Hi! I'm Mel and I'm absolutely 18+ and I would like my readers to be too, so please make sure you are!
Master List
My master list is short, but growing! Asks and DM's are always welcome!
Hi there, I'm glad you made it here and I hope you'll enjoy my writing!
All my writing is 18+ so make sure you are.
I love talking about my fics (who doesn't?) so asks and DM's, comments and reblogs are always welcome.
Play silly games, win no prizes: How Well Do You Know Your Pedro Boys?
Need recommendations for long fics? Here is a list of recommendations that will get you through long travel hours or just a dull evening: Long fic recs
I crosspost on Ao3
Enjoy!
Master List
Current fic:
My current, on-going, long fic: Fate Unbound
Pedro Pascal characters:
(more below the cut)
A Baker's Dozen - Series Master List
(featuring pretty much all of the Pedro boys)
Din Djarin (The Mandalorian
The Exiled Heart - Series Master List (complete)
short little drabble about Din and his faulty armour
Francisco Morales (Triple Frontier)
First Taste (complete)
Frankie Morales x mbf!Reader
Almost; Always (complete)
Frankie Morales x Santiago Garcia
Big Sky Country - Series Master List
Work in progress
The Pilot and his girl - Series Master List
TLoU/TF cross over - Completed. Long, full of fluff, angst and smut. Frankie x Reader)
Drabbles featuring Frankie
The Blind Date - A short, fluffy one shot about that one time your friend Benny set you up on a blind date, Frankie x Reader
Swimming lessons with Catfish - A smutty drabble set in an alternative, no outbreak, version of the The Pilot and his Girl universe, Frankie x Reader
The Accident - Angsty fluffy one shot that will probably be given a part two down the line, Frankie x Reader
Frankie & Din - A funny, I hope, one-shot with Frankie & Din at the air fair
Frankie to the rescue - A one shot drabble about Frankie welcoming you home after a long day of travelling, Frankie x Reader
Six and a half minutes - Frankie's version (a smutty one shot where Frankie interrupts your holiday baking, Frankie x Reader)
Come in, Atled Air, come in - a short and fluffy one shot about Pilot!Frankie and AirController!FemReader.
Not an Easy Man to Find - my first m/m fic featuring Pope x Frankie
First Taste - Young!Frankie and his mom's best friend. Totally not a reaction to all the "dad's best friend Joel fics....
General Marcus Acacius
Bona Dea - Complete
Series Master List
Marcus Acacius x Reader. A one shot that's developed in to it's own little series. 4 out of 5 chapters are published.
Pero Tovar (The Great Wall)
Fate Unbound - Work in Progress - Pero Tovar xF!Reader set in viking time Norway
- Introducing the reader
- Their first meeting
The Guard Dog - Groundskeeper!Pero x female reader written for Studioghibelli's writing challenge.
Rosemary & Lavender - Mercenary!Pero x female Reader one shot
Memories made, memories lost - Mercenary!Pero x female Reader one shot written for @burntheedges Roll-A-Trope challenge.
Javier Peña (Narcos)
Snowed In - Javier's version (a one night stand with Javier Peña as he's snowed in at a hotel. Javier x OFC)
Pickled Interruptions - Part of the Pickled Peña writing challenge @pickled-pena
Javier steals your lunch - A short story about how Peña has the audacity to steal your lunch!
Joel Miller (The Last of Us)
Gun Cleaning - Joel's version (a smutty one shot when Joel walks in on you cleaning the guns, Joel x Reader)
Marcus Pike (The Mentalist)
When was the last time you lived? - a short one shot for the Summer Lovin 24 challenge.
Dieter Bravo (The Bubble)
Off the Record - a 5k drabble about Dieter Bravo and a meet cute in London
The Malibu Incident - a 4k prequel to Off the Record (should be read after Off the Record)
Karl Urban characters
Éomer (LotR)
The Tack Room (super fluffy but not complete)
Billy Butcher (The Boys)
The British Connection (slow burn with very little fluff, a chunk of smut and lots of plot)
Six and a half minutes (smut drabble)
Dear Reader (smut drabble in two parts)
Snowed in (smut drabble)
Gun cleaning (smut drabble)
Ellie just gets to have a lot of sex with Billy Butcher (4 part series, the title is pretty self-explanatory. No, it's not about TLoU Ellie... )
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I ended up having a really interesting conversation with some people at the bus stop today. They were getting out of some sort of ‘clean and sober’ meeting and had starting saying how they were so bored because they didn’t have anything to do, and had to stay at home because all their old friends would pull them back. So I said something like, ‘So this is the time to do all the stuff your parents told you they didn’t have money/time for!’
“Whatcha mean?”
“You know, like when you were five and you REALLY wanted to have that toy or do that thing and you were like, ‘Please mom please I gotta have this I gotta go do this’ and they went ‘Hell no you think I’m paying for that do you want to goddamn EAT?’ “
And this light went on in their eyes. The lady is going to go check thrift stores for an Easybake Oven and I told her about Wilton cake decorating classes. The dude is going to Griffith Park and ride horses, because, ‘I always wanted to be a cowboy, and you can’t drink when you’re on a horse ‘cause you’ll fucking die!’
Fuck it. This is what being an adult is. Sure it’s bills and work and relationships, but damn it, it’s also time to do the things you LIKE.
I signed up for a free class/lecture on Water Gardens. I’m going. It’s time.
no joke, this is such an important aspect of overcoming trauma. I mean the trauma of abusive parents, the trauma of broke ass parents who got toxic because of it, the trauma of capitalism. Like fuck it. Go to Wrestlemania. Build a shit ton of terrariums.
This is why I took up horse riding again in my 40s. I have adult money and can do any hobby I want. Unfortunately, I don't have the same amount of free time I had as a kid, but still, I can pay for my own riding lessons now!
Warnings: mentions of sickness and death, love on the Frontier Chapter warnings will be posted (but I really hate spoiling the plot for you). Tough decisions.
Summary: Libby receives a letter with a surprising offer that tears her in two. Left with a decision to make, what will she do?
Dividers by @/saradika-graphics
Series Masterlist | Masterlist
Time marched on. The weather grew warmer, coaxing life back into the land. Spring had brought rain and fields flourished beneath the golden summer sun, and Edward thrived. He was bright-eyed, healthy, and growing stronger with each passing day. He became more alert and curious, and by late summer, was able to almost sit unaided.
His resemblance to Frankie was almost unnerving. Though his eyes had been blue at birth, they had deepened into a rich, familiar brown. Beneath his bonnet, an unruly crop of dark curls had begun to grow. His hair was curly and untamed—just like his father’s.
Before Edward’s birth, Libby had moved out of the Smiths’ familial home and into a small, vacant dwelling near the schoolhouse. She had felt that bringing a newborn, who would surely cry through the night, into an already overburdened household was a step too far. There was only so much hospitality that could be endured.
And as Edward grew, Libby's exhaustion grew too. She spent hours rocking him to sleep or reading Shakespeare's sonnets to soothe him during the early hours when he awoke fractious and alone. Her every waking moment, when she was not teaching, was consumed by caring for Edward.
As she arrived at the schoolhouse every morning, the burden of a dual life pressed down on her shoulders. Running a home, a schoolhouse, and raising her six-month-old son left her worn out and feeling like she was barely holding things together.
Months had passed since the news of the Triple Frontier Gang and their potential demise. Libby had grieved in private, hoping against hope that Frankie had survived, that the whole gang was alive. But no more news came and the excitement of their daring raid had faded in the minds of the Longshorn townsfolk. Stories of the Triple Frontier Gang soon became background gossip. No longer a burning topic of conversation around the township, they were passed over in favor of more recent news. Consigned to legend and folklore.
But not in Libby's mind. Deep down, she still clung onto the idea that Frankie might be alive. Perhaps he was still living in the wilderness, or hiding in bustling Sacramento. It was a shred of hope that kept her putting one foot in front of the other. But left in a state of perpetual limbo, the lack of further news was concerning.
And as the weeks passed, her hope, like the townsfolk's interest in their demise, began to wane. There was no sign of Frankie appearing unannounced on her doorstep. No evidence of him being in the vicinity. No whispers of strangers appearing in town. No letters slipped into mailboxes.
Instead, silence. Just an aching, empty void.
One particular late summer morning as all hope faded, Libby stepped inside her schoolhouse and was greeted by a letter waiting for on her desk.
It was an elegant letter, crafted with the care of someone who had put thought into every detail. The cream paper felt heavy and expensive in her hands, its texture smooth and delicate. Libby ran her fingers over the envelope reverently, But she knew no one who would use such expensive paper to write on. Her eyes dropped to the red wax seal, scanning for any identifying mark. But there was no clue as to who had sent it.
Both equal parts mystified and curious, her breath was unsteady as she carefully flipped it over, breaking the seal with trembling fingers.
For a brief moment, she wondered if it might have come from Frankie, or perhaps from one of the other members of the Triple Frontier Gang. Maybe it contained news of his fate?
The thought was overwhelming. She had to stop, steady herself, and take a breath to recompose.
Inside, the letter was written in fine, cursive handwriting. Each word was perfectly formed by a steady, deliberate hand. She began to read, her heart hammering in her chest.
"Dear Mrs. Green," it began.
Libby flinched involuntarily. Although It was the name she had kept to avoid the judgment of the town, she still hated being reminded of her former husband. A name that she felt compelled to use like a shield. A shield that protected both her and her baby boy from the harsh realities of judgement, but a lie that she resented.
She read on, despite the tightness that was now rising in her chest.
"It has come to my attention that you have been doing a sterling job in Longhorn. I have recently taken on the role of Mayor in Willow Creek in an attempt to clean up this town, and feel that the children of the good townsfolk could benefit from a teacher such as yourself."
Libby paused, her eyes scanning the elegant script. There was no mistaking the sincerity in the words, but she felt something cold clutching at her heart. She wasn’t sure if it was hope or dread.
She skipped ahead to the bottom, hoping to recognize a name, but the letter was simply signed from the Mayor’s office. There was no signature she recognized.
Her eyes drifted back up to the next paragraph.
"I would be willing to increase your current salary and offer you a home to live in next to the schoolhouse free of charge."
At this, Libby’s chest tightened with an almost physical pain. The offer was too good to ignore. Too good for anyone in her position.
Yet, as her fingers clutched the paper, a single thought raced through her mind, cutting through the haze of practicality. How could I leave?
She couldn’t do it. Not now, not ever. Longhorn was where she had told Frankie she would be. The place she had hoped he would find her, if he ever returned. Although she suspected that his continued silence meant that he was no longer of this world, she had no true way of knowing if he was indeed alive. Consequently, at present, the thought of leaving would feel like abandoning the very thread of hope she had left. It would be tantamount to admitting her loss, but also, if she left and he was still alive, how would he ever find her?
How could he if she moved on?
With a deep breath, Libby drew herself up. Her decision was made. She set the letter down, her hands shaking slightly as she read through the offer once more, each word an opportunity for a new life she couldn’t take. Then, with a steely resolution and shaky breath, she tore the letter into tiny pieces and threw them into the fireplace. She watched solemnly as paper fluttered into the fire. Gone forever.
The flames crackled as the tiny shreds of paper caught light and then disappeared into nothing. Libby sat back, feeling strangely empty and yet resolute.
She wasn’t prepared to let go just yet.
Not yet.
Too busy to dwell on the loss of that fleeting chance, she turned back to the task at hand, picking up the pieces of her life and carrying on just as she had been doing for the last six months. She would continue to juggle teaching with raising her child, always with the hope that one day, she might see Frankie again and that he might yet meet his son, but knowing deep down that she couldn’t let herself be distracted by dreams of what could have been.
****
Two more weeks passed. Two more weeks of juggling teaching, caring for her baby, maintaining her home.
Homework marked, a baby fed, napkins changed, clothes washed. Exhaustion.
And then she repeated the process over and over again, never pausing to rest.
And then, another letter arrived.
This one was strikingly similar to the first—a pristine envelope of the same expensive, heavyweight paper. Libby felt a surge of irritation rising in her chest. Not again, she thought, her resolve hardening. She had no time for more temptation, more offers of a life she couldn’t take.
But, as her fingers brushed the delicate paper, a strange, insistent curiosity pushed her to open it. She hesitated, feeling a knot form in her stomach, but curiosity won out.
Carefully, she unfolded the letter and read, her eyes tracing the neat, looping script. The words were almost identical to the first letter, but this time, the offer was even more generous.
"I would like to offer you an even greater increase in salary," the letter stated. "The funds I’m offering are substantial—more than enough for you to live on."
Libby’s breath caught in her throat. The money was far more than she could have imagined. With it, she could afford help and ease the burden she carried, the endless cycle of teaching, cleaning, and caring for her son. It was a solution that made sense, one that would take a weight off her shoulders, a way to give her child the future he deserved.
She read on.
“As a token, a small parcel of literary classics will be delivered to you as a gesture of goodwill.”
She had to sit down at that, in shock. Who on earth would send her a collection of books? How did this person even know that she possessively clung to her books like a lifeline.
But as she sat there, the paper in her hand, the temptation to change her life, to choose a more comfortable path, whirled in her mind. Her heart, though, was still tethered to Longhorn, to the hope that Frankie might one day return, alive and redeemed. The letter seemed to promise so much, so much more than she had ever imagined for herself.
Libby read the letter once more, her eyes following the words. She could feel a conflict stirring deep inside her. It seemed so simple, the offer was so tempting and so full of possibilities. But it came with its own set of sacrifices, sacrifices that made her heart ache in ways she couldn’t quite explain. She tucked the letter carefully into her apron pocket. Tempting as this new letter was, she couldn’t afford to make a hasty decision.
As she moved through the schoolhouse, she found that she could not focus on anything. The second letter burned a hole in her pocket. It whispered to herself all day long as a constant reminder of the decision she may be forced to make.
As the afternoon lessons wore on, her thoughts kept drifting back to the words she had read. She found herself fumbling through Latin phrases, her normally sharp mind slipping as she tried to teach her students. The children giggled at her mistakes, but Libby wasn’t really there with them. Her mind was far away, lost in the possibilities this new letter had provoked. Her natural rhythm was broken, and she kept losing her place during the afternoon story. The room buzzed, but all Libby could think of was her future. Edward's future. The choice she had to make between the life she had built and the one she might be able to create if she took the offer.
When the bell rang, she waved the children out of the classroom at the end of the day, thinking only of the letter.
She picked up Edward from Mrs. Smith. Her questions about his day were short, polite and perfunctory. Her mind was consumed with the letter.
The evening stretched on, and when Edward had finally fallen asleep, Libby sat in the dim light of her small house, brooding over the contents of that piece of expensive paper. The quiet of the house was almost deafening, and in the stillness, the weight of her decision became intolerable.
When she couldn’t bear it anymore, she moved to her writing bureau. Her fingers trembled slightly as she took out her own finest writing paper, pen poised in her hand. She had to write. She had to make a decision, or at least, take a step toward one. She dipped the nib into the ink pot and began to write.
Dear Sir,
Thank you for your kind offer. I am very interested in taking up the position, but I have a few provisos before I make my decision. I would like to visit your township and meet you in person.
Yours faithfully,
Mrs. Elizabeth Green.
She breathed a sigh of relief. It was done. Sealing the envelope carefully, her hands became unsteady now that it was written. It was a small step, a tentative reach toward something she wasn’t sure she was ready for. As she placed the envelope on the kitchen table, she realized that even this felt like a betrayal. It was like taking a step away from everything that she had fought so hard to build in Longhorn. The thought of leaving, of moving forward without knowing what had become of Frankie, made her heart ache in ways she couldn’t bear.
Libby decided that she would sleep on it. She needed more time to think, to clear her mind. But as she slipped into bed that night, sleep refused to come. Her mind was restless, replaying scenes from her past, flashing moments of Frankie—his face, his touch, the way he had made her feel alive again, if only for a brief moment. In the quiet of the night, his voice seemed to echo in her dreams, weaving through the fabric of her sleep, telling her what she already knew deep down—that she had to take the job. You can’t stay here forever, she imagined him saying. You have a future, Elizabeth. You have to let go of Longhorn. Of me.
The dreams twisted and turned, blurring between the past and the present. Libby awoke with a jolt, her body weary and drained, as if she hadn’t slept at all. The sun was just beginning to peek through the curtains, but the morning light brought little comfort.
The weariness of the restless night’s dreams carried over into her waking hours. She felt as though she was swimming underwater. Her body felt heavy and fatigued. Every time she looked at her son, sleeping peacefully beside her, all she saw was Frankie. She saw his eyes in Edward’s. Those same dark, soulful eyes that had captivated her. Eyes that still haunted her dreams regularly.
The future she had longed for, the one she had built in her heart, was slipping further away, and she didn’t know if she was ready to let go of the hope that one day, Francisco Morales might come back to her.
She sat there, frozen in the quiet, her hands clutching the edge of the blankets as the enormity of her decision pressed down on her.
Could she really leave Longhorn, leave behind the life she had created, just to chase the possibility of something more? Or was she simply running from the pain of her past, from the life she had wanted but could never have?
Her son stirred beside her, a tiny frown pulling at his forehead, and Libby felt a wave of love wash over her, stronger than anything she had felt in a long time. She kissed his forehead softly, a tear slipping down her cheek, as she whispered to herself, For you, Edward. I will make the right choice.
But in her heart, she still wasn’t sure what that choice was.
Before dropping Edward off at Mrs. Smith's house, Libby decided to change her usual morning route to the schoolhouse. The weight of the decision she had made the night before hung heavy in the air, and today, she would drop the letter off at the town's postal service. With Edward cradled gently in her arms, she walked through the town, the cool morning breeze waking her up fully. Her fingers tightened around the letter she had written in response to the Mayor’s offer, a feeling of unease rising within her with every step.
She stopped outside the general store clutching the letter in her hand. Before stepping inside, she stopped to ask herself if this was what she really truly wanted. Once that letter was handed over, there was no going back.
Gathering up her inner courage, she stepped over the threshold and up to the post office counter inside. Her hand trembled as she handed the letter to the Postmaster. She tried to smile a cheerful good morning, but the action felt oddly forced. Her heart thumped in her chest as she watched him take it from her, sealing the envelope with finality. It would soon be on its way to Willow Creek. She had made the decision, and soon enough, it would be out of her hands.
After dropping Edward off at Mrs. Smith’s house, she forced herself to move forward with the day. The hours at the schoolhouse passed in a blur. The lesson plans she had carefully prepared unfolded as usual, and the children settled into their studies. For a brief moment, it almost felt like things could continue on like this—her life, her routine, the quiet but steady passing of days. But even as she taught, a part of her couldn’t stop thinking about what she had done. She had taken the first step toward a future without Francisco, without the hope she’d once clung to. The idea of leaving Longhorn, of taking Edward away, felt more real now. There was no turning back, no more waiting for the man who might never return. The hope she had kept alive for so long was slipping away, and with it, the last of her dreams for the life she’d hoped for.
When the third letter arrived quickly, it caught her by surprise. This letter looked just like the others. Its beautiful, high-quality paper with elegant handwriting seemed to demand all of her attention. She felt a sudden tightness in her chest as she reached for it, her fingers shaking as she tried to slide it from the envelope. Her breath caught in her throat, and she had to steady herself, sitting down at the table to regain some composure.
Her hands trembled, she carefully unfolded the letter and read its contents:
Dear Mrs. Green,
I would be delighted to accommodate you for a visit to our town and a viewing of our schoolhouse. I will send a carriage for you at 9 o'clock sharp on Saturday morning. If this is not acceptable to you, I await your updated suggestion. Otherwise, I look forward to meeting you on the aforementioned day.
Libby read the letter over again, her heart pounding with each word. This was it. The offer had been accepted. It was real now, and there was no escaping it. The decision had been made. She could feel the weight of it all. The possibility of a new beginning, of leaving Longhorn behind, of starting fresh in a town where no one knew her.
The thought made her stomach churn anxiously. The idea of leaving the town she had come to call home was unsettling, but it was a step forward, a way to secure a better future for herself and Edward.
Her mind wandered to Francisco, to the man who had once held her in his arms and told her he loved her. She thought of the life they could have had, of what could have been, but she had to face the truth. He was gone indefinitely, and no amount of hoping and waiting would bring him back. She was alone, and it was time to move on. Edward needed stability, and Libby needed to build a life that didn’t depend on memories of what could have been with a better salary and prospects.
With a sigh, Libby picked up her pen and quickly scribbled a hasty reply, agreeing to the visit. She sealed the letter with a finality that made her heart ache, then placed it on the table, ready for the post in the morning.
****
A day after the letter, a parcel arrived at the schoolhouse. It was a small, but heavy parcel, wrapped in thick brown paper, tied with twine. The writing on the address was the same, neat script as her previous letters. She recognized the cursive immediately. She had spent hours reading and re-reading those letters over and over again. They seemed to have indelibly burned the stylish script into her memory.
She eyed the parcel with trepidation, as though it might detonate in her hands like a stick of dynamite. With a heavy heart, she carefully prised off the string and began to unwrap the gift.
As promised, it contained books.
Her heart caught in her throat as she picked up each book in turn. Several books by Jane Austen, the Brontë sisters and at the bottom, Shakespeare's plays.
The books felt like another stab of betrayal as she placed them on the bookshelf in the schoolhouse, alongside the books that had traveled thousands of miles with her. Accepting them was tantamount to admitting that she would be accepting the job in Willow Creek. And more importantly, saying goodbye to Frankie.
We left Pero just as Thorsten caugth him and the Jarl's daughter, and now we're about to find out what has happened to him, and what his punishment will be...
Set in the 11th century, the plot centers around Pero Tovar as he's caputured and sold as a thrall to a Norse family. Bad fate finds him, and he struggles to free himself and escape. But he also meets new people who in time become friends and allies, and bad fate, can turn into good fortune for both him, and the most unlikely Norse woman.
Series Master List
Warnings for the whole series: graphic violence, slavery, abuse, sexual and otherwise, references to non-con sex, arranged marriages, time period typical stereotypes of both men and women and anyone "foreign".
No use of Y/N and the reader is kept as blank as possible, but, she's the daughter a Norse lord in 11th century Norway and will have features that correlate to that.
Hours must've passed, and Pero's hands opened and closed as he tried to calm his breathing. The energy running through him made them tremble as he paced the small building he'd been thrown into. It was used for either sick thralls, or those who were being kept in isolation, and was never meant to be comfortable. But now it was colder than ever, and not just for the lack of a fire in the hearth. His head thumped, his ribs ached, but luckily not broken, and he could feel blood drying on his face as the cut on his cheek slowly stopped bleeding. No one came to check on him, but he hadn't expected it. He knew he'd made probably the worst mistake of his life, risked everything for both you and himself.
He sank down with his back against the wall, facing the door that he knew was barred from the outside. Closing his eyes, he tried to calm himself again, and think through his next steps, what he'd do in every scenario he could think of. If they came to execute him, he'd fight. If he was that close to death, he'd rather take his chances at fighting his way out of Ulvehi than to go meekly to slaughter. He'd take some of them with him before he succumbed.
If he was to be kept alive he'd be back in chains again, he was sure of it. Then he would have to find another escape once he knew what had happened to you. Or maybe he'd be sold, he couldn't imagine the Jarl keeping him at Ulvehi now. But most likely, he'd hang, or however the Norse men killed thralls. If he could, he'd fight his way out, but chances were slim, if it came to that, he knew he'd probably die here.
With a deep sigh he slumped down against the wall. He'd promised he'd find you, but in truth, he didn't know if he'd get out of this alive. He may never see you again, and the thought made him clench his fists again, forcing back the tremors as something caught in this throat.
I'm not dead yet. And they won't see me go quietly. But, please, let me see her again. Let me at least see her safe.
Nicholas hadn't been back since his hurried visit to this temporary prison. All he'd had time for was to scribble a few words on the parchment and tell Nicholas where the small statue was hidden under his bedding in the thrall's quarters. Hopefully he'd been able to get it to you, but Pero wasn't even sure of that. You might've been shipped off to England without another word from him or Nicholas. And for the first time in his life, Pero was afraid of dying. Things were unfinished, his life was unfinished. He'd had a brief spell of some sort of happiness, even here as a thrall, and he was afraid to lose it all too soon. And he had a promise to keep.
And a child…
You'd told him, and then everything had happened so fast, he'd barely had time to tell you what that meant to him. But there was a child growing inside you that shared his blood, something he thought he'd lost any hope of many years ago. But you said it, a part of him and a part of you, a small family. A small family for him again.
The thought made him squeeze his eyes shut, a sharp feeling rising in his chest as his nails dug into his palms.
Our child…There has to be a way, somehow, to keep them safe.
Sleep did not come easily, but he forced it upon himself the same way he had when he was a mercenary. His body and mind needed rest for the next few days, no matter what came. So he would take any sleep he could now even as his mind flitted back and forth, drifting back to your face whenever he drifted close to sleep.
The next morning it was the heavy steps approaching his prison that woke him from an uneasy slumber. He was on his feet in a heartbeat, rolling his stiff shoulders and flexing his hands. Whatever came next, if they meant to kill him, he would not go without a fight.
But there was no chance to fight, Thorsten stood in the doorway with a satisfied smirk on his face.
"Put his legs and arms in chains, beat him if he resists," he ordered the four men who'd come with him, "But don't break any bones, he won't sell if he's damaged. Although…" he added as two of the men roughly grabbed Pero's arms and forced them in front of his body, "A broken nose probably won't make much of a difference now. She'll never see you again, and I'll make sure you never see any other woman again. No women where you're going, thrall."
The last part he said with a grin and Pero bit his tongue, the sharp iron biting into his wrists as the lock clanked shut. If he was being sold he would wait for his chance, better opportunities for escape would come, he was sure of it. Thorsten was baiting him, hoping for a fight, but behind Pero's scowling face, he felt almost elated with relief. Being sold was the best outcome right now.
A ring of iron snapped shut around his neck too, and shackles were fastened around his ankles, a chain running from feet to neck and making his steps hobbled. One of the hirdmen tugged at the chain, and Pero shuffled forward, struggling to clear the high threshold out from the small building.
"Move, thrall," Thorsten spat, clearly not pleased with the lack of reaction from Pero at his needling, and gave him a sharp shove as Pero managed to step outside. The short chain pulled up short between his feet, and he fell, landing heavily on his arms, his face smacking down into the mud. Sharp pain stung his nose, and he felt the taste of warm blood in his mouth as someone grabbed his neck ring and yanked him up again, making him choke and cough as the force cut off his breath.
"Fall again and I'll drag you by that ring all the way to the dock, thrall," Thorsten snarled, as Pero took another stumbling step. Cold mud was sticking to his tunic and his skin, blood dripping from his lip, and maybe his nose, but he tried to keep his balance, focusing on the ships down by the fjord.
It took all his self control to not rage against the chains as he had when he first arrived, or to rage against Thorsten, at being called 'thrall' again like it was his name. One short step in front of the other, the way from Ulvehi lay on that ship, there was no escape just now. But soon…he kept that thought in his head as Thorsten yanked on the ring again, making the sharp metal cut into his neck.
Pero was roughly shoved onboard, pushed down in a corner of the deck and left to shiver in his wet and mud caked clothes. He watched Thorsten join the crew, and he wasn't sure if he was pleased about that or not, and for a moment he thought the Jarl would join them too, but he only jumped aboard and stepped up to Pero.
"I considered having Thorsten whip you until you bled out, like I should've that first time," he said, fixing Pero with his cold blue eyes, "But it would've been too easy. You'd die too fast, Hauknefr. For how you betrayed me, this family, I want you to die slowly and in pain. And I'm in luck, the foreman from the Falu copper mine comes to Skiringssal every spring to buy any strong thralls for sale," the Jarl said, pausing as he waited for Pero to react, leaning closer, "Do you know about the copper mines, Hauknefr? Did the other thralls ever tell you about them?"
Pero didn't reply, he just looked at the Jarl, fighting to keep his mind calm, but he could feel the scowl on his face, his tight eyebrows pulling at fresh cuts and bruises.
"The mines are where we send thralls to die," the Jarl told him when he realised Tovar wouldn't reply, "Forgotten by everyone, left to rot when their breaths give up from hot fumes and cold rocks. You won't die fast, you're too strong for that, but you'll die, and you'll never see my daughter again. Tell them this is what Jarl Agnar Björnsson does to thralls who dare to cross him."
"No moriré. Mi hijo crece en ella, mi sangre es ahora suya," Pero replied, spitting out the words he knew the Jarl wouldn't understand, but he still wanted to tell him; I will not die. My child grows within her, my blood is hers now.
The Jarl paused, as if trying to work out how he'd been insulted, and then pushed to his feet, sneering, "Your foreign insults won't do you any good, Hauknefr," he said, scowling as Pero forced himself to grin in defiance as the old man's knees protested, and the Jarl huffed.
"Thorsten! Get a good price for him, but not too good, won't do to let him be too valuable."
Thorsten nodded as the Jarl jumped off the ship and on to the dock again.
"I'll send the ship back with the money from the sale, Jarl, and then I'll ready Blodormr and set sail for Vinland."
"It'll be a great adventure for you and your crew, and I know you're worthy of this."
The Jarl paused and put his hand on the pommel of his sword, the great long sword he'd bought from the same man that had sold him Hauknefr. He'd told Hauknefr he'd kill him with his own sword if he tried to run, but this seemed more fitting. As Thorsten watched, he pulled the sword from its sheath and held out the pommel towards him.
"You're taking this treacherous thrall to his well earned fate, and then you're sailing on to your own. You should have the sword that was his, take it to Vinland and win us new land and wealth. He was not man enough to hold on to it, it's only fitting that you have it now."
"Jarl…" Thorsten said, bowing his head low, "This is a great gift. I will ask Thor to give strength to this blade and honour you on my journey."
The Jarl nodded, as Thorsten held the sword, looking at the sharp blade.
"The gods approve when we use the swords of our fallen enemies to win new victories, and this blade is thirsty, it hasn't seen blood in a long time."
Thorsten bowed again, and ran his hand over the steel, scraping his thumb over the cross on the pommel.
"I'm honoured, my Jarl, but I might need to scrape off this Christian symbol."
The Jarl chuckled, clapping Thorsten on the shoulder, "Do what you will with it, Thor will always give your sword arm strength enough to kill our enemies. Now, ready the men, they have many hours to row before their, and your, adventure really begins. Bring us home stories worthy of the sagas, Thorsten, Sigurd's son."
Thorsten grinned and stepped on to the ship's deck, Pero's sword at his waist, and he missed the look of rage that passed across the chained man's face at the sight of the sword, "I won't fail you, Jarl, we'll come back with stories and wealth."
Soon the ropes were cast, and Ulvehi began to shrink behind the ship as the men's oars dipped into the dark water and gave speed to the slim ship. Pero glanced back at the farm, craning his neck to see over the ship's edge. He'd hated the place since he first saw it, but at the same time, it was the place where he'd first met you, and, against all reason, fallen in love with the daughter of his captors. The kitchen garden looked fresh with the early spring green, the place where so many conversations between the two of you had taken place. He couldn't hate it anymore simply because of the memories it held with you, but still, he didn't want to return. You were no longer there, and more than ever he knew that he would need to find you again, to find some sort of peace. To see you disappear across the ocean and into the hands of some Anglo-Saxon lord was not how he intended to let this end.
He looked away, closing his eyes and leaning against the rough planks. This was not how he'd imagined his departure, but this was where fate had taken you both. Now he needed to remember, quickly, who he was before his thralldom, and call upon his years of experience to survive the next few weeks. His muscles would need to remember how to fight, and kill, without hesitation if he was to survive this, and reach England. And reach you.
The thump of the ship's side bumping against the dock at Skiringssal was what roused Pero from his uncomfortable slumber many hours later. It was late afternoon, and the sounds of the bustling trade port drifted up to him. The ship had been tied to the dock and soon rough hands pulled him to his feet. The long spring evening was turning into dark blue night, and after his chains were removed, he was shoved into a cage similar to the one he'd spent his first night in Skiringssal in. There were other men in it, and women in the next cage over.
As Pero tried to find a spot to rest in the cage, more men were brought in, shoving for space as it got crowded. A large dark haired man squeezed himself down onto to the wooden slats next to Pero, grunting as Pero scowled
"Tuck your elbows in, friend, we ain't gettin' more space than this," he said in English, "But don't worry, if you don't get sold tomorrow, they'll find an even more uncomfortable spot for you."
Pero shrugged, and pulled his thin cloak up over his arms, but the Englishman nudged his side, and nodded towards a couple of the men at the front of the cage. They were trying to get the attention of the guards, who were pointedly ignoring them.
"Must be their first time at the thrall market. As long as we don't freeze to death, those guards won't do anything," he said and then looked over at Pero, "Not your first time being sold I think?"
"No," Pero grimaced, "Second."
"I'm on my fourth I think", the Englishman replied, "Can't seem to find a good owner."
He said the last with a chuckle as if it was a big joke, and Pero glanced over at him, wondering if the man might be soft in the head. But the man caught his look and chuckled again.
"I'm not daft, friend. But either I laugh at it, or I wallow in despair and die."
"You have a point," Pero said, "Do they hold these markets often?" he asked and the man nodded.
"In the spring, almost every day. When the snow and ice gives up its grip they all sail to the big trading ports and trade for what's needed for the new seasons, including humans. You haven't seen the market before?"
"Only once, when I first got here two years ago. But I was too busy trying to find a way to escape than to notice the market."
"I see that the escaping bit didn't go too well," the Englishman commented, tugging at his own cloak as the noise at the front of the cage died down.
Pero shook his head, and rested his chin on his arms, "Not yet," he replied.
The next day Pero learnt exactly how far and wide the Norse men traded as he watched men and women arrive at the market, and merchants began to fill up their stalls, both permanent and temporary, with wares.
The cages with thralls were strategically located just next to the main market square, and as the day warmed up he watched how even here, on what was the edge of the world to him, goods from almost every corner of the world were put up for trade. Stacks of pelts and furs seemed to be of interest to the men who were dressed like the Franks he'd served many times as a mercenary. The Franks in turn traded finer silks with the local lords, amber and silver changing hands.
Nearby three dark skinned men were trading spices. He could smell the dried thyme and garlic, so familiar from his childhood, and even a trace of cinnamon. It reminded him of his journeys far to the east, Constantinople and beyond. He never would've guessed that the vikings commanded such far-reaching networks.
A Norse lord strolled down the market, and stopped by the stall, pointing to the bulbs of dried garlic. He was dressed in fine wool clothes, and looked wealthy, like he had money to spend on some luxury to brighten his day. The edge of his cloak was trimmed with a pattern that looked more Byzantine to Pero than anything Norse, and he thought Nicholas could probably tell him more about the man if he'd been there.
The three spice merchants recognised the wealth too, and were immediately bowing low to the lord, waving him closer, and lifting up delicately carved spoons to let him smell their ground herbs.
Pero watched the display, the merchants smiling and flattering the lord as he haggled for the price. He was too far away to hear what they were saying, but anywhere in the world you would recognise the body language of a deal being struck. The lord and the merchants finally seemed to agree on a price, and the lord waved behind him, calling over a servant to settle the accounts.
Pero straightened up and grabbed the bars of the cage. The servant, dressed nicely and with an important air, was Godric, his friend from England who'd been taken as a thrall at the same time as Pero. He was standing just by the lord, holding a tablet and a purse of silver while an armed guard waited nearby. The two or so years since Pero last saw him hadn’t made much of a difference to his old friend, and he must have fared far better than Pero when he was sold here at Skiringssal at the end of their journey across. He looked well fed and well dressed, a thick wool cloak over his shoulders.
He was too far away for Pero to call out to without everyone noticing, and no matter how much he willed Godric to look over, he didn't turn. Godric handed over the silver, scribbled something on his tablet, and took a number of small bags from the merchants. They in turn bowed low to the lord, and then Godric and the lord turned and walked away. Pero ground his teeth in frustration as his old friend disappeared into the throng of people, but at least now he knew Godric had survived, and survived well, it seemed. Maybe Godric would spot him when it came time for selling the thralls, but what good it would do Pero, he didn’t know.
Towards the middle of the day, when the bright spring sun was at its highest, the men’s cage was opened. One by one the male thralls were led out, chained together, and pushed towards a rough hewed dais. Pero clenched his jaw and pushed down his urge to fight against the chains again as it was his turn to be forced to the front, this was not the time.
The auctioneer prodded him with a cane, forced his head back to show off his neck, and rapped it across his leg as if to gauge the quality of the flesh. Pero felt his temper rising, and glowered at the man, his fists closing. But the man only glanced over his features, prodded his shoulder, and lifted the back of his tunic, exposing the scarred flesh.
“A strong male, but dangerous and disobedient, fit for hard work in chains,” he said in Norse, calling out to the crowd of prospective buyers. “Will the mines take him? He’s already been whipped once.”
“We’ll take him,” a man replied. “Put him with the rest.”
Pero's gaze snapped towards the voice, it was the wealthy lord he'd seen earlier, with Godric, but from where he stood, he couldn't make him out in the press of bodies.
“Anyone willing to outbid the Falu men?” the auctioneer asked, and when no one replied, Pero was pulled to the side, unchained from the rest of the men, and shoved into a new cage. He gripped the bars and craned his neck to see if Godric would be the one paying for him, but there was no trace of the Anglo-Saxon.
By the time the sun had begun to slope westward, more men had been thrown in with him. Some snarled and spat at the guards, straining uselessly against their irons. Others said nothing at all, their eyes wide and hollow. Pero marked them without thinking; the ones who might fight, the ones who would break. Some would not last a day in the mines. Some would not even survive the journey there.
He shifted his weight against the wooden bars. Solid. Thick. No give in them. But he needed a way out, just not now, not while the guards watched every movement, not while he was penned like an animal among dozens of others. Any attempt now would end with him cut down before he took three steps. Better to wait.
Once the journey back to the mines started, there would be more opportunity to break free, or at least he hoped so. He had no other plan apart from this, and there were many unknown parts to it, too many. He leaned against the sturdy poles of the cage at the very back, watching the rest of the auction while his mind worked through his options. He didn't have many, and the ones he had were filled with holes. For now his best choice seemed to be to simply wait, and hope for an opportunity soon.
The market wound down as the sun began to sink, casting long shadows over the stalls. But people still milled around, fires were lit, and food was sold. Some food was brought to the men in the cage, but it was certainly nothing like the fat pork ribs Pero could smell being grilled on the other side of the market. A bowl of thin gruel and rough bread was shoved into his hands, but his belly still felt empty when he was done with it. The Falu miners didn’t seem to feed their thralls very well.
Crouching on his haunches in the back corner, he tried to keep off the wet mud seeping through the slats. He tipped his head back, just for a breath of rest, and glimpsed a face he recognised.
It was one of your family from Steinvikr. The one you'd said you’d grown up with, spent long summers with as a child. Pero couldn’t remember her name, but he remembered her standing at your side during the funeral, and the stories you had told him with a grin, the things you used to get up to with the hirdmen at Steinvikr.
A memory rose inside him, a stolen moment in the tack room at Steinvikr as you teased him, crouching down on your knees, his cock swelling, and he forced the memory down. It was almost too painful to think of you like that now, now that you were gone…
Pero watched the woman as she wandered between the stalls, touching some of the wares. She seemed to be on her own, but there were plenty of guards around Skiringssal, and he presumed there was no danger for a woman to walk alone here in the light spring evening. And she reminded him of you. The cut of the dress, the way her hair was bound, it pulled something tight in his chest, and he couldn't look away. She was your blood. The closest thing to you he might ever see again.
As she drew near, it was as if she sensed his eyes on her, or perhaps she simply caught a glimpse of the way he was staring from the corner of the cage. Her head turned, and recognition flashed across her face. For a few moments she met his eyes, staring at him too. Pero thought she would come over, but then she turned and continued to walk between the stalls, not changing her pace.
Pero looked down at his hands, clasped between his legs, and closed his eyes. He needed rest. Another hard night was coming, and he would need whatever strength he could keep hold of.
Twilight settled over Skiringssal, and Pero fell into an uneasy sleep, but when a hand touched his shoulder lightly, he jolted awake and stumbled to his feet . The market was still filled with people, rowdier now, but night had properly fallen. The cage was dark, and most of the men were huddled together in sleep.
"Shh, quiet," a woman's voice whispered close to his ear, and he turned his head towards it.
"You're Pero Tovar," she said, "I'm Saga, I know you."
"You're…" Pero began, but Saga shook her head.
"I don't have much time. I saw Thorsten earlier, she's on her way to England. He told me he caught the two of you at Ulvehi."
"I was reckless," Pero muttered, "And I've been sold to the Falu mines. I need to escape and go after her."
"I agree, that's why I'm here, Pero Tovar," Saga said, glancing behind her, "I need to find a way to get you out of here. My brother Assar is also in Skiringssal, he knows about you, and he swore to her that he'd help if he could."
"He knows?" Pero asked in surprise, and Saga nodded, smiling for the first time, and he saw that her lips curled in the same way as as yours did.
"He saw how she looked at you," she said, "and how you looked at her. You two were not very good at hiding it."
Pero groaned and dragged his hands over his face, but Saga grabbed his arm.
"It is done, Pero Tovar. Now you need to save her from that English lord. Help me find a way to help you out of here."
Pero looked around the dark market and the thralls sleeping in the cage, "I saw an old friend earlier, a man called Godric. He was with a wealthy lord who was buying spices. He had a cloak with a foreign pattern on the trim, with gold thread. He's the one who bought me for the mines."
"Halfdan Austrfarar," Saga replied immediately, "he owns the mines."
"If Godric works for him, maybe he can help. Can you find him?"
Saga nodded, "I know where he is staying. But what are you thinking?"
"If Godric can unlock the cage so that all the thralls escape, I can disappear in the chaos and hide on a ship to England. With all this trade, there must be many heading west."
"I'll go now, I need to find an excuse to talk to Godric," Saga replied, "I'll send Godric here, but I can't be seen with you, so be safe, Pero Tovar, and keep my cousin safe. And make sure you are worth all that she is giving up for you."
The last she said with a firm voice, squeezing his arm as Pero met her hard look, "Don't make her regret leaving her home behind for you."
"If she does, I'll bring her back, and she can sell me as a slave again," he said, meaning every word.
Saga studied him for a long moment, then nodded once.
"The Norns have set your path," she said, "Now walk it."
With that she hurried off, and Pero could only watch her dark cloak disappear into the shadows and hope that she'd find Godric in time.
All that was left now was to wait, and watch the guards move across the market as it emptied out as the hour grew late. He was too tightly wound to sit and relax, even though he knew he should conserve his strength. The nerves creeping along his limbs were familiar, always the same tingle as a battle drew near, his body preparing to fight, or be killed. He hoped he'd be able to sneak away without a fight, but something told him it would not be that easy.
Suppressing a wide yawn, he shook his limbs, trying to shake some warmth into them as the night grew cold. The sudden yell startled him, one of the guards calling to the others and pointing. Against the dark night sky flames could be seen in the town, just a street or two away. Shouts went up, and the guards began to run towards the light just as the first hint of smoke in the air reached Pero.
He looked around outside the cage as the other men began to wake, stumbling to their feet and mumbling as they spotted the fire. Calls could be heard from around the town as word spread, fire in a town made of wood would be a disaster.
Suddenly Pero saw what he'd been waiting for. Across the now empty market a dark figure came hurrying towards the cages. It was a moment's work for the man to unlock the cages and release both the men and the women.
"Hurry, help with the fire, we need all the hands we can get to pass the water buckets," he called to the thralls as they streamed from their enclosure.
"Why would we?" a man called back to him as he took off at a run, away from the fire, clearly set on escaping rather than helping. And almost everyone else of thralls had the same idea, like birds set free they scattered.
Pero was the last out of the cage, and the man grabbed his arm and quickly dragged him around a corner, into the darkness of one of the market stalls.
"Tovar! I thought you were dead. I didn't know what to think when Saga from Steinvikr came to find me!"
"Likewise, friend," Pero grinned, grabbing hold of his old friend's arms and looking him up and down, "And you've done well for yourself it seems."
"Better than you at least," Godric replied, "You look rough."
"I would tell you all, but I need your help to hide on a ship heading to England."
Godric nodded, and pulled off his cloak, handing it to Pero, "I know, but you won't need to sneak. I've bought you passage on Aelfric's ship, he's a cloth merchant, and I know he's sailing at first light, he had bad news from York."
"Godric, you're a true friend," Pero replied, he couldn't believe his luck as he pulled up the hood of the cloak, hiding his face, "If I can, I will make it up to you."
"I hope so, because I'm coming with you. I can't exactly set free my master's thralls without consequences," Godric said, reaching into a simple cloth bag hanging from his shoulder, "I've got some gold, hopefully enough to bribe Aelfric and his men to not mention a dark faced man with a scar. Come, we better get going while the fire still burns."
Pero nodded, and followed Godric as they set off. He knew the streets of Skiringssal well by now it seemed, and he led them through back alleys and dark paths down to the docks. The many ships moored were quiet, but around a few of them men were moving back and forth, preparing to set sail as soon as the wind picked up. Godric led Pero to one of the largest, a broad hulled sailing ship with a ramp leading up. As they approached, Godric hailed a man standing on the deck overseeing the loading.
"Aelfric, are you ready for us to board?" he called, and the man waved at them, urging them to cross the ramp.
"As soon as the morning easterly wind picks up, we're off," Aelfric replied, "Get yourself tucked down, I don't want any trouble leaving."
Godric and Pero did as he ordered, hurrying across the gangway and dropping into the sunken hold. Most of the space was taken up by cargo, but there was some space carved out for provisions and sleeping space, and they sat down next to the hull, huddling down to not be seen from land. Pero pulled his hood down further over the scar that made him so damn recognisable, and silently urged the wind to pick up.
Soon, very soon, he'd be back on the ocean and finally sailing west, following you.
"Aelfric! Alefric!"
An all too familiar voice called up towards the ship, and Pero lifted his head as Godric looked over at him.
"Someone you know?" he asked in a low voice.
"Thorsten," Pero whispered, "He's the leader of the hirdmen at Ulvehi, the farm I was sold to."
"The tall blonde who was there that day? I remember him," Godric replied, "Keep your head down, we can't let him see you."
"But he has my sword," Pero growled, "I need it."
Down on the dock Thorsten was talking to Alefric about the thralls that had escaped, and the fire that was still burning.
"It's almost out, it only took two houses and a barn, the town was lucky. But now we must get men together to chase after the thralls who escaped."
"I'm setting sail to England as soon as the morning wind picks up, I don't have time to chase after some dumb thralls," Aelfric replied, "You should trade in cloth, Thorsten. Cloth bundles don't have legs, and they don't need feeding."
"I'll remember that the next time you need protection for your ships," Thorsten said, and even from up on the ship Pero could hear the annoyance in his voice.
Aelfric must've waved him off, because soon they heard the merchant call orders for more supplies and goods to be loaded as Thorsten stalked off.
"Your dagger," Pero said to Godric, holding out his hand, "Give it to me."
"Tovar, don't…" Godric replied, but Pero snatched the dagger from his belt and carefully stood up, glancing over the railing.
"I'll be back in no time, I just need to get my sword, and kill him if I can."
"Aelfric won't wait, you can get a new sword in England," Godric hissed, reaching out to grab his arm, but Pero shook it off.
"I'm not letting that bastard walk around with my sword," he replied, "I'll be back soon, just stall Aelfric if the wind changes."
"Tovar, he won't wait!" Godric protested, but it was too late. Pero jumped over the opposite edge of the hull and landed with a soft thump on the dock planks. In the distance he could see the dark shape of Thorsten disappear down one of the narrow pathways leading towards the edge of town.
This was rash, too rash, he knew it, but the sight of the sword, his sword, at Thorsten's side had filled him with rage. And now this bastard was within range, and Tovar was unchained and armed. This opportunity wouldn't come again. He could kill him, take the sword back, and leave with at least a small sense of revenge for the past two years.
His fingers flexed, finding a good grip on the dagger hiding under his cloak, and he felt his body changing, his mind finding its focus as he slipped back into his old self.
The mercenary followed Thorsten down the path, sticking to the shadows and keeping his steps light and soundless. He needed to choose a place to call out his challenge, a spot for a quick fight, and a swift retreat. The narrow road ran between the rocks at the water's edge, and a few sheds. Narrow enough to make fighting with a sword difficult, but perfect for a fight with daggers.
"Thorsten!" Tovar called, stepping out from the shadow of the shed as he shook off the cloak, the dagger held behind his back as if his arms were still tied.
The tall Norseman turned around, his surprised look turning to a grin when he saw Tovar standing behind him.
"Hauknefr, I knew you were behind this, but I thought you'd be hiding in the woods by now," he called back, taking a few steps towards Tovar and drawing his sword, "Or are you trying to get back to Ulvehi?"
"Where is she?" Tovar asked, his voice grim, taking a step back as Thorsten moved forward.
"Not at Ulvehi, dog," Thorsten snarled, his face turning dark at the mention of you, "You won't see her again, and you should've kept running."
He took another step, pointing the sword at Tovar's chest, "But now I can kill you, and keep the money for selling you."
Tovar let him move closer, the dagger behind his back tight in his hand, "She told me about you, that you wanted her and she spat in your face. It must sting, amigo, to see her choose me instead. The thrall, huh? The dirty, unwashed thrall with nothing but his cock to boast of."
Thorsten snarled and lunged at Tovar, who swiftly stepped to the side, bringing up the dagger and jamming it up into the other man's side with a satisfied grin. Thorsten grunted and stumbled as Tovar tried to push the dagger in. But it caught on the chain mail hidden under the tunic, and Thorsten shoved Tovar's arm away, swinging his sword. Only the close quarters stopped the sword from slicing Tovar open, it bounced off his hip as he yanked the dagger loose.
Now the element of surprise was lost, and Tovar stepped back as Thorsten lifted his sword, his other hand patting down his side where the dagger must've bruised him.
Tovar watched Thorsten's steps, circling around, aiming to get him too close to the slippery rocks by the sea shore. But Thorsten wasn't an inexperienced fighter, and he grinned as he realised that Tovar only had a dagger and no protection, taking a step closer. He kept him at range, forcing Tovar back, step by step.
"This is more poetic, thrall," Thorsten said, "Don't you think? The gods love a good fight!"
"I don't give a shit about any gods," Tovar snarled, "I just want to see you dead."
Thorsten attacked, fast and hard.
Tovar stumbled back, barely dodging the blow. He jumped over the slick rocks, scrambling back onto the path. He felt the air move as the sharp blade rushed past his ear, but it didn't hit.
He was slow, too slow. Two years away from the blade showed in every step, even now when the rush of the fight had his blood hot, he could feel the sluggishness in his limbs. Finding his balance again, he held the dagger up as a shield, ready to block or dodge when the big bastard Norseman attacked again.
Thorsten was still grinning, and he gave no pause. Attacking again, and again, he pushed Tovar backwards. Twice the long sword struck the dagger, making Tovar grunt as the hits made the bones in his arm tremble. But he was pulling Thorsten in towards the back wall of one of the sheds that lined the path. With a quick step to the side at the next attack, he managed to dodge the sword and in the opening, his dagger slid across Thorsten's cheek, splitting it open and drawing blood.
Thorsten roared and swung his sword wildly, but Tovar had already jumped back. Under his breath he was cursing. Thorsten was tall, and the dagger was difficult to get in where the chain mail didn't cover him.
With the sword up, Thorsten charged on Tovar, forcing him back across the path, towards the rocks and the ocean. He carved the air with brutal swings, any one of them would've sliced his arm clean off, and Tovar scrambled back, trying to find an opening. The ground under his feet turned slippery, sea weed wrapped around his ankle, dragging him off balance. He stumbled, going down on one knee, catching himself with one hand as he held up the dagger against the next wild swing. Behind him the ocean lapped at his feet, and he threw himself in as Thorsten stabbed towards his chest.
The sword caught him this time, but he kicked out, connecting with Thorsten’s leg as pain bloomed across his arm.The other man lost his balance and for a moment, he teetered on the edge of the slippery rocks, and Tovar jerked himself up, out of the water, scrambling clear of the blade.
Panting he found his footing again on the shore line as Thorsten turned to him. His face was triumphant now as Tovar suddenly realised; the dagger was gone.
"So much for the mercenary," Thorsten mocked him, "How would you like me to kill you? A cut to the front and watch your guts spill, or in the back, as you try to run?"
A trickle of fear ran up Tovar's back as the wind suddenly picked up, and Thorsten advanced on him. The way to the dock, it was behind Thorsten. Behind Tovar was only the edge of town, and then the endless forests.
He took a step back, and Thorsten's grin widened as he lifted the sword.
"Tovar," a voice suddenly called, heavy footsteps coming down the path as Thorsten frowned and looked behind Tovar at the newcomer.
Tovar risked a glance behind himself. Another Norseman was jogging down the path, his sword already drawn. He was tall, towering over both of them, and his wide shoulders seemed to fill the narrow path behind him.
"You know this dog, Assar?" Thorsten called in surprise, but the tall blonde man ignored him.
"You shouldn't be here, Pero Tovar," he said.
Tovar's brows rose high as he recognised the man. He'd only seen him at a distance at Steinvikr, but he knew who he was.
Your cousin.
And Saga's brother.
It dawned on him as Thorsten called out to Assar again.
"He's about to die, Assar. He's claimed our Jarl's daughter in secret, as if he were her equal."
"I know what he did, and what our Jarl did to my cousin. And if you try to stop Tovar from getting her back, it will be you who dies here, Thorsten," he replied coldly. His sword arm was up, and the sharp tip aimed at the man did not waver.
"What…"
Thorsten glanced at Tovar again, and Assar gave a small shake of his head.
"You were always a rash fighter, Thorsten."
That seemed to shift his focus, hesitation rather than rage as he looked back at Assar. He took a step back, but his heel found only wet stone beneath him. It gave way under his weight, and the moment his balance went, so did his control.
The wind rose along the shore, sharp now, pulling at their cloaks, and filling the narrow path with salt and noise.
Tovar moved before any thought could catch up, closing the short distance while Thorsten still tried to find his balance. It was the only moment he needed. His hand closed around the hilt of the sword, the other shoving Thorsten back, into the cold water and rocks.
His sword.
The weight of it in his grip was almost disorientating, like something long lost snapping back into place, and for a heartbeat he simply held it while Thorsten realised what had happened.
Thorsten’s expression stayed with Tovar; rage breaking into fear as the mercenary lifted the blade and drove it through his throat. Slipping in just where the chain mail left him exposed, dark blood gushed out as he gave a choked, broken cough. He collapsed onto the wet stones, his eyes emptied, turning blank.
For a moment, Tovar stood over him, breathing hard, sword still in hand, and then reality of everything beyond the fight returned.
Then the wind pulled at him again.
The ship would be leaving.
And there was no more time.
Chapter 17
Another cliffhanger! But at least now Pero is free, and Thorsten is dead. Some small revenge at least...
I really went back and forth over this chapter, writing and re-writing the final fight between Tovar and Thorsten, and I hope you enjoyed it and that it was as tense as I wanted it to be! Writing fight scenes is really fun, but it's also hard and I try to make the visuals clear so that you can see the fight in your head as you read it (I hope).
