Perthro 1
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this may include potentially triggering topics and dark elements. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: Harald Finehair
Summary: a king arrives to rule over your fate.
For @alicedopey
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
You plunge your hands into the cold water. You feel the winter coming through the depths. The coursing ripples stir around your wrists as you dip and wring out the thick wool. You stop to sniff it. It still smells of that damned wolf. That creature who sneaks in to sleep in your loft.
Bodil trills with laughter at Helga as they scrub at their embroidered aprons. They are young and are easily amused by needlework. They will be too wrapped in layers come the first snow to be so vain.
A rustle tickles your ear. You turn your head but do not look over your shoulder. As Gudrun joins the rabble of gossip and laughter, you hush the younger women. They do not bide you, though they should.
You are older. A widow of a warrior. Those maidens have not yet wed. They know nothing but cook pots and needles.
“Meyla,” you hiss. “Listen.”
They do not but you hear it. You leave the wool in the river and reach for your basket. You grab the knife hidden beneath the woven sheep’s coat. The friction of metal on leather keeps you from drawing.
“Tah, tah, leave it.” The gritty voice warns. It silences the girls as they gasp and jump into a flutter. Only Inga does not cry out. She is frozen as she sits on her knees on the other side of your basket. “Ours is bigger.”
A man emerges from the thorny brush as you turn. You keep your hand in the basket. You pull out the blade slowly. He follows the movement with the tip of his sword. You throw the knife into the dirt.
“Wise,” he praises and steps forward. He kicks it away. He whistles.
Another man appears. Taller, thicker than the other. His hair is pulled back into a long braid and his beard is thick across his jaw, his cheeks tattooed in blue ink.
“Some of your men were not so,” the second man declares. “We mean no harm to women.”
You scoff. His blue eyes meet yours. His cheek twitches.
“To your feet. All of you.” He signals the other man.
You look at the other girls and tilt your head. There are worse things for women than death. But these are girls. Not the bravest either. No, those were the ones you were young with and they are all but gone now.
You stand first. The girls follow suit. The thinner man steps toward Inga as she remains in the dirt.
“No,” you block him with your arm. You turn and bend over Inga. You whisper in her ear. “Get up or those men will make you.”
She whimpers. You touch her shoulder. “I am here. I will protect you.”
You will try. You look at the knife, far across the river’s edge. You must keep steady as fear is a deadly disease.
As you help Inga to her feet, the taller man watches. His gaze meets yours again. You stare back dully. You know what men look for. A reaction.
“The elder first.” He bids.
The other man nears you. You bristle. He signals you to turn as he takes a length of rope from his back. He pulls your wrists behind you and binds them.
He trails the rope to Inga and ties her too; he does each girl behind you in a long train so you are bound together like a snake. You clutch your fists, testing the rope. It chafes your skin.
The thin man tugs. You stumble and the girls do the same. Inga knocks into your back. You are led around like a tamed ox.
“Fair maidens, no need for tears,” the other man taunts as you pass. “We only hope not to lose any of you.” He grips the pommel of his sword. “And to protect you from the beasts.”
You are led through the brush. The peat is hard beneath your leather soles. The winter creeps through the dirt and seeps into your heels. That man clucks as he nears the thinner one. He takes the rope from him and the other goes to the rear.
“Your daughters?” He asks.
You raise your chin. He snorts.
“Whether they are and aren’t, I hardly care.” He drawls. “They don’t really look like you though I suppose their father may have strong blood.”
You ignore him and keep walking. He chuckles. You curl your lip as he tugs your sleeve down your arm.
“Don’t touch me,” you growl.
“Would you rather I touch the lambs?” He peers back.
You stop and Inga collides with you. You turn, tugging her behind you.
“If you wish your fingers spat into the dirt,” you threaten.
He smirks. “Hm… perhaps they aren’t yours by bearing but you claim them.” He inhales and lets it out heavily. “I will keep my fingers. For this time.”
The two men herd you through the forest and past the crooked oak split in two by a lightning strike ages ago. They know where your settlement is as they lead you straight to it. There are other men like them milling around. As the man beside you passes, they stop and bow their heads.
Gorm is bloodied by the pen of goats. He leads the raids though the men of this village have not ventured far in years. Not since they returned with only Gorm and his three stragglers. They’d set out with ten times as man; including your husband. The boys are not yet old enough or trained.
“Now, good man,” the tall man gets down to Gorm’s level, “we have been fair. You are alive. As are all your people. We do not seek to oppress. I only need you to declare fealty to me.”
Gorm groans. He single eye rolling.
“I am a generous king and I am equally as clever. I see women, girls, and boys. Many thus. But not so many men.”
Gorm spits. The man does not flinch.
“If I wanted to ravage this place, I would. Not that I need lambs and chickens.” The invader tuts. “Your weapons are rusted, your holds are almost barren. Your maidens have no husbands.”
Gorm coughs as the man pats his shoulder. The tall man stands. He gestures to another who diligently approaches.
“Take him. Clean him. Feed him.” He commands. “Free the maidens so that they may see their families are well.”
The rope yanks then slackens. You wait patiently as each girl is unbound. They scatter to find their homes. As your wrists are unwrapped, the tall man turns to you.
“Widow, you will come with me.” He declares.
You tweak your brow. How could he know? You don’t say a word. You follow him as Gorm is carried away.
He leads you to the temple. Anders, the priest, is without, speaking with one of the strange men. You enter. Tapers of animal fat melt beneath lit wicks as the light flickers against the walls. It is empty.
He goes to the altar. He looks down on the runes carved in onyx. You stay by the door.
“I am correct. You are a widow.” He says.
“Many are. If not, they will be.”
He hums. “You are not a mother.”
You wince. Once it was a hope. That died too.
“I keep myself.” You assure him.
He dips his head and stands in silence. You linger in it. He reminds you of the wolf. No matter how many times you chase it out, it returns. Though not once has it set its fangs upon you. It sleeps in the straw and goes. Though it will steal a strip of rabbit on his way.
He takes a rune off the altar and turns on his heel. He struts up to you and takes your hand. He presses the stone into your hand. You look him in the eye as he squeezes your fingers around it.
“I will find you, as I already have. And should you look for me, you will ask for Harald Finehair.” He lets you go. “Off you are. I’ve much to attend to, drottning.”
You hesitate. Has he misspoken?
You look down at the rune in your hand. Perthro; fate. You turn and leave the strange man with the long braid. As you step out, Anders remains as he was, against the temple wall. You hand him the rune. He grimaces in confusion. He doesn’t stop you and you’re glad for it, for if he asked you, you could not answer his questions.
You do not know what will come next.
