So, I am doing a crazy thing and writing an arranged marriage Erik x OFC spin-off from my Aldflaed canon divergent fic. I don't know why it's happening but I also can't stop it so here we go. When I have more to share I will start posting to AO3 but for now have a sneak peak.
Tagging my Erik buddies/bad influences @wildwren and @naps4bats <3
Erik enters the room cautiously, feeling he ought to scan for enemies the way he would on the battlefield. But there are no enemies in sight, just a collection of half-spent candles illuminating a bed, and on it Eadwyn. His wife.
She sits before him still dressed in her gown and veil, her arms crossed over her chest.
“I hope the homestead is to your liking, Lady.” He attempts to keep his voice bright. Perhaps her demeanor will warm now that they’re alone.
“It will suit,” she replies dryly, and Erik realizes if anything she’s colder to him now than she had been at the feast.
“Perhaps tomorrow we should walk over the land together,” he offers, slinging his thumbs in his belt. He’s standing nearer the door than the bed, waiting for a signal from her to make his approach.
His brother had tried to impart a particular type of wisdom on him yesterday, which Erik is of course remembering. Sigefrid had warned he should assert himself on the wedding night, make it known he was her master. But Sigefrid was a fool. Erik had known that before, and even if he was inclined to take the advice (which he was not), he was sure it would not serve him well with Eadwyn. He would not be surprised to learn she kept a knife on her person.
"Do you intend to farm, Lord?” she asks, a flicker of curiosity crossing her face.
“I intend to help…we Danes are capable of more than killing, you know.” Erik forces a laugh; Eadwyn remains unimpressed. “We conquer so that we might build and grow.”
“And is that what you intend to do to me?” she asks, one eyebrow raised severely. “Conquer so that you might seed me?”
Erik feels the heat rise in his face—an unfamiliar sensation to him. This small Saxon woman has a blunt way of speaking. “Not conquer, Lady.”
“How strange,” she replies, uncrossing her arms and leaning back on the heels of her hands. “I was warned I’d find you a domineering pagan master.”
“And I was promised a docile Saxon wife,” Erik replies without thinking. “We were both mistaken.”
He ought to have bitten his tongue, but rather than scowl a flicker of amusement crosses her face. Erik sighs a breath of relief that he has not offended further and promptly wonders when he will have the luxury to rest easy in her presence.
Eadwyn smoothes a hand over the bed beside her. “You will not join me, Lord?” Her mouth has softened into a near-smile but her eyes remain vigilant, like a lookout posted on the bow of a ship, scanning the horizon for advantage or danger.
A strand of her hair has escaped the confines of her veil and he’s tempted to brush it back from her face. She notices the stray lock as he does and sighs, then unpins the fabric from her head and removes it, folding it over itself until it is a small square which she sets aside.
The color of her hair is ruddy brown. He remembers it well, he has not seen another woman with quite that color hair since they met. It had appeared brighter at first, now, in the dim light of evening, it looks dark and rich like burnished leather.
“You stare, Lord.” She is not ashamed. She stares back.
Erik shrugs. “You are beautiful.”
She laughs softly—a strange response, but he enjoys the way her head tilts back and her eyes crinkle in the corners. “I am not frightened of you, you know.”
“I can see that. I am glad of it.” And he was. He had no desire for a trembling maiden.
“I have laid with a man before,” Eadwyn continues, gauging his reaction closely.
“And I with women,” he replies with a shrug. “It is only natural. We are not children.”
She appears pleased at his reaction but carries on. “I was betrothed to him.”
“I had not been told this,” Erik frowns. Divided loyalties might prove an obstacle. “You did not marry?”
“He died,” Eadwyn says simply. “You need not fear I will be unfaithful.”
Her face has gone hard again, but Erik can see it’s meant to mask her discomfort. “I am sorry for that loss.”
“You must have had similar experiences,” Eadwyn says evenly. “As you say, we are not children.”
Erik thinks of Inge. It has been a long time since he allowed himself to think of her.
“We should not talk further of sadness,” Eadwyn says with an air of practicality.
Erik watches as she runs her hand down the front of her dress, then catches his eye.
“I can summon my ladies to help me unless you’d rather…” She’s gesturing to the silver brooch that holds her woolen gown at the shoulder. If he had to guess, Erik would say she was quite capable of removing it herself. Perhaps this was a test, then. He did not know for what.
The pin slides out quite easily, allowing the heavy fabric to fall away and reveal the linen garment beneath. She turns so that he can access the other shoulder, sweeping her hair behind her as she does. He removes the second brooch.
He thinks to kiss her, but something in her expression gives him pause. She’s drawn her brows together slightly, and if he didn’t know better he’d think she was going to cry. But then her face clears and she turns towards him.
“We can rest,” he offers. “You must be tired from the journey.”
She narrows her eyes again. Perhaps she suspects he will accuse her of not maintaining her end of the bargain, attempt to have the marriage annulled. That would be reckless, but she may think him so reckless.
“I am prepared to do my duty, same as you, Lord.”
“Will you not call me Erik?” he teases gently.
“If you’d like. I am prepared to do my duty, Erik.” His name drops from her lips like an insult, which he finds more amusing than he should.
“May I call you Eadwyn?” he asks, ghosting his thumb down her arm.
“It is my name.” Her tone is more curt than courteous.
Erik begins to wonder if he has ever possessed charm, or if his wife merely remains unsusceptible. But then she kisses him, and if it is merely to initiate the inevitable he cannot tell.
