Murder babies deciding to get a dog! I don't know why I haven't thought about this one before because it's just *chef's kiss*
Well, I haven't done one THESE in a while....*cracks knuckles*
"We should get a guard dog." Ivar suggested as Hannibal pulled into a parking space. "We don't need a guard dog, we have Brynhilda," Hannibal points out. No one misses Brynhilda's smirk, the statement couldn't have been truer. They all pile out of the car. Brynhilda helps Ivar, Hannibal helps Ylva. They all make their way inside the restaurant. "We need a low maintenance dog." Brynhilda states, "That way it doesn't tire Ylva or Ivar out."
"I can handle a high energy dog." Ylva points out. Brynhilda kisses her temple, having meant no offense to the blonde. "We're getting a service dog," Hannibal says with a finality that doesn't leave any room to argue. The group was sat at a booth, Ivar and Brynhilda looking rather sour. "We don't need a service dog." Ivar snaps, good mood suddenly turning sour.
"Yes," Hannibal says, "We do." He looked at them all gravely. "The girls having been doing fine in therapy, but they have a long way to go."
"Don't talk about us like we aren't here," Brynhilda growls. Hannibal pats her hand. "You guys are still anxious, and there's still a lot that's new to you all. Having a service dog of some sort may help. He'll be able to alert you if there are intruders in the house." The statement hung heavy in the air.
Two nights ago, Ylva, after a bad dream, had Brynhilda check the entire house for anyone hiding in a dark corner. the week before that, Brnyhilda had stalked the perimeter of their home for hours until she was satisfied nothing was lurking in the bushes. What was the point of all of them living together if no one felt safe?
"I've spoken with a friend," Hannibal tells them, "We'll get the girls assessed and go from there. This is a good thing." The three nod, understanding there was wisdom in his words. "It had better be a big ass dog," Brynhilda grumbles, breaking the tension. The others laugh. As the waiter takes their orders, they ease into good conversation, assured the getting a new puppy was the right idea.
A/N: Has been 84 years? Yes. Am I back on my bullshit? Maybe.
Warnings: None for this chapter.
Brynhilda shifts on her throne, uncomfortable despite the soft padding. Becoming Jarl had not been the point of killing the previous one. She’d only been looking to send a message, yet somehow, the entire town now saw her as their de facto leader. Something wasn’t right about that.
Looking out at the great hall, she’s surprised to see so many familiar faces. She’d revealed her game plan only a week ago, and already her tiny little village had swelled three times its original size. Men and women, young and old, new soldiers and army veterans, all of them looking forward to fighting for her. She nearly chokes on her emotions...well, at least her laughter.
With allies come enemies, she understands that, but she doesn’t know what to make of this particular situation. On the one hand, she’s highly amused, on the other, slightly disturbed. She knows this will only add to the rumors that she’s Odin’s chosen. But, really? She looks at the fabric in her hands, the Sleep Thorn had been stitched into it. She wondered what Floki the Boatbuilder would make of it. He had a special connection to the gods, he would’ve had a great deal to say. Suddenly, she misses Kattegat, misses funny old Floki and the girls, she even misses the cranky old medicine woman that refused to treat Ivar because of his temper.
“Lady Brynhilda?” Alf says, nudging her shoulder. Brynhilda blinks, brought to the present, oh, right, she’s supposed to sentence the traitor. “The Sleep Thorn,” She mutters, tracing the symbol with the pads of her fingers. “Not very effective, was it?” She looks up at Alf. He looks as amused as she feels. “No, lady, it would seem it wasn’t.” They look at the man who’d done it. “Jarl Brynhilda,” A rather rough looking man walks up to her, she only knows him as Arrow. He was the first to greet her back home, and the first to pledge his allegiance to her cause. “I say we kill this traitor and send his head to Boggvir,” mutters of agreement flow through the long house.
Brynhilda stands up, walks down from the dias, and stops in front of the man. “Why would we do a thing like that? Boggvir wouldn’t even recognize him.”
“My lady?” Arrow asks, unconvinced of her statement. Brynhilda begins to stalk the man that tried to curse her, round and round she went, taking in every detail. “You aren’t acting out of loyalty to Boggvir, are you?” The man struggles against his binds, snarling unintelligibly at her. “You're acting out of revenge for your brother.” The shock that Brynhilda remembers the prisoner is evident on his face. It’s quickly replaced with a smile, he speaks. “I didn't think you'd remember.”
“Yours is a hard face to forget.” Brynhilda straightens, looking at her confused men, she didn't feel like explaining that the one before her had been after her since she helped Falki take over. “The way I see it, you have two options. Choose your death, or choose to work with me.” The man spits at her, snarling once more in rage. “Why would I work with my brother's killer?”
Brynhilda turns from him, sitting back on her throne. Damn, this thing was hard on her back. “You and I both know I was a mere pawn in Boggvir's army, his best warrior yes, but a pawn nonetheless. I got Falki and her troops into your village, I killed your fighters, but I did not kill you brother. If I had, I would have been the new Jarl.”
He squirms in his binds, considering her words. What she said was true, even her enemies knew she was not in the habit of lying. Had she been the one to actually kill his brother, things would have undoubtedly played out differently. Still, surely years of anger and hatred didn’t shift from one target to the next in an instant. He straightens, giving her a haughty look. “You may call me Dofri.” Well, she’d been wrong before. It’s stupid to trust someone that just tried to curse her. She’s an idiot, she knows she is, but there’s something about him, something in his eyes. He’d never before considered working to kill the true target of his revenge. Maybe Falki had been unattainable to him until now. Even so, Brynhilda knows she’s just making up an excuse to trust him.
The way she figured it, the benefits outweigh the risks. She needed someone with a desire for revenge, some like her, that would stop at nothing to see it through. And, if she had to be completely honest, he reminded her of Floki. “Dofri” she motions for someone to cut his hands loose, “Welcome to my army.”
*
Those that visit Brynhilda's feast hall swear it’s a place of unsettling magic. Not exactly gloomy or bright. Not cold or hot. Not comfortable or uncomfortable. A charge was ever present in the air, making one aware of the unearthly quality Brynhilda exuded. Unseen things crawl around the place, whispering in their ears, telling the listener that they were safe, cared for. The only catch was Brynhilda herself had to be in a good mood.
Part of the magic of the place was that the feeling in the room changed with her feelings. If she was angry, the urge to drive your ax into the skull of your greatest enemy became almost too great to resist. If she was sad, you felt as though your heart had been ripped through your chest and eaten by a wild beast. If she was happy, you felt as though you had the strength of the gods themselves. The moment you left the feast hall, the cool air hitting your face, you felt dazed and confused. Why had you been subject to such alien feelings?
Only adding to the atmosphere were the plants hanging from ceilings, growing in pots in the corners, covering the windows with their leaves. Dorfi the Poisoner, a strange man you weren’t exactly sure was even a man, had made himself at home. He had no house of his own, no relatives he could rely on, so she opened the feast hall to him, and allowed him to do as he wished, within reason. Most of the plants were harmless until mixed into the right concoction. Dofri could make you a healing draught that helped you fight like ten men, or a poison that made you bleed from your ass. Many were unsettled by that fact, all but Brynhilda, it seemed.
Dearest Bryhilda, wild, untameable Brynhilda. She was the topic of much conversation. Alf had his suspicions that Brynhilda didn’t exactly belong to the world, she was too ethereal, too much wild energy danced about her. It didn’t help that to add to her mystique were the legendary stories. She’s killed a hundred men on her own, she survived the bite of the most poisonous snake in the world, she survived being Blood Eagled. Of course, she always brushes the stories off with completely plausible explanations. Those hundred men she killed on her own? It had taken her a week, and even then she’d gotten lucky with a rock slide taking out half the force. That snake bite? The poison didn’t get too far into her system before she had been treated. The Blood Eagle? Hadn’t been completed before an army attacked.
She may be a living, breathing, legend, but she was humble. That's why people flocked to her banner. Or perhaps it was because she was kind. The people in the village had been starving thanks to the previous Jarl’s greed, but now, they had rations, enough to last them through the winter. And with the promise of a good summer’s planting, the harvest should be more bountiful. Either way, in just a few short weeks, Brynhilda’s popularity was skyrocketing. Which surprised her, if her constant look of annoyance was anything to go by.
Alf listens to the conversations around him as was his task. Brynhilda needed to divine the moods of her people in order to be successful at ruling them. She needed eyes and ears everywhere. He knew Dorfi had also been given the job, but there had to be other men and women about. Two men couldn’t share the burden of ten. If Alf knew Brynhilda like he thought he did, and he was fairly confident in his assumptions despite knowing her for such a short period of time, he knew that she was keeping the other people that worked under her a secret. She was the only one that knew all the plans. Everyone else was kept in the dark in the event of a capture, or worse, a betrayal.
The most amusing talk was that of how animals reacted around her. She had two ravens, and wherever she went, they went. One was cheeky, always playing with her hair, her clothing. Always talking to her in its own birdish way. It was fond of mead, often drinking from Brynhilda's cup. The other raven was stoic. It either stood still on her shoulder, or the best place to watch over her. You got the feeling it was always watching over her. It too drank from her cup, but very sparingly. Mostly, it ate meat from her plate.
Pigs were excited by her presence, they followed her whenever she passed by a pen, what’s more, they obeyed her when she gave them an order. If she found any strangeness in that little fact, she told no one.
Alf looks up to try and find her, desiring her biting wit to end his boredom. She sat in a corner, a raven perched on either shoulder. She’s still, looking more a menacing statue than a young girl. He can clearly see the exhaustion on her face.
She woke up before dawn to the crowing of her ravens, trained relentlessly, ate like someone four times her size, then trained more. She ran through the forest, uncaring of the potential hazards, she hunted, bringing in the best kills and sharing it with her men. At night she learned all she could from men like Alf and Dorfi, medicine women, even the greenest soldiers she pestered with questions. She maintained that you could learn a great many things, so long as you thought to ask.
So yes, Brynhilda was wild, but she was kind, she could be brutal, but only if you pressed her. Mostly, she was curious, and infuriating. He thinks back to their previous conversation.
“You need to consider the dangers of attacking during winter.” Alf cautione. This had been an argument ongoing since the announcement of her plan. He knew she was pressed for time, but her plan was downright suicidal, “And you need to consider the advantages.” She argues. “Brynhilda, you want to keep your men, not freeze them.”
“Quick attacks,” she says, “on the two port cities. Here and here,” she points them out on the makeshift map. “We walk on the ice, attack from the harbor where they least expect it, when they least expect it. Just before dawn, when it's darkest. Everyone will be asleep, confused.”
“Alright,” Alf says, seeing she isn't going to be persuaded, “Suppose it works the first time around, do you honestly think it'll work the second time around?”
“I considered it,” she says, nodding, “We can split the army in two, attack at the same time.”
“Who can you trust to lead the second half of your army?” he couldn't think of anyone he'd trust, not even the men who watched her grow up. “You,” came the obvious reply. Alf has to register her confession for a while. “Me?” She nods. “You owe me for freeing you,” she points out, “that's why you hung around for so long.” Damn her, she read people too well. “Do this for me, and your debt is repaid.” Alf huffs, this was a bad idea, a very bad idea, but she did have a few good points. After a long while considering his options, he heaved a sigh, “Alright,” he says, “I'll do it.”
The Cliff of Cliffs had a cave system. As a child, Brynhilda had explored the systems to such an extent she still knew what paths lead to where. From the information she’d gathered, thanks to a recon mission gone very right, she knew that Boggvir’s men were situated right against the cliff, next to a crack that opened right in the middle of the camp.
She has a plan to sew some chaos into the camp, not much, just enough to put the men on edge. Brynhilda’s force is small, excluding herself, there were seven in total that followed her. Alf, Dorfi, and five of the bravest women in the whole camp. The men that would have volunteered to come had other jobs to do. She turns to her people, “Remember, you can take as much as you can carry, but destroy supplies. Keep as quiet as you can, for as long as you can. If you get caught, I won't be saving you.” Everyone nods in understanding. “Good, lets go.”
She sent other groups out that night that were going to help with creating chaos. One was setting up traps in the forest. In the early morning, they’d try to get a group of Boggvir’s men to follow them, and neutralize a small portion of the army. Another group was situated on top of the cliff, ready to fire arrows down at the enemy at a random time in the night. Yet another group was going to try and lead a small group of the enemy into a small skirmish to the south.
Brynhilda didn’t have the bulk Boggvir did, even now, at the height of her popularity. She had to resort to guerilla tactics for the next few hours in the hopes of weakening the enemy, tiring them out, depleting some of the massive army.
So many opportunities to go wrong...yet the reward was worth it.
Brynhilda leads her group through the caves with no problem, out the otherside with only the smallest of sounds. When she finally saw the last woman out of the cave, she hisses,“Find cover, quickly.” They do as told, following her behind a stack of food. She looks at them, “spread out, start destroying supplies. Food, weapons, shields. Throw things into the ravine, steal things, I don't care. Get going.” Everyone disperses at her orders. They had one hour to complete their tasks before the attacks began. Then, they either get caught in the fight, or they escape without a scratch.
For an entire hour, Brynhilda is on edge, anything could go wrong. Luck holds with her. She manages to find weapons just laying around the camp, just as she expected. It’s a pity that she has to give Boggvir this sorely needed reality check.
Her confidence is slowly returning. She can do this, they can do this. A soft caw from one of the crows that perpetually follows her tells her it's time to go. She rushed back to the hole in the cliff, seeing most of her group. “Where is Dorfi?” She asks. “We don't know,” Alf tells her, “lost I expect.” Brynhilda curses. “Go back to the camp, I'll find Dorfi.”
“What happened to you not saving us?” Alf says, smirking, “Clearly I lied.”
”I saw him go towards the edge of the camp, toward the log trap.” A woman tells her. “Thank you,” Brynhilda turns heading back towards the camp, stopping when her group moves with her. “Go back to the camp,”
“Not without you,” Alf says. “Look-” Brynhilda begins to argue, but Alf cuts her off, “Don't bother arguing. We aren't leaving without you.”
“Well, don't blame me when we're still stuck here when things go to shit.” Brynhilda mutters, moving herself and her group towards the edge of the camp. It occurs to her that Dorfi really might be working for Boggvir, thus leading her into a trap. She grips her sword tighter, she'd behead him if that were the case.
She doesn't have to wonder about it though, as she hears Dorfi's voice through a tent. “I don't know anything about Brynhilda.” he says defiantly. She smirks, she loves it when she's wrong. “Oh? She didn't send you here to curse us all?” Someone sneers. Their voice is gruff, someone she doesn't recognize. She motions of her people to surround the tent. “Do you really think Brynhilda is someone that believes in curses?”
“Yes.” There was an awkward pause, “Do you think Brynhilda is someone who would use curses?” Dorfi rephrased. “Look, we all know Brynhilda wants us dead,” she steps into the tent for dramatic effect, cutting off the man’s tirade. She’s angry when she sees Dorfi beaten and bloodied. For a moment, she has to wonder if he really kept her secrete despite the torture. “You're right, I want you dead,” she says. Before the man can even yell or draw his weapon, she runs him through with her sword, covering his mouth so he doesn't make much sound.
Dorfi looks at her, smiling. He gets off his knees and stumbles out of the tent. Sheathing her sword, she follows him, bringing out a dagger from its holster and cuts his restraints. “What happened to not coming to save our asses?” Dorfi asks, delighted. Brynhilda just pats his shoulder.
They were going to sneak back to the hole, but one of her ravens caw, loudly so everyone can hear it, a warning sign that her other plans are about to be set into motion. “Shit,” she mutters. Everyone readies their weapons, “There isnt enough time to escape,” Dorfi warns her, watching as people are now pouring from the tents, wondering why the fuck a raven is cawing in the middle of the night.
“Please tell me you disabled the trap.” Alf says. Dorfi snorts, “course I did!”
“Tight circle,” Brynhilda instructs, bringing her shield in front of her. They form a tight ring as shouts of intruders begin to go up, now alerted to their presence. Men surround them. “Brynhilda, I don't like this,” Alf mutters, “Oh really?” Brunhilda snaps, “What's not to like? We're trapped in the middle of an enemy camp, surrounded, with fucking no way out.”
“Someone's testy,” Alf mutters, “She needs a nap,” Dorfi explains, “she gets cranky without her beauty rest.”
“I hate you both.” She mutters, bracing herself for an attack. The dam of tension breaks as soon as a random enemy charges at her and hits her shield. Everyone begins to shout, fight, run. Its utter chaos.
Brynhilda wants to throw herself into the fight with wild abandon, her very being craves the blood shed, demands it, but she's divided. She has to get her people to safety. They have to survive. She defends them more than she fights.
The enemy, composed of men she's led in battle, are confused at the new tactic. She's a brute force fighter, she charges and her opponent dies. Now she's yelling coherent instructions, staying back and helping her people. It confuses the enemy, makes them hesitate.
Her new friends are just as adept at fighting as she is, a tall blond clears a path, striking so quickly anyone barely has time to react. Dorfi is clearly a distance fighter, throwing numerous little knives into the fray. The women dart in and out of small pockets of enemies, taking down two or three at a time. They work as a team and manage to get to the border, where fighting only grows heavier.
The group Brynhilda sent out that was supposed to charge the side of the camp she’s headed towards is doing its job beautifully. The shock of the trap working had given them the advantage, confusion was sown, everyone was divided. “Retreat!” She yells, her voice is heard clearly over the battle. A horn is sounded and her men begin to fall back. Brynhilda stays until she is sure the last man has gone. She is about to join them when the enemy crowd parts, and she sees Boggvir.
Her heart aches. A sick part of her wants to forgive him, to run into his arms and take comfort in his presence, most of her just wants to snap his neck then and there. He looks older than she remembered, he looks...terrified. “Enjoy your final moments,” Brynhilda calls to him, bowing, “Boggvir, King of Traitors” with that, she turns and runs.
*
Her camp is riotous when she gets back. Through snippets of excited congratulations, she finds that all men have made it back alive with no more than a few bumps and bruises. Someone had the wherewithal to break out the celebration food. She notes there wasn't a mead cup in sight, good, mead was after the battle was definitely won. “To Brynhilda the Deathless!” One of her men yells. The cheer goes up, her name reaching the heavens. She laughs as someone picks her up on their shoulders, it's hard not to get caught up in the celebration. “To my warriors!” She says, throwing a fist in the air. This elicits an even bigger cheer.
When she is put down, Alf approaches her, pulling her off to the side. “Sven tells me there's something that requires your full attention.” She follows him through the camp.
They come upon her tent, small and unassuming, except for the large boar stitched into the side. A group of men surround something, the air is charged, as she approaches, they part for her so she can see what it is they’ve captured. The Volva that started this mess. She's not so pretty now, covered in dirt, hair wild, half starved. “What did you do to her?” Brynhilda mutters, feeling bad for the woman...only slightly. She glares at the men in turn.
“Your men have done nothing,” the witch says, looking Brynhilda in the eyes, “they were perfectly behaved.”
“Leave,” Brynhilda tells them. “Jarl-” Sven, who’d been among the group, begins to argue, but at Brynhilda's look he stops. They all leave.
Brynhilda picks the witch up, and throws her into the tent, nearly gagging at the smell of her. “Are you cold?” Brynhilda asks, not bothering to wait for the answer. She throws a blanket around the woman.
“Enough with the niceties. I know nothing of Boggvir's plan. He cast me aside the moment he got word you lived.” Brynhilda had trouble keeping the smirk from her face. “A wise queen told me once that women seldom have choices in life. We must take what we’re given and deal with it, ours is a most tragic lot.” The volva merely grunts. “She was loved, hated, and killed because she was a witch.”
“What's your point?”
“My point is, right now, you have a choice to make.”
“I told you I know nothing of Boggvir's plans,” Brynhilda ignores her, “become mine, work for me, and live under my protection,”
“Be a slave? Ha! I'd rather die,” Brynhilda nods, pulling out a dagger. “Very well,” she gets up and grabs a fistfull of dirty hair, pulling the volva's head back. Before she can even put the blade to her neck, the witch changes her mind. “I'll do it! I'll work for you! Don't kill me please!” Brynhilda lets her go. Smiling, she puts the dagger down, “I'll send someone to come clean you up.”
