i don’t know if i should actually start posting my oc art on here i just use tumblr to post fanart because the reach is better…however im currently flopping on insta my last two posts have bombed so idk…
i’m not massive on the number of likes i get i don’t really mind, but i haven’t grown my art account in like a yearrrr i miss it it’s really fun interacting with new people and introducing new ppl to my ocs…
so idk it’s either just post way more often and hope for the best (not happening bc i never draw) or make reels (very hit or miss for me). i’m just sad my art account is dying (the answer is to post more regularly and develop my art but that’s stupid i’m not doing that) rip linenfinch
(based on The meeting in the turret stairs by Fredric William Burton)
Once again drawing merthur with semi historical accuracy, this time with 13th-14th century inspirations!!! (though merlin has some 15th century influence in the sleeves)
Wærmund spends a good six months nursing Cenhelm back to health when the latter first arrived at the monastery. He laboured over manuscripts and tablets, spending his days testing remedies and his nights creating cures. Wærmund couldn’t help but invest himself, not just into Cenhelm’s health, but the torment of his entire being. As he slowly nursed Cenhelm’s wounds, he found himself healing deeper parts of him, and accidentally kindling a close friendship.
might start posting on here more since the quality on insta is actually criminal
It was in the early evening when the longhorn blew. If Ulfrun hadn’t had such a steady hand, she would have spilled her pail of water all down her front. But Ulfrun was steady, her hands never shook. So no water lapped over the side of the bucket as she looked out to the port. One ship eased its way through the iced cropping of rocks and docked boats. One lone ship. The master had returned.
Ulfrun hugged the pail close to her, the cold of it burned her chest, but she didn’t start or shiver. The horn blew a second time, and Ulfrun felt it move her without her consent. She stepped away from the well, to a gathering of frost charred gorse and hardened ground. From that height she could see ship being pulled into the dock, the strong arms of neighbours and slaves easing it to rest. Off stepped a man, hauling sacks brimming with things Ulfrun had no interest in. Then came another. Then her master. In his hand he held a rope, though, even from her perch, it was too far to see clearly what it tied to. Ulfrun let the pail of water rest on her hip and turned to return to the warmth of the hall, when voices sprang from the docks, almost as loud and clear as the long horn. Ulfrun looked again, almost stepping off the mound in her haste and curiosity. These, she knew well, were punishable traits, but here, alone, she couldn’t subdue herself.
She saw, now, what connected to her master’s rope. Like blood upon snow, like fire deep within a glacier, a red headed boy stepped onto the banks of Norway.
Even from such a distance, the sight of him was a shock, and Ulfrun watching as he was practically dragged from the boat, his whole figure screaming defiance. A slave. A new slave. Ulfrun had known, of course, that her master had set out to find them fresh help, though the weight of it hit her only now. Still, no water spilled from the pail, Ulfrun was as steady as ever. A new slave. A slave other than her.
The men began to move, hauling the fire haired boy behind them like some disobedient dog or a stubborn ox. He thrashed and pulled, but when a whip hit his shoulder he stilled, his body coiled and tight as they began their ascent from the docks and harboured ships to the master’s hall, the farthest from the village, the biggest, the chief’s.
Ulfrun glanced back at the hall, the distance between her and it breached by snow laden fields and hardened ground. She hitched the pail over her shoulder and filled another, and began her careful walk to the hall, to find her mistress.
When she arrived, she beat her tired hide shoes against the doorframe before entering the backway. The door to the hall hung open, though no one was seated and the fire in the great pits dimmed. Ulfrun squinted and shook herself, eased at the absence of anyone but herself. They must have arrived in the private chambers, she thought, but furrowed her brow when she heard no conversation or voices. She moved carefully, feet barely making a sound on the worn wooden floor. As Ulfrun came to the corridor connecting the main hall to her master’s private, family hall, she shifted the pails on each of her arms to be able to tighten her head scarf. She lowered her gaze to the floor, bowed her head and entered.
✶
The longhouse was warm, fitted with rugs that stretched along the main living space. Tapestries hung from the high walls, with axes and spears lying dormant and dusty on hooks, framing a life Ulfrun’s master used to live. Though Ulfrun herself didn’t live in these comfortable quarters, she couldn’t help but see the longhouse as home. She knew the skin of each animal under her feet, the carve in each gnarl of wood on every wall. She felt comfortable here. Comfortable, but never relax. Never relax. Always remember, always be steady.
A fire dimmed in the middle of the room and around it sat hunched, tense figures. Ulfrun’s mistress, Gyda, a thin, tall woman with pinched face and a sharp chin, sat on a stool, the farthest from the door. Around her feet were her youngest children, two little girls playing with baskets of loom waste. In Gyda’s hand she held a needle and wool, but she did not nalbind, instead she sat in pensive conversation with Solveig. Solveig was the head servant of the household, she tended to the children and distributed tasks to the other servants. Ulfrun liked Solveig, she had a sharp, no-nonsense attitude. But despite the front the old woman put up, she never treated Ulfrun with anything less than kindness. The sight of her made Ulfrun step more easily into the living space.
The hushed whispers did not stop when Ulfrun entered the room, but Ulfrun felt as Gyda’s eyes followed her movements as she laid the pails of water by the fire. As Ulfrun moved noiselessly throughout the room, swapping the wooden buckets for iron and placing them on hooks above the fire, she caught whisps of the conversation. They were talking of the new slave. Don’t eavesdrop Ulfrun, don’t be stupid.
“Have you seen them yet?” Ulfrun collected the wooden buckets together and prepared to leave the room. “Ulfrun.”
Ulfrun wasn’t startled at the sound of her name, if she had been she would have dropped the buckets with a clatter. But Ulfrun was steady. Stay calm, be respectful.
It wasn’t often that Ulfrun was addressed directly, less so by a member of the household with such status. Her name sounded foreign coming from Gyda’s mouth.
She turned, facing the fire pit, but kept her head bowed.
Gyda sighed, picked up her needles and began to nalbind with effortless precision. “The sun has almost set; he was supposed to be back yesterday.” Gyda didn’t look at Ulfrun, instead focused on the wool before her. Ulfrun resisted the urge to shift from foot to foot. Was Gyda even talking to her? Stay calm, keep still. “I heard the horn blow, was it our boat? Or was it Torsent? I heard from his girls he was returning today.” Ulfrun didn’t move, how could she answer that? What nod or shake could suffice as answer? She held the buckets tighter to her chest.
Solveig looked from Ulfrun to Gyda, her brow tense. Finally, she settled on Gyda, jerking her head in Ulfrun’s direction with a look that, despite not being able to see, Ulfrun knew well. ‘Take pity on her,’ the look said, ‘Remember her misfortune.’
Misfortune, Ulfrun would have laughed if she were still able.
Gyda sighed, a mixture of irritance and exhaustion, before spitting, “Was that his ship.”
Ulfrun gave one sharp nod, hoping it would satisfy her mistress enough to let her retreat away from the living space, away from the hall and far from sight. Though in part she considered these walls her home, so quickly she remembered her place when within them all she met was sharp words and frosted attitudes. The snow chewed hills were warmer than any room in this hall, she thought. She longed for them now.
Misfortune, it seemed, truly did favour Ulfrun, as just as Gyda opened her mouth to reply, a door banging open was heard from the main hall. The wind whistled as it was shut, and Ulfrun felt a familiar dread settle within her as the sound cut out sharply, only to be replaced by footsteps approaching the familial chamber.
At least five men, Master and others, the slave, the slave the new slave. Ulfrun placed the bucket haphazardly by the fire, stepping back until she was pressed into the far wall. She felt the weight of it behind her like an anchor, pushing her shoulders into the wall until it hurt. Far from sight, far from the eyes of men.
Gyda stood as her husband burst into the chamber, with as much grace and deft as a blind bear. The tense quiet of the hall had been snapped as the men shook snow and dew from their furs and the children ran to greet their father. There was much noise, much commotion and in amongst it, a boy. Ulfrun bit her cheek, only able to see the red sheen of his hair amongst the tall shouldered build of her Master and his neighbours. He was secondary, a body amongst people. Ulfrun’s master tried to greet Gyda with a kiss, but Gyda, like Ulfrun, had eyes only for the boy in amongst the bustle and chaos.
Gyda cut through the men, and they parted for her like a dog amongst sheep. Master stood flittering at his wife’s shoulder, attempting to speak in a hushed tone, but was silenced by Gyda raising one slim delicate hand.
“What is this?” Her eyes never left the boy.
There was almost a compete silence, so heavy that Ulfrun felt weighed down by it. She pressed herself father into the wall, where the light of the dying fire didn’t reach.
“A slave, love. Look, I know we agreed- “
“I sent you for a girl, Arne, and you come home with this?” The Neighbours who had helped moor the boat and bring the slave up the hillside began to slink out of the room, they knew too well a wife’s fury. Gyda waved her hand at them, and they scattered to the entrance, disappearing out of sight in a wake of footsteps.
There he stood, slumped and tense, in the centre of it all. “A boy? What were you thinking? We can’t afford a boy, Arne. We could hardly afford a girl!” Gyda rage was strange to Ulfrun. She seemed to shout, but her voice never rose, it simply became sharper, thinner, like a well whittled weapon. Ulfrun’s own anger was messy, unbridled and untamed. Or, at least, it used to be.
Now that the anger was directed at someone other than herself, Ulfrun found herself quite enjoying the display. There was a beauty in being nobody, pressed against a wall and you’re practically a part of it. She didn’t quite feel invisible, but as accepted and unnoticed as a stool or bench. And how she loved to hear about her Mater’s money troubles.
Any twisted pleasure she felt at her master’s plight, however, fell away as Gyda swung her hand toward the subject of her anger.
When Ulfrun was taken, bought and sold with blood still fresh on her bare feet, she kicked and screamed. There was no quieting her grief, no way to hold her down. She remembers spitting in the face of the trader, biting fingers and raking nails over skin. The scarred remains of her tongue lay heavy in her mouth. She remembers her fury.
The boy did none of those things, and Ulfrun felt a strange admiration kindle within her at his stoic silence. He stood in the centre of the room, so close to the fire that his hair burned like the embers. His body was still, completely still, without any tremor or shake he might as well have been cut from stone. His spine was curled, his form tense and coiled and Ulfrun was reminded of a corn snake, ready to strike. It was his face, though, that caught her attention. The lower half of his face was bandaged, and dark blood seeped from the wound on his mouth and through the cloth, but this did nothing to obscure him. His fringe hung low over his eyes, but the fury within them cut through and made Ulfrun shiver.
Though his body sagged from exhaustion and pain, almost naked with bruised ribs and bleeding knees, there was a fire within him. Bright and radiant and dangerous. Ulfrun couldn’t help but dread what beast her Master had brought into his home.
Gyda beckoned the boy forward with her hand, but he stayed rooted on the spot. “Come here, boy. Let me see you.” Again, he did not move, stood staring, almost as if he was looking through Gyda, through the wall behind her and out onto snow laden tundra beyond. Ulfrun swallowed, Just do as she says, your pride isn’t worth defiance.
Gyda snapped her fingers. “Now, boy.” Arne placed a hand on the boys back and pushed, and he staggered forward. “Do as she says, it’s what’s best for you.” It was almost as if he couldn’t hear, his eyes showed no recognition at the man’s words, though his shoulders tensed at his tone.
Closer to the fire now, Ulfrun could make out the vicious red lines across his back and around his ankles, and she noticed for the first time the iron collar around his throat. She resisted the urge to rub her own neck, the feeling of the cold metal lingering, though she hadn’t worn such collar in years. Gyda huffed sharply through her nose, and stepped lightly towards the new slave, no hesitance or fear in her step. She circled him and examined him with a sharp gaze. With each step she took around him, the boy sunk further in on himself, his hands clutched white where they were bound before him. Gyda came before him again and shot a hand from her robes to grip his face. He stepped back, whipping his head away from her grasp, but Gyda was not to be deterred. She held his chin fast, digging her nails into his skin and bandages, peering through the hair that had fallen into his face.
Ulfrun didn’t know what she saw in his eyes, but slowly Gyda lowered her hand and released his face. She hummed, and Ulfrun felt as though a decision had been made.
“How did you afford him then, Arne. Shall I begin to collect my jewels and beads, perhaps we should sell our land, our sheep, our goats? Shall I tell the children to starve this winter?” Gyda’s voice, dripping with sarcasm, cut through a silence Ulfrun hadn’t realised was building.
Arne squared his shoulders, coming from behind the boy to stand beside him. The boy didn’t flinch. “The traders selling him were practically desperate to get rid of him. He cost half of what a girl would, Gyda, I couldn’t pass that up.”
“And why, pray tell, were these merchants so desperate to clean their hands of him?” Arne scratched the back of his neck, clearly caught.
“They motioned something about a bounty, he must be some sort of criminal. Those Saxons usually deal with their own lot, I did- I did find it odd that they’d ship one of their own to us. Even if he is a criminal.” Gyda stared at Arne, and Ulfrun saw sweat bead on the back of his neck. “Look,” he said, holding up his hands to placate his wife. “All I know is that his kingdom wanted him gone, he was traded down south and brought to market up here. He won’t be a danger, love, I promise you that.” Arne’s insistence obviously did nothing to ease Gyda’s hesitance, and Ulfrun looked between her two masters nervously. It was never a good day when they fought. Arne stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Gyda’s arm. “Love, you know this is what we need. It’s not what I promised but its better. I can’t look after this hall alone, we only have one slave and she’s good at her work, but we need a boy. Someone to labour, to keep the land.” Gyda seemed to soften at that, looking away from the boy to hold Arne’s gaze. “Ulfrun is only one person, and my health isn’t getting any better. We need a boy.”
Ulfrun ducked her head at the sound of her own name and felt Gyda’s eyes wash over her. The room seemed to hold its breath, Solveig, who had been still and silent the entire time, stroked a hand over the head of the child curled at her feet. The children, Ulfrun noted, seemed as hesitant at the idea of their new slave as their mother. Ulfrun’s eyes fell to Solveig, and wondered what she thought of all this. Her face was unreadable, but her eyes met Ulfrun’s through the dark of Ulfrun’s shadowed corner. Solveig nodded her head minutely. It’s alright. It’s already decided.
Gyda moved, as sharp and precise as always, to lay a hand atop Arne’s. Ulfrun released a breath that had been caught in her throat the entire conversation.
“Alright.” Gyda said, and turned to look at the boy once more, “Alright.”
Ulfrun felt herself drawn to the boy once more, and her heart sunk in her chest when his shoulders sagged. He hung his head, eyes closed tight. Perhaps he hadn’t understood a word of what was said, but his posture screamed a realisation that Ulfrun had grappled with time and time again. He knew his fate was sealed.
Ulfrun shut her eyes. Please, let the Norns be kind to him. Let his fate be kinder than mine.
✶
They called him Refr, fox, for the red sheen of his hair and the sharp point of his face. Gyda and Arne both agreed not to shear his hair like hers had been. It was a beautiful colour, and when it was long enough, they’d cut it and sell it. Ulfrun was a bit relieved at the thought, she’d never quite seen a colour like that of his hair, and it would be a shame for it to go to waste.
She was ordered away shortly after the decision that Refr should stay had been made. Ulfrun hesitated at the idea of leaving him where she couldn’t see him. She knew well what went into breaking a slave, and hoped for his sake that he was obedient.
Ulfrun tried to distract herself from thoughts of the new slave, working tirelessly to clean the living chamber and start preparations for the coming feast. The return of the Chief called for a celebration, no matter how short of a duration he’d been absent.
Hauling a bucket of waste vegetables, peels and roots over her shoulder, Ulfrun left the warm shelter of the kitchens for the pig pens. She heaved herself over the fence and jumped down into the thick wet mud. It splashed over her apron, and she paid the filth no mind. Trudging through grime, Ulfrun deposited the waste into the trough, staggering as the swine swarmed around her legs eager for food. She smiled, small and thin, bending down to scratch behind one of the sow’s ears. Ulfrun stood straight, feeling the muscles in her back pull from the weight of the days work. She sighed through her nose, hauling herself and the now empty bucket onto the fence once more. She stood on the wooden pen, making to climb over it like a style when voices met her ear. Ulfrun looked up, towards the hills beyond the animal pens and crops. There upon it stood her master, a neighbour and her master’s eldest son. Between them was Refr.
Ulfrun found herself pause, watching as her master pointed across their land, mapping out the lay of their property with his hand. Whether Refr paid any mind, or even understood what was being told, she didn’t know, as he made no nod of the head or indication that he was listening.
Instead, his distant shape, his back to her, tensed at the shoulders. Ulfrun felt her mouth grow dry as he looked slowly, slowly over his shoulder. He was looking straight at her, his face impassive and eyes sharp. Ulfrun felt her breath still and felt locked by his gaze. They were separated by snow stricken fields, but it was if he were standing before her. The wooden pens, hardened mud and mounds of dying grass fell away and they were, for a moment, just people. Ulfrun felt, for just one moment, like a person beneath his gaze. She wondered is he felt humanised in her eyes too. It was only when her master clapped a hand over the back of Refr’s head, slapping him with a sharp reprimand, did their gazes break. They weren’t people, not anymore. Ulfrun startled at the slap, coming back to herself as if she had been hit too. She felt an odd unease rise in her, that even at such a distance, Refr had felt her eyes on him.
Ulfrun clambered down from the fence, empty bucked clutched tight and all but ran back to the kitchens. She was steady, always ready, always calm. As still and immovable as a corner stone. But something in his gaze had shaken her, he didn’t look through her but straight at her. He looked at her and saw her. No one had given her more than a second glance since she was a child.
Bursting through the kitchen door, Ulfrun was almost sent flat on her back when she was met with Solveig. The older servant steadied her with a hand on her arm.
“Woah there, easy girl.” Solveig picked up the bucket, which had fallen to the floor in the commotion, and passed it back to Ulfrun. “Where are you off in such a hurry, huh? You can’t be that eager to get back to the hearth.” Ulfrun shook her head, feeling calmed simply by Solveig’s presence.
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