this sigtryggr fic is kicking my behind, but here's a small unedited preview while i continue to work on it.
Alarms rang. Bells tolled. Screams echoed. Danes finally came marching within the walls of Wessex, armed and hungry for the prize of victory. Among the sword wielding, crazed Heathens a man at the forefront of the commotion stole Astrid’s gaze. Curly brown hair, slender frame and a decent sized scar across his eye. He looked young. Yet, age no barrier to what he had accomplished. Indicating he had smarts very few Danes possessed. He appeared calm as he lead his men towards the castle. A heavily pregnant Dane at his side, who memory recalled was Brida. Albeit, she appeared different. Less light occupied within her gaze. No harmony stored in her bones. Just fury and rage. Once the Holy sanctuary had been captured two Danes led a few hostages, including the Lady Alswith, towards the center of the courtyard. Wessex guards all lined up on their knees. A Dane stood behind each one, sword at the ready, waiting for the command.
Behind Lady Alswith stood a curious and youthful Astrid. Rich brunette sleek hair residing over her shoulders. Some strands had come undone from the two braids across the top of her hair, cascading across her face effortlessly, as if they had been intentionally apart of the hairstyle. She looked on. Eyes glued on the man in charge. Brida finally speaking his name; Sigtryggr. Astrid repeated it. Slowly at first, then all at once. His brown eyes briefly met her honey hazel ones. The split second glance settling deep upon her skin like familiarity, as if apart of Astrid wondered if she was standing on the wrong side. Sigtryggr’s speech held composure. Alfred warned Astrid to be wary, for such Danes few were truly honourable. But looking at Sigtryggr, honour bled from the way he walked and the words he spoke. Those same words delivered with strength and wrapped in clarity. The mark of a great leader who could rally even the most apprehensive to fight for him. And while Astrid was merely another hostage within the besieged walls of Winchester, panic did not wash over her. Instead, she calmly followed the two Danes who had brought her to the courtyard back down the halls.
Days went by. Sun rose. Sun set. Danes grunted and pillaged and set up camp. Taking what sparkled, and burned anything which resembled Saxon worship. Astrid groaned, leaning her head back against the stone as Lady Alswith and Æthelhelm took to words once more. The door creaked open, Sigtryggr came strolling in, presence commanding everyone’s gaze.
He motioned to the Dane behind, eyes on Astrid as his thick voice settled deep in her body once again. “She comes with me”.
“Where are you taking her?”. Lady Alswith interjected, moving to shield.
“It’s alright, Lady Alswith. I will return shortly”.
Sigtryggr moved to the side. She followed him through the castle reaching what used to be Alfred’s library. She stood by the window, a streak of sun peering through, illuminating her soft wind slapped cheeks. He studied her with more intrigue. He couldn’t place her. Among all the Saxons Astrid held pose within her shoulders. Her dress showed wealth. Similar to that of Lady Alswith. Hair styled with care, yet hands were that marked of a girl who knew how to handle daily labour and chores. Physically, she appeared all but Saxon. Yet Sigtryggr felt Dane deeply rooted within, waiting to be unraveled, in her warm gaze.
“Your name. It is usual for a Saxon, no?”.
“Astrid holds Norse roots”. He replied. “Tell me that of your mother. What is her name?”.
“Her name was Adela. She died of illness”. Astrid slowly brought her gaze upward. “Hours upon hours I poured into this room at the courtesy of King Alfred. He even sat by me while I inhaled all the knowledge and wisdom stored away in here, in hopes a miracle would bestow itself. It did not. My mother died in pain and I could not ease even the slightest bit of her suffering”.
“I too know what it is like to lose your kin”. Sigtryggr moved a little closer, watching for any change. When she did not flinch or manoeuvre away, Sigtryggr sat. “Tell me, are you a Saxon or are you a Dane?”.
“Surely you can decipher that by my garments, and by which home you have invaded”.
Sigtryggr lightly smiled. The sparkle in his eyes unconsciously pushed Astrid forward. She leaned to inspect the parchment by the table in hopes Sigtryggr would think that had been her intention. He coxed his head to the side, smile gone but his voice held almost a playful manner. “You dress well for one who carries the blood of a Heathen”.
She blinked. Mouth agaped. “I-I am not a Heathen!”.
His laugh bounced off the walls, ringing in Astrid’s ears. “Said in a fiery Heathen manner”. He lightly jabbed, smile reappearing.
“You can not-“. Astrid swallowed. “-You must tell me why you called me a Heathen”.
“That I am afraid will have to be for another time. Sven here will escort you back”.
He hesitated at the end of the hall, catching a glimpse of Astrid over his shoulder. Forcing himself to calmly walk away, drowning out her call for him.
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