sihtric leveled a glare at her. “You are the one who warned me of how quickly frostbite can spread. Let me check, and then I will leave you be,” Sihtric demanded, a slight growl in his voice making her huff, but she allowed him to continue with a roll of her eyes. 

She glared at the top of his head as he checked her over, but no longer fought his hold. It didn’t take him long to determine she was clear of blackened skin. 

“Christ, woman! In the future, let us know if you're out here in the snow with nothing but your skin to keep you safe. I'd like for all of us to keep our limbs!” Finan all but shouted at her. 

“We will get you proper clothes and new boots in Eoferwic,” Uhtred said decisively. “You will ride with Finan today.”

“Lord, I think she should—” Sihtric started but Uhtred cut him off with a growl. She watched as Sihtric snapped his mouth shut and nodded, walking away from the group. 

“Ignore him, he's been actin’ a fool lately,” Finan scoffed, giving her a playful eye roll, but Røskva could hear the tightness in his voice. “He told us all about you though. Spoke nothin’ but good of you,” he said, giving her a smile. His words and the teasing lilt of his tone did nothing to quell the white hot rage she felt.

She turned away from Finan, trying her best not to glare at the stranger who wore the skin of the person who she once trusted with her life. To hear that he spoke of her — like a conquest no less — to these strange men had her hands shaking as she resisted the urge to jump off the horse and beat Sihtric bloody with her bare hands.

Røskva couldn’t bear to look at him, nor the other men, while they packed up the camp. “We are about to head out, Lady,” Osferth said quietly as he passed by her horse. She ignored the monk as he disappeared from her view.

She was determined to ignore Uhtred as well, but he walked up to her, staring expectantly until she sighed and acknowledged him. She found him to be annoyingly pretty with mischief in his eyes, but there was a haunted sadness that clung to him. 

“Until we reach Eoferwic, you should wear these to keep the frost at bay,” he said, grabbing her ankle and slipping her foot into a too large boot. Her mouth hung open in shock as he repeated the action with her other foot, nodding in satisfaction when he was done and walked away without a word. 

“I hope you don’t mind sharin’ with me today,” Finan teased, hoisting himself onto the horse behind her. “I hate to break it to you, love, but you're gonna need to sit astride if we're to make good time,” he said in her ear before hooking an arm under one of her legs and swinging it over the neck of the horse. 

The yelp that escaped her throat was barely a sound, more a squawk than anything. She hated how these men manhandled her and laughed at her discomfort. 

She fought the urge to slap his hands away when his arms wrapped around her, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from a pointless, soundless scream in frustration. “Don’t be afraid to hold onto me, we got places to be and can’t be slowin’ down for much else,” Finan said softly in her ear before nudging his horse forward.

The ride was much different than the night before — they weren’t riding like their lives depended on it, and watching the scenery fly by in the daylight was exhilarating even if she was dreading having to spend more time on a horse. She was desperately uncomfortable — her thighs burned from the effort of being spread so wide on the horse, her skin prickled with chills as the frosty air permeated her simple shift and the fur Uhtred had set on her shoulders, and her hips ached something awful as she refused to recline backwards into Finan’s embrace.

He was more polite than she thought he’d be; his arms remained around her, just tight enough to keep her safe and rooted in her seat, but did not try to pull her closer nor did his hands wander. She had almost convinced herself that she may have misjudged him when he leaned forward, his breath fanning against her face. “It won’t hurt you nothin’ to relax, love,” he said, almost conspiratorially. “In fact, I bet you could sleep clear to Witancaester and I’d keep you upright.” She ignored him, maintaining her posture as he snickered in her ear. 

The rest of the ride was silent between them — Finan and Uhtred often rode together to discuss plans, Sihtric and Osferth both taking turns riding ahead and reporting back. Each time, Sihtric‘s eyes were desperate to meet hers, something sad and imploring in his gaze, but she stared ahead.

It was nearly nightfall when Sihtric rode back again, but his eyes no longer tried to find hers. He was focused on Uhtred. “Steapa is waiting outside the city — there is news from Alfred.”

She watched Uhtred hesitate for a moment before he nodded. “We ride hard and hear the news,” he said, throwing her and Finan a look. The arm around her waist tightened and they took off, riding hard and fast. If she hadn’t been so terrified she might have enjoyed it, but the unease that settled on the group at the mention of this man had her mind spinning.

It wasn’t long until they reached a lone rider lingering near the road, half hidden in the thicket. “Steapa!” Uhtred called out, directing his horse toward the man as they slowed their horses.

“Big man!” Finan shouted at the same time. 

“Must you antagonize him, Finan?” Osferth sighed. Finan laughed and she gasped, realizing that she could feel the rumble of it where his chest was pressed to her back; she hadn’t noticed that she had relaxed against him as they rode. She tried to make space between them, but Finan’s grip was firm, keeping her body pressed to his. 

“Uhtred,” the man greeted them as they rode closer. The man was a giant, and clearly a Saxon, which made her nervous. She tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible, not wanting this man to turn on her, and in turn, turn on Uhtred. He had sworn her an oath, but she wasn’t sure he could defeat this mountain of a man. “I see your Irishman lives… a pity,” he said apathetically, not bothering to look at Finan.

“You love me, big man, don’t deny it,” Finan teased. 

“What news from the King?” Uhtred asked.

“His majesty rides to Aescengum. You are to meet him there,” the man said, eyes sliding over all of them before fixing on her. He narrowed his eyes and assessed her for a moment, silent, before turning his gaze back to Uhtred. “We leave now.”

Uhtred shook his head, unbothered by the man. “We must stay the night and ride toward Aescengum at first light. There are supplies we need before we can leave, else I would join you.”

The man’s eyes cut to her again, narrowing again, before he nodded. “I will inform the King,” he said. The words sounded like a threat, but Uhtred seemed unbothered.

“You do that, big man,” Finan’s voice so close to her ear made her jump. She turned to see his chin hovering above her shoulder, lazy smirk plastered on his face. “We are tired, hungry, and in need of ale, lord. Might we leave and settle at the inn while you finish your business?”

“Aye. Finan, take our guest to the inn and wait for me there,” Uhtred said dismissively. Røskva did not miss the glance he sent to her, pleading in his eyes. 

“Aye, Lord,” Finan replied before turning them toward the road, urging his horse forward. “You should feel right at home, lady, we're in Dane territory,” he said in her ear.

Series Masterlist

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should have done this as soon as i posted it but this is inspired by @sihtricfedaraaahvicius i'm sorry bestie it took me this long i'm a mess

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30 Days of Period Drama Women (20/30) PERI BAUMEISTER as GISELA THE LAST KINGDOM (2017-2018)

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Y'all are gonna suffer me and this last kingdom hyperfixation bc ya girl is obsessed