What does it mean to be a good christian? Why does god punish women for things men are praised for? Helga had never really understood. But she strived to be a good woman every day. Lay with her husband when he demanded it. She tried her hardest not to talk back when they had a disagreement and quietly took it when he laid his hands on her in a more physically hurtful way than he did in the privacy of their bedroom. Brigham was a well respected man among men, which is why when he had asked her father for Helga’s hand in marriage two years ago, there had been no doubt within her fathers mind. He was promised gold and land. There was no reason for him to refuse. There was no one she was more scared of than her own husband. When the northmen came, she felt no fear, they could do no more than he did, no more than send her to heaven if that was what they desired. But with each attack, god had kept her safe. Their home had been overlooked each time. Perhaps it was her feverish prayers. Or perhaps god didn’t want her spouse to be hurt. Who also stayed seeking the protection of their small home. Helga knew he was a coward. Thankfully, by day, Brigham was often gone. And as long as their home was tidy and clean, and dinner was ready when he barged through the door. She was free to go wherever she wanted, as long as she was not seen. In the forest, in all much needed secrecy, Helga kept a small garden of herbs. Some simply used for cooking, some to ease her pain or ease an infection when she had been hurt particularly bad. Others, she put in Brigham’s Dinner or breakfast. To keep him calm. To protect herself. Her mother had taught her these things when she was little. They grew amazingly well due to the way Helga lovingly tended to them. She had a talent for it. Every other day, she was able to pick a fresh batch. The dresses Helga sewed for herself, were in deep greens for the summer. Reddish browns for Autumn, and so on. To keep her hidden more easily when she made her way to her beloved patch of herbs. The one thing she truly had to herself. The weather had been awful for a few days, thunderstorms and hail. It went well with the rumors of another attack of the northmen, which they had been able to ward off this time. But there was fear that they would soon come again. As soon as the words reached Helga’s ears, no matter how bad the weather. She decided she needed to tend to her garden. Just to be sure. The rain should have helped them grow tall. It was time to harvest. Helga was always careful with her steps, and always on watch. If she would be caught it could very well mean the end. Knowledge in women, especially of lower birth, was seen as a threat to the church and to men. Today not much was diffrent about the journey, except for Helga being able to notice the signs of a fight. Not too far from her little patch. She just hoped it wouldn’t have been trampled. But the thought that it was well hidden, eased her mind. When Helga pushed a few bushes and branches away to reach the tiny clearing, it wasn’t exactly ruined, nor trampled. There was one thing diffrent. Far beyond something she could have thought up to fear. There was a man, a giant, laying on the soft starry moss she was growing. Multiple bolts from crossbows protruding from his back. Helga stayed still, and inspected him from a few feet away. To see if he was breathing. Moving. It was obvious, he was not a saxon man, he was not from here. He was one of the northmen. With his strange hair and clothes. Dressed for a fight, dressed for war. But he laid still. He had clearly lost a lot of blood on top of her beloved moss, but she couldn’t tell if it was fresh from a distance. When she couldn’t see him breathe, she felt safe enough to move closer and take a better look. With the slim chance that he was alive, he would be too weak to overpower her. He wore some kind of paint on his face. It was mixed with blood and faded, but clear enough to still be noticed. She felt like a child seeing it’s first dead animal, it was a similar type of facination. As she studied his face, for a second, she could have sworn a muscle in his face moved. It might have been her imagination though. The fight must have been days ago. But just to be sure, she kept looking. Holding her hand besides his face, not wanting to touch him. But curious enough to see if she could feel his breath on her hand.
