Pairing: Uhtred Ragnarsson/of Bebbanburg X fem!Reader
Summary: You offer to shave your husband, Uhtred’s beard one spring morning.
Warnings: Established relationship, kissing, Uhtred being handsy and mentions of Uhtred being shirtless.
Word Count: 1K
a/n: i’ve been a bit busy with school recently so here’s something short and sweet :). also, i’ve never written for uhtred before so i apologize if this is a bit ooc lol.
read on ao3
the gif below does not belong to me
Spring had started not too long ago and you had just started to notice how long Uhtred’s beard had really become over the last two months as winter slowly came to a close this year, it was almost longer than Ragnar’s was.
At this point, you could tell that it was starting to get in his way. There would often be bits of his dinner in it that he never noticed whenever he would sweetly kiss you goodnight. Which, truthfully, grossed you out a little but you always kissed him back anyway, never wanting to withhold affection from your husband’s life.
One morning as he sat in front of the vanity he had built for you a few months prior, combing his hair as his soft skin glistened in the sunlight and he got ready for the day, his upper body still bare and lacking a shirt, you appeared behind him and placed your hands on his broad shoulders. You gently stroked the warm skin there and pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head, encouraging him to gently grab your wrist and guide you to his lap.
As soon as you sat down and got comfortable there, Uhtred set the comb down and placed one of his large hands on your waist while the other held your right arm out to the side. Your heart beat sped up as you watched him trail kisses from the back of your hand up to your forearm, making heat flood your cheeks as butterflies flew around your stomach.
You then pressed a light kiss to his lips and giggled a little at the feeling of his beard brushing up against your lips. Uhtred ignored this and soon deepened the kiss as he held your face in his hands like he was trying to wordlessly convey every bit of love he has for you until your giggling resumed that is, prompting him to pull away as his hands reclaimed their beloved spot on your waist.
He raised one of his eyebrows in your direction, “What is so funny?” he asked as he looked at you with a confused look in his blue eyes.
“It is nothing, your beard just tickled me.” you explained while a soft smile rolled out across your lips, making him brightly smile at you as he started to brush his beard all over your face again and again, causing your laughter to become louder.
“Stop it, Uhtred! That tickles!” you exclaimed a few times in between laughs as you tried your best to get away from his beard even though he was holding you in place.
“Gods, you drive me crazy, woman. I’m so in love with you.” he said through gritted teeth as he finally stopped and he held you in his arms like you were something he would go to the ends of the earth to protect, which he always would, making goosebumps appear all over your skin.
You smiled once more as you wrapped your arms around the back of his neck and gently threaded your fingers through his long hair, “Speaking of your beard, now that it is too warm to have one, could I shave it off for you?” you asked him, earning another smile as a look of love filled his eyes. Gods, he was whipped for you.
“Of course, whatever you want.” he lovingly answered before he then placed a hand on your back to keep you on his lap while he retrieved the knife he used to shave his face and a bar of soap from the vanity and handed them to you.
You briefly set them down in your own lap and quickly turned around in his lap to grab the water pitcher from the vanity, pour the water into the cup next to it and wet the bar of soap. Once it was fully wet seconds later, you turned back around to face Uhtred, covered your hands in the soap, rubbed it into his beard and wiped your hands off on your nightgown, it needed to be washed soon anyway.
You took the knife from your lap and started to carefully shave Uhtred’s face like you had seen him do many times before, ignoring the way the bits of hair tickled your arms as they floated down from his face to your lap. As you did this, his eyes never left your face, even for a second. He just silently watched you as you removed each bit of hair from his face with such care that made him feel like he was floating.
“Why are you staring at me?” you asked as you continued to shave his face, a look of total concentration in your eyes.
He was truly in awe of you, he never thought he would ever be worthy of a woman like you, “You are so beautiful, my beloved. You have no idea.” he said as he continued to stare at you like he couldn’t believe that you were real and that you were his.
“Considering the way you stare at me every single day of our lives, Uhtred, I think I do.” you told him as you smirked, making his cheeks blush while you tried to ignore how easily he had made those pesky goosebumps reappear.
You then smiled at him again and pressed a kiss to his now clean-shaven cheek a few minutes later, “All done.” you simply told him, feeling a little reluctant to get out of his lap, as usual.
You then placed your supplies back on the vanity behind you and rose from Uhtred’s lap, much to his dismay, to brush his hair off of your dress and into the waste container in the corner of your room.
Uhtred swiftly appeared behind you this time once you finished this task and spun you around by your shoulders so that you were facing him once more, bent down and pressed a soft kiss to your lips as he started to hold your face in his calloused but comforting hands again.
“Thank you, my love. I love you.” he said as he gingerly pressed his forehead to yours and closed his eyes for a moment.
“I love you more, handsome.” you replied as Uhtred’s eyes opened and flickered back to yours, his cheeks now a light pink yet again.
Authors note: based on this request and it's my first time writing for Uhtred. It turned out a bit serious 😅 but I like it. Set in S3 after Uhtred reaches Dunholm.
Warnings: SMUT 18+, p in v, hair pulling, destiny talk – hey, it's Uhtred, it just had to be, a bit of angst (you know I can't without it)
Word Count: 2,9 K
Summary: reader is a seer who has known Uhtred since he was a kid. As he seeks refuge in Dunholm by his brother Ragnar their paths cross again, stirring memories and almost forgotten passion.
You know it’s him.
You know it long before the old door even thinks of moving, before the hinges cough and creak in protest, before knuckles meet the splintered wood, before the dull, muffled thud of boots on the tired boards of your porch. You know it as surely as you know that there will be rain tomorrow, that spring will come early this year, and that there is going to be a war.
The superstitious Saxons call it witchcraft as they mutter useless prayers under their breath and draw shaky little crosses over their chests with cracked, dirty fingers in the futile hope that crooked symbol could protect them from the simple truth of their own ignorance. Fools.
They don’t understand that there are patterns in everything, in the way the crows circle over the fields, in every crimson shade of the sun, as it dips behind the horizon, in the silent song of the wind, as it caresses the treetops, even in the rhythm of the distant hooves on damp earth and in the exact heartbeat of silence before a blade pierces skin. You just have to know where to look. You just have to listen.
The world is a web of threads, invisible but unbreakable, and you can feel them humming, tightening, pulling. You see them as clearly as the delicate patterns stitched on your linen shirt.
Your fate is tangled with that of the small Saxon boy who was foolish, or brave enough, or maybe even both, to lift his too heavy sword against your lord. You still remember the look in his eyes, so wild, so bright and so convinced for a single impossible moment that he could change the world.
You raise your head as you meet them – still wild, still bright, the same stormy blue of the sky after rain, just tired, so very tired. It is not the easy and content tiredness of a long day’s work, but the deep, dragging weariness of someone who still attempts to change the world, fails, but somehow never stops trying.
Uhtred stands in your doorway as if he’s not sure he’s allowed to come any closer.
“You’re late,” you say, because it’s easier than saying, “you survived”, and somewhere in between you really weren’t sure he would. The witch is powerful, his stubbornness even more so. You bought him a respite, but the final battle is still his to fight.
“I knew it was you,” he says and takes a step closer. “Even before Brida told me who gave her that Nithstang.”
His feet shuffle against the floor as he inches nearer, the sound is soft, not the heavy stump of a warrior claiming the territory, but a hesitant, almost apologetic drag of leather on old wood like he’s testing the ground, asking permission.
“Are you still angry with me?” he asks as he drops to his knees beside you.
You don’t answer. Instead you raise your hand and reach for him. Your palm cradles his cheek just like before, just like a whole lifetime ago when the world was smaller and dreams bigger, and you both still believed you could bend fate with your bare hands.
He closes his eyes as he leans in and nuzzles against it. His hand comes up, big and calloused, and covers yours, pressing it harder to his skin as if he’s afraid you might pull away.
“Do it,” he whispers and leans in a fraction more. Slowly, he bows his head, his arms slide around your waist, cautious at first, then firmer when you don’t push him away, until his forehead rests heavily in your lap. The weight of him is solid and real, and you run your fingers through the unruly strands of his long hair, so thick, coarse near the roots, softer at the ends, still slightly damp from the weather outside.
“Uhtred, you’re not a boy anymore,” you smile as you watch the big, sturdy warrior curl against you like a lazy barn cat, seeking warmth, eyes closed and shoulders unclenching.
“Sometimes I wish I still were,” he murmurs into the fabric of your skirt. “Sometimes I wish we were still there, in the woods behind the house, with the fire burning bright and sparks dancing up in the sky as you threw another bunch of herbs in it. I can still remember the smell of them, you know?”
He sighs, and for a moment you can smell them too: the soft sweetness of marigolds, a pinch of bitterness from wormwood, the sharp green bite of crushed nettle curling at the back of your throat.
“Please,” he says, and it sounds so raw and unguarded. His arms tighten around your waist, his head still resting in your lap. “Do it.”
“Do what?” your hand skims lightly over his thick mane. You love the feeling of it, the way it flows through your fingers.
“Pull my hair,” he rasps. “Just like you used to.”
“You know you can’t turn back time,” you murmur, still, your fingers sink deeper into his thick, unbraided hair, tangling in the slightly damp strands and you feel his breath stutter as your grip slightly tightens.
“I don’t want time back,” he says, shifting his head slightly in your lap. “I just want to feel it.”
“Feel what?”
“That I’m still alive.”
You curl your fingers, and he goes very still, and for one brief heartbeat you can almost see him as he was, back then at the fire in the woods, breath warm and fast against your throat, strangled moans rolling over his lips as he thrusts into you, you back arching and fingers tangling in his hair as you pull him closer for a messy kiss.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispers at last, the words leave him so quiet you feel them more than hear them.
“I’ve missed you too,” you answer, because anything else would be a lie.
You release your grip, he exhales, your hand tightens again for a beat and then you pull hard, harder than you meant to or maybe not. You want him to feel it too. The pain of being left behind.
The groan that escapes him is loud and unrestrained, relief mixed with something else, something dark and full of longing, and his fingers bunch in the fabric of your clothes.
“Harder,” he rasps and his voice sounds wrecked and crumbling, and it hits you how few must be people he would ever dare to sound like this in front of.
You oblige, your fist tightens again in his hair and you give another sharp tug, feeling the warm shudder that rolls through him, the way his breath comes out in a ragged rush against your stomach, and when he finally looks up at you, his eyes are hooded and dark, so dark you almost can’t see the stormy blue anymore.
You don’t think. You just let it happen. His lips are still chapped from the wind and cold, the edges dry enough to scrape. You don’t care. You pull him closer. He kisses you like your lips could grant him absolution.
His hands move as if they don’t know where to rest, hovering, brushing, retreating, then coming back again, fingertips skimming your waist, your hip.
Clothes hit the floor in a chaotic rush and the next thing you feel is the soft tickle of furs against your bare back, the crowding warmth of skin and muscle, the hot, slightly panting breath in the crook of your neck and the hard, urgent press of him against your core.
Two dark, stormy eyes look down at you as you guide him, thick and pulsing, inside you. The moan he’s unable to suppress is like music to your ears and you arch your back to take him deeper.
His hands find yours and your fingers intertwine as he pins your arms above your head. His first thrust is sharp and claiming, as he pulls back and then sheathes himself to the hilt within you, and the moan that tears through you is filthy and raw. Gods, you have almost forgotten how good he feels inside you.
“Uhtred…” you moan as he picks up his pace, he groans and his hands guide yours back to his hair.
You pull, putting all your strength in that motion, tilting his head, drawing him closer and you feel it all, the stutter of his breath, the involuntary arch of his back, the way his fingers spasm on your waist, the low sound caught somewhere between a growl and a moan. His hips keep moving, pounding into you.
You get the way his shoulders shake, the way he leans into the pain instead of away from it, as if every pull on his hair drags something heavy up and out of him. You tighten your grip once more, not harshly, but enough to make him gasp. His cock twitches deep inside you as he groans and fucks you harder, deeper, almost desperate.
"More," he rasps against your mouth and, you yank harder, exposing the column of his throat, as you lean up and sink your teeth into the sensitive skin there.
His thrusts turn urgent, each one slamming home with a force that makes your toes curl into the furs. His hand slips between you, and his thumb finds your perl, circling it with rough, insistent pressure that makes your vision blur and your jaw slack. Your head snaps back and your panting breath mingles with your moans as you buck your hips against him, chasing the delicious friction.
He shudders, the tension in him flaring, then ebbing, like a wave breaking and sliding back, his forehead drops to yours, skin damp, breath ragged and hot.
“Don’t let me go,” he whispers, so quietly you might have missed it if you weren’t already attuned to every tremor in him.
You tighten your arm around his shoulders, your other hand still resting in his hair. He just moans, thrusting his cock as deep as he can, and then he comes with a choked groan, his cock pulsing inside you, and you are falling with him.
He collapses against you, forehead pressed to yours, breaths coming in harsh pants that match your own and you pull him tighter against you. You don’t let him go. At least not yet.
Neither of you speak. He doesn’t ask what it means. You don’t try to name it. Names are for neat things, this has never been neat.
It’s tangled. It’s a knot of old promises and new wants, it’s anger and pain, and unfulfilled dreams. It’s longing and forgiveness, fear and hunger, and trust.
Is it love? You’re not sure about it. It’s the kind of thing that doesn’t fit into a single word.
He shifts first, not away, but in, deeper, closer as if trying to crawl beneath your skin. You feel him moving inside you.
His nose bumps clumsily against your cheek as he buries his face against you, until he finds the crook of your neck and hides himself there.
“Don’t,” he murmurs against you, the word more breath than voice. “Don’t… move. Not yet.”
You don’t, and for a moment he goes very still, like a man who has finally found the exact place he was looking for.
Your fingers stay in his hair and your other hand at the back of his neck, thumb resting over the steady thump of his pulse. You feel as it gradually slows under your touch, from a wild gallop into something that could almost be called calm, if Uhtred were ever truly calm.
You don’t tell him he’s heavy. You don’t tell him he’s too warm. You lie there and hold him like this is the most natural thing in the world, like he’s yours. Because at this very moment he is.
His thumb shifts against your waist, it’s just a small, unconscious movement, but you’re suddenly aware of how large his hand is, how easily it could hurt you, and how it trembles slightly against you.
“This time I’m staying,” he says, voice muffled against you. “I’m a Dane now, you know. A Dane for life.” He nuzzles in gently as he says it.
You shift together, he settles his weight along your side, half on you, half beside you, and you adjust your grip, cradling him more securely against you. Your fingers keep moving in his hair, slower now, as your fingertips soothe the places you pulled and twisted before.
You could lie. You could pretend, if even for this one night. You want to. The words are right there, easy and tempting.
You can’t.
“No,” you say softly. “You’re not.”
His head lifts, and you see the protest forming in the way his body tenses. It’s useless. You stop it with your thumb against his mouth.
“You won’t be staying,” you say. It’s not an accusation, just a fact. You state it the same as if you were saying that the sun will rise tomorrow.
“I thought you of all people would understand me,” he says, and there’s a rough edge in his voice, something very close to a hurt.
“Uhtred,” you answer, his name half plea, half warning, as it has always been. “I do understand you, probably even more than you do yourself, and that’s why I know.” Your voice drops to a whisper. “I think we both know it.”
His hold around you tightens as if he braces himself for the world to try to pry you out of his arms at any moment and he’s not willing to give it any advantage.
“Then why… why did you…why are we…” his voice frays off at the end, as if the rest is too dangerous to name it.
“It was my choice,” you say.
A breath and then you continue: “It seems we’re both very good at surviving poor choices.”
A corner of his mouth lifts at that, but never turns into a real smile. “Is that what this is to you?” he asks. “A poor choice?”
You hesitate. Yes, but also the only choice you were ever going to make.
“It’s a choice,” you answer instead. “And I stopped asking fate’s or gods’ permission a long time ago.”
He studies you, his gaze moving over your face like he’s looking for a crack in what you’ve just said but whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t find it. Something like relief flickers behind his eyes, chased almost immediately by guilt.
He has always lived in that narrow space between staying and leaving, between wanting and letting go, and you will always remember him like this – as the boy who once believed he could have everything, and the man who’s learned what it costs.
“Tell me then, who I am?” he says suddenly.
The earnestness in his voice catches you off guard, but you don’t have to look for the answer.
“You’re Uhtred,” you say.
“Just Uhtred,” he repeats with a chuckle.
“You say it like that’s nothing,” you chide softly, “but it’s not.”
His fingers, idly drawing lines and circles on your hip, go still. “What is it, then?” he asks, too quiet, like he’s afraid of the answer.
You could tell him. You could tell him all the things you’ve seen: the boy who stood shaking before a Danish warlord and did not run, the man who still leans into your hand when the world gets too loud, the stubborn fool who keeps trying to change a world that keeps trying to kill him for it. But that’s not the point.
Instead, you say, “It’s you. And it’s enough.”
He closes his eyes, and a deep sigh rumbles through him. You hope it's a relief. You hope he believes you. More importantly, you hope he finally believes himself.
“Can I stay?” he asks, and there is no warrior, no lord in the question, only Uhtred. “Just until the fire dies.”
“As long as the coals glow,” you say. “Then you go back to your path. To your oath. To your fate.” You pause, then add, “But most importantly to your choices.”
“My choices?” he repeats and the quiet wonder in his voice is hard to miss.
“Yes,” you say. “The good ones or the poor ones, but yours. It’s you, Uhtred of Bebbanburg, half Saxon and half Dane, who has to choose his destiny.”
You keep your hand in his hair, stroking slow, thoughtless patterns through the thick strands. His breathing evens out further, until each inhale and exhale is deep, heavy and threaded with the kind of peace that only comes when a body finally decides, if even briefly, that it is safe.
You just listen.
You listen to the fire, crackling in the hearth, to the rain outside, tapping against the roof, and to Uhtred’s heart, steady against your ribs.
You let your eyes fall close for a moment and allow yourself to drift into that small, forbidden dream that you actually thought banished. It’s the one where there are other nights like this, nights where you fall asleep exactly like this with his weight pinning you pleasantly to the bed and wake with your legs tangled, nights that are not stolen from the edge of war.
You curl your fingers once more, gently this time, just a small, grounding tug, and you feel him breathe out, a long, shuddering sigh that sounds very much like surrender.
You stay awake a little longer as you count every rise and fall of his chest.
You’re still holding him in your arms.
No, you’re not holding him back, you’re holding him long enough for him to understand he can leave and still be whole. And he can return. It’s his choice. You’re not really letting him go.
Warnings: named/minimally described oc, mute!oc, miss girl is Traumatized and dealing with that, some fear and weapons, described deaths in Visions, mentioned vomiting/panic attack, Beocca and the Pretty Boys bicker, Christian entitlement, semi empty threats. And my dear Sihtric girlies... it's gonna get worse before it gets better but I promise I'll be nicer to him soon 🤭
Word count: 3.7k
Author's Note: I accidentally lied when I said Skade would be in ch 3 soooo she'll be in the next one. But taglist is open, this is cross posted on ao3, beta read by @witchoftheewilds and dividers by @zaldritzosrose here
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“Finan, what does this,” Osferth asked, making a motion with his hands, “mean again?”
“Baby monk, you don’t need to be learning this too, it’s for Røskva,” Finan laughed, turning his attention toward her where she sat on Sihtric’s horse. “Do you remember what it means, Lady?”
She narrowed her eyes at him, watching the smirk grow on his face. He had been teaching her a way to communicate with them using her hands — which she appreciated in the monotonous slog of endless travel days in the freezing, bitter cold. And Osferth had been hanging around while Finan tried to teach her as many gestures as he could remember, desperate to learn something new.
The baby monk was growing on her, all of them were. Even Sihtric had been spared in her ire as she pushed Dunholm from her mind. It had been nearly a week since Uhtred had brought it up in Eoferwic, and he had been avoiding discussing it with her; it wasn’t as if she could chase after him and demand answers. Every time she tried, he turned away from her and mumbled something about his horse needing tending.
“Finan, it is not wise to tempt the wrath of a seer,” Sihtric said, his voice rumbling his chest. His arms were loose around her waist as she rode in front of him. The days of continuous travel were wearing on her, but she was now more comfortable on a horse than she thought she’d ever be.
Despite attempting to let go of her anger towards him, she hated the way he had taken to treating her. Sihtric lorded over her as if she were a child, one who knew nothing of the world. And the longer she spent with him, the more the anger gave way to sadness; she wanted the Sihtric from her childhood back. Even the worst parts of Dunholm were softened by his boyish smile and gentle hands. The man he had become seemed to have killed the parts of him she had once loved the most. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get those parts of him back.
“And you, my friend, are too serious,” Finan laughed, winking at Røskva. “Do you remember what it is or am I going to have to remind you?” She nodded and rolled her eyes.
She remembered every gesture he taught her; they were the only way of communicating without pulling the ink and parchment out of her pocket.
“Have pity on our poor monk, Finan,” Uhtred laughed, shaking his head.
“It, more or less, means ‘Stop it or you’re gonna get yourself killed’. Figured it’d be useful for her, with bein’ a seer and all,” Finan shrugged, showing the gesture again. She rolled her eyes, but the smile that spread on her face couldn’t be denied. He wasn’t entirely wrong; it was something she wanted — no, something she needed to be able to communicate to them.
She held Finan’s attention, gesturing ‘It will be the one I use the most,’ back in his direction, making him smirk.
‘And I will try to listen,’ he gestured back silently, sending her a wink as she chuckled.
Osferth began asking for the meaning of more gestures, but his voice faded to nothing in her mind as a vision swam in the edges of her consciousness. The world dropped away as the vision bloomed: a cursed woman sat in a church, in a pool of blood as a monk was strung up from the beams. The man wept and begged as she screamed at him. But her skin fell away pooling on the ground where she once stood, leaving a snake in her wake. And the snake’s gaze turned away from the priest, finding a new target to torture — Uhtred. The snake lashed out, sinking its teeth into his neck before it disappeared into a haze of smoke. The vision swam long enough for her to see Uhtred going ashen and pale before collapsing, dead.
She jolted out of the vision with a start, Sihtric’s arms firm around her as she thrashed. “Røskva, it was just a vision. You are safe,” he said softly in her ear, crushing her into his embrace. Tears sprang to her eyes and blurred her vision as she gripped Sihtric’s arms, rooting herself in his grasp.
She allowed herself a moment to bask in the memory of his comfort. Sihtric’s arms had once meant safety, and she wished she could find the same feeling in them now. But the bitterness and questions lingering in her mind about Dunholm turned it to acid in her gut as her stomach lurched.
She ripped his arms away from her, sliding off the horse and falling to her knees in the soft grass. She retched, bile burning her throat as tears burned her eyes.
“What has happened, Sihtric?” Uhtred demanded, voice sounding firm despite the ringing in her ears. She ignored him to retch again, hands arms shaking as she dug her fingers into the soft earth under her, desperately trying to ground herself in some way.
“She had a vision, lord,” she heard Sihtric’s voice faintly. A gentle hand came to rest on her back, and she flinched away from the touch. “Be careful, Finan, she…” she heard him say, his voice fading away into the hum of her mind. The world was lost to her; the grief, memories, and vision had pulled her under a tidal wave and she fought to stay afloat.
When the ringing in her ears started to fade, feeling came back to her fingers first, aching and throbbing from the frozen earth she had desperately tried to bury them into as the haze receded in her mind. Awareness spread up her arms and down her back, and by the time the buzzing in her mind disappeared, she could hear Uhtred and Finan whispering above her head.
The world tilted and her stomach turned with nausea, but she swallowed it down as she lifted her head, eyes finding Uhtred’s bright blue eyes and Finan’s gentle brown ones staring back at her. Their pitying gazes made her want to snarl at them, but she couldn’t summon the energy.
“Christ alive, woman. Tryin’ to keep us on our toes now that you’ve been with us a few days now aye?” Finan laughed, but his eyes betrayed his distress as he looked her over.
“Are you well, Røskva?” Uhtred asked, eyes shining with earnest concern.
She opened her mouth to respond on instinct, but the croaking noise made both of the men wince as she grimaced. ‘Too much,’ she mouthed. Understanding bloomed on Uhtred’s face as Finan’s wrinkled in confusion.
“What?” Finan blurted out after staring between them in absolute bewilderment.
Uhtred laughed, rolling his eyes. “I forget you are a Christian and know nothing of these things. The vision, it was intense for her. The power of the Gods can weaken a seer, even one as strong as she is.”
She suppressed a laugh at his statement. She wasn't a powerful seer; a single vision had nearly sent her sprawling into unconsciousness on the back of Sihtric’s horse.
The desire to argue was far out of her grasp, but the sound of hooves on the road behind them sent the chill of fear down her spine and lodged her heart in her throat as she whipped around to look at the road.
“Lord, someone is coming!” Osferth hissed from behind her.
She turned back to face them, a desperate plea for safety or caution stuck in her useless throat, but the men who had thrown themselves into the dirt with her were gone; warriors were left in their place. “Finan, protect her with your life,” Uhtred said. His eyes had gone cold and sparkled with a desire for a fight as he sprang up onto his feet.
“Aye, lord,” Finan nodded. The comforting, gentle way he held her had been abandoned for a seax and sword, face grim with determination as he pulled her to her feet, pushing her behind him toward the horses. “Stay close to the horses. If things go badly, you get on and you ride west as hard and fast as you can until you find a village.”
Sihtric slid off his horse in her periphery, unsheathing his seax as he walked toward her. She wanted to say something to him, the complex emotions still warring in her mind, but his eyes burned with an emotion she couldn't recognize.
“You have the blade?” He asked in a whisper as he passed behind her. She nodded and pulled the small, narrow dagger out from its place in her boot. He nodded and stepped closer, whispering “Keep it close. If anyone tries to take you, take out their eyes,” before walking away.
The morning they left Eoferwic, Sihtric had slipped it to her in passing, walking away before she could question him, just as she had done to him the night before. The dagger was nicer than she had expected it to be when she asked him for something to protect herself with. She figured he could spare an old hunting dagger of his own, but the weapon was beautiful with runes inlaid on the leather sheath and on the flat of the metal.
The four men fanned out, weapons ready, as she backed herself up to the side of Finan’s horse. Røskva could feel her hands shaking and the skin stretch taught across her knuckles as she gripped the dagger. Black dots danced in her vision but she refused to give into the grip of fear.
A single rider on horseback appeared. She could tell by the drab grey of the rider’s robes it was a priest that approached. Her heart plummeted and her breath hitched in her throat, but Finan sent her a cocky smirk over her shoulder. “They will not take you again, Lady. What is one priest against four warriors?”
But the fear in her chest skyrocketed when she watched their postures relax, and Uhtred sheathed his sword before calling out, “Father Beocca!” He yelled, waving the priest over.
“Uhtred! Praise God it is you I find on the road!” the priest shouted back, riding up to them with a wide smile. The sound of Finan’s laugh made her flinch as she sank to the ground, desperate to stay out of the priest’s view. The priest was short and balding, his brows set in a furrow despite the smile on his face. “Finan, Osferth,” the priest nodded in greeting to them before turning to Sihtric, “Rat boy Dane.” The comment made something in her chest gnash its teeth in anger but she stamped the feeling down as far as she could — Sihtric’s feelings were no longer her responsibility. She wasn’t his wife or his woman, but the thought of him with a wife fanned the flames of anger she was trying to stamp out.
“I am Sihtric, priest,” Sihtric growled back, sounding only mildly annoyed, while Uhtred and Finan laughed. Røskva almost didn’t want to know how they had all become so familiar with a priest, because whatever the answer meant nothing but trouble for her.
The priest ignored the laughter and turned his attention toward Uhtred, eyes passing over where she was crouched. “You ride west to Aescengum? To the king?”
“Aye, Father, we’re on the way there now. Did Alfred send you for us?” Finan asked with a laugh.
The priest shook his head and frowned, lines deepening in his forehead. “No, I ride from Witancaester with news of the Earl Sigurd’s sack of Aweltun,” the priest said. The name snagged a memory in Røskva’s mind — she thought she could remember hearing Kjartan mention a warrior named Sigurd, but it could just as well have been Sigfried. Still, the faint familiarity tickled her mind.
“Who?” she saw Osferth whisper to Finan who waved the monk off.
“Bloodhair is in Aweltun? How do you know this?” Uhtred asked. The name Bloodhair nagged at her mind; she knew she had heard that before. The vague recollection of a man, broad and bulky with a jagged tattoo on his face sparked something, but as soon as the familiarity came it passed, moving out of grasp.
“News reached Witencaseter this morning that he arrived in the night with his men. They burned the village and took the church,” the priest said, making the sign of the cross in front of his chest. “The King must hear of this, immediately.”
But Uhtred only scoffed, “Alfred is a fool for leaving Witencaester undefended; Bloodhair will turn around and go there if he hears the King has fled.”
“He would not!” The priest shouted, making her flinch.
But Uhtred only smirked at the priest, “It is what I would do,” he shrugged. “Go to Alfred, but I must see Bloodhair for myself.”
She could tell the priest was growing increasingly agitated with Uhtred’s flippant attitude, but she could see Finan and Sihtric were chuckling to themselves. The relationship between the men and the priest was undeniable, but it sent a splinter of discomfort through her. “You will not! You lack permission from the King!”
Røskva watched Uhtred’s expression harden as he snapped at the man, “I will, Beocca, and you will either join me or go on your way!” His voice left no room for argument as Finan and Sihtric turned away from the pair.
Finan’s eyebrow raised in confusion as he caught sight of her, dagger out and ready, desperately trying to blend into the scenery, but his eyes softened and he hurried toward her, frame blocking the priest from view. “You have nothin’ to fear from Father Beocca, love,” he nearly cooed, reaching out to her. The hands reaching toward her, even though she was mostly sure Finan wouldn’t hurt her, made her flinch, and a deep, desperate sadness flickered in Finan’s warm brown gaze.
“God in Heaven, must you always make things more difficult than they should, boy?” the priest roared, and her breath caught in her throat. Without thinking, she reached out and grabbed Finan’s arm.
“You don’t need to fear him,” Finan whispered, crowding closer to her, eyes soft and sparkling with something she couldn’t place. The proximity made her skin itch and set her nerves alight, but she trusted him more than the priest; and that was enough for the moment. “Beocca and Uhtred bicker, because they're family. The priest has got a foul temper, especially when it comes to Uhtred’s stubborn arse but—”
“And what of the woman you travel with? You would risk her life?” The priest roared again, and she felt Finan tense, pushing closer to her. Despite not being incredibly tall, Finan still towered over her, as did the other three men, but his sturdy frame blocked her from the priest’s view entirely.
“She is of no importance to you, Beocca,” Uhtred snapped, voice hard and cold. “Do not speak of her, least of all to the King. I will tell him of her when I arrive in Aescengum.”
“Uhtred you are acting a fool—” the priest groused, but his argument was quickly cut off.
“Breathe a word of her to the King, and you will lose your tongue,” she heard Sihtric seethe, voice flat and emotionless. But she heard the anger hidden — he could never disguise it from her. “I swear it on your God and all of mine.”
The priest muttered and mumbled absently, fear evident in his tone. “I would not test his patience, Father,” Osferth mumbled.
“Aye, he is correct, Beocca,” Uhtred said, huffing out a mirthless laugh. “She is protected; by me, my men, and the Gods. Do not tempt fate here, it would only lead to suffering — your suffering. For your sake and my sister’s, I hope you will listen.”
The priest was silent for a moment before he relented, “I swear I will not speak a word of her existence once I leave this place,” and she felt the tension bleed out from the men and from her own frame. “But you must keep her safe, Uhtred. It is said this Sigurd travels with a devil woman, a witch that can see the future.”
The way he spit the word, witch, sent a chill down her spine. “I would suggest you refrain from speakin’ on things you don’t understand, Father,” Finan said cooly, ushering her back toward his horse, hand hovering above her back as they walked. “Don’t worry about him,” Finan said, ducking down to speak into her ear. The wiry hairs of his beard tickled the shell of her ear and she shivered, not hating the feeling. His beard was softer and denser than the coarse facial hair Kjartan had.
‘Is he a cruel king?’ she gestured, keeping her movements small and hidden from prying eyes.
“No,” Finan whispered, “but he is complicated, and Uhtred tends to make things worse. But he would not take Uhtred’s mistakes out on you.”
She nodded in understanding, hoping he was right. But there was something she knew he was hiding — some truth she didn’t yet know about the king.
They spoke no more as he lifted her onto the saddle, hauling himself up behind her as she heard Uhtred say “Ride with us until the fork, but we will be going to Aweltun.”
“I should know better than to try and persuade you from foolishness. I did not dream that such a pig-headed child could become worse as a man,” the priest scoffed in return, making the men laugh as they started riding. She was surprised to hear the priest speak of Uhtred in such a way. How would he have known him as a child? Uhtred was clearly a Dane.
Their journey took a much more leisurely pace with the addition of Father Beocca while he and Osferth spoke behind her and Finan, and Sihtric and Uhtred rode ahead speaking in hushed tones. Røskva was grateful for the silence as questions whirled through her mind.
It wasn't long before the priest spoke up again, voice cutting over the silence like a knife, “May I at least know the lady’s name, Uhtred? If we are to be travelling together, even if it is only for an hour.”
“If she wishes for you to know it,” Uhtred replied, eyes cutting to hers as he glanced over his shoulder at her. Despite his impassive response to the priest, his gaze was questioning but not demanding in the slightest. He was truly giving her the option and gratitude bubbled in her gut. She nodded once, turning away to look at Osferth who had pulled his horse beside Finan’s. “Her name is Røskva.”
“She is a Dane?” The priest gasped and the metallic tang coated her tongue as she bit the inside of her cheek.
“Aye, as is your wife. Mind your manners, Father,” Finan said shortly. Røskva’s mind reeled — this priest had a Dane wife? And knew Uhtred as a child? The questions were becoming too much to bear.
“I meant no offense, Lady,” Father Beocca said sincerely. The title grated on her but she grit her teeth and stared ahead, not willing to acknowledge him. “I was merely shocked.”
“Røskva does not like to be called a lady, Father,” Osferth said softly, the young man giving her a bright smile, one she returned easily.
“As she has not found it dignified to speak to me herself I assumed she must be royalty or at least high born—”
“Sweet Mother of Christ, Father Beocca, leave the poor lass alone!” Finan shouted, cutting the priest off. “She can't bloody talk, it's not meant to be an offense!”
A tightness in her chest she hadn't realized was there eased at Finan’s staunch defense of her against Father Beocca, even though she understood his questions — she was wary of him as he was wary of her.
“Finan is right, she does not offer insult in her silence,” Uhtred said after a tense beat of quiet settled on the group.
“Then I apologize, Rosva,” Beocca said sincerely.
“It is Røskva, priest,” Sihtric corrected him.
“Rose-kava?” Beocca tried again.
“No,” Finan said, unhelpfully. Nonetheless it made her laugh, the near silent breathy exhale was foreign to her ears but the act left a bright feeling in her chest.
The rest of the ride to the fork was spent with Uhtred and Beocca plotting while she half eavesdropped and half joined Finan, Osferth, and Sihtric in going over gestures and their meanings.
When it was time for the priest to split away from them, she was both grateful for him to be leaving and dreading what his departure meant. Røskva had heard Beocca’s warnings to Uhtred about Bloodhair — there was a high likelihood of casualty or injury to befall one if not all of them.
But she couldn't decide if Uhtred’s ease about the situation made her anxious that he was being a fool, or confident that he knew he could handle whatever Bloodhair had in store.
Regardless, he waved Father Beocca off as he offered to join them to Aweltun. “Inform Alfred we will be there by tonight at the earliest, if not tomorrow at first light. I will have news of Bloodhair when we arrive,” the proud Dane said firmly.
“I am sure we will all live to regret this decision but I trust you, Uhtred,” Beocca said, sounding vexed before sighing. “I will see you in Aescengum then,” he said before turning and riding away into the West where they turned East.
As he rode away, Finan shouted after him, “Fret not, Father! We’ve outsmarted and out lasted many Danes before, and I, for one, am not dyin’ at the hand of anyone named Bloodhair!”
Røskva wanted to laugh along with the men, but the fear nagging in her gut made it impossible. But it was more than Bloodhair and the nagging in the back of her mind that worried her; it was the vision. The woman cursed by the Gods in the church was near and she could feel the tides of fate singing in her blood and thrumming in her ears.
She could do nothing but pray that the Gods would favor them.
author's note: first chapter to my new Uhtred mini-series. This has some smut(ish), so MDNI please. My first attempt at focusing on Uthred and not gonna lie, this was tough but still fun. hopefully whoever reads this, you will enjoy :) thank you to @itbmojojoejo for being my beta reader 💜 banner credit to @arcielee! lots of love & stay safe 💕
They were a long way from Cookham when Uhtred and his men arrived at their new settlement of Rumcofa.
As they made their way through the open gates, they incited stares and whispers, the villagers wondering what troubles such intruders would bring to their quaint homes.
People were on their guard while the boys provided them with polite smiles and nods at every eye and curious stares that came their way.
They knew such an alteration would be an adjustment, that a warm welcome to warriors like themselves would take time to digest.
For Uhtred, moving away from Cookham did not prove to be as hard as he thought.
Bittersweet memories had been left behind, his attempt to ignore their claws grasping at his shadow.
The loss of his wife years prior, the end of his affair with the Lady of Mercia – Cookham had bathed in ache, the crimson of its afterglow scarring him, body and soul.
Rumcofa was a welcome change, he thought, needing the air to clear his mind and start anew.
He did not care for the strategic significance of this move – whether it was Rumcofa or Cookham, Uhtred needed to be away from Wessex, and from Winchester.
He was brought out of his thoughts when he halted, his horse by his side letting out a hefty breath.
“And may I ask, who are ya?”
His eyes settled on an older man, burly looking with his blond mustache thickening around his upper lip. The Danish accent heavy in his voice, he stood tall - the illusion hiding the slight shortness in his height – with his double-faced sledgehammer balanced between his hands. The stance for attack was at his toes, ready to use his weapon in potential combat.
A faint snicker whispered behind Uhtred; from the sound of it, he knew his men were amused by the display in front of them.
He took a quick look around before his eyes settled back on the blacksmith in front of him. “I am Uhtred of Bebbanburg.” He fixed his posture, placing his arms across his chest, his head slightly tilted sideways. “We have orders from the Lady of Aethelflaed that my men and I are to move here and oversee the village. I am to be the new Lord.”
The Dane scoffed as he lowered his weapon, a smirk resting at the corner of his lips. “You’ll want to see the Lady of the village.”
At his words, Finan leaned closer to his friend as he whispered, brows arched. “Are ya sure we’re in the right place, Uhtred?”
The man ignored the Irishman’s comment, his gaze settling on confusion in front of the villager. “The Lady of Rumcofa?”
The ears itching coincidentally, the woman in question had appeared in his view, her silhouette standing a few feet away from the Dane.
It wasn’t the sight of strangers with their horses that left her breathless, nor was it the sight of her friend that seemed to have taken on the role of village protector that made her stop in her tracks.
Her heart caught in her throat, latching on to dear life as her eyes focused on the main figure, her mind unconvinced of such reality.
It was the grin on his face, the sound of his voice that traipsed across her body, shivering under her dress.
The instinct settling itself into her nerves, a slight curve slid at the corner of her lips as a short breath finally escaped her.
She had started walking towards the small hurdle of men, her voice reaching the boys with a breathy smile. “Well, if it isn’t Uhtred of Bebbanburg.”
They turned towards the new sound; the man in question was left winded, the air knocked out of him in shock. He furrowed his brows, thinking his eyes might be deceiving him.
“Cwen?”
“Still alive, then?”
Reaching them, she approached the blacksmith and gently placed her hand on his shoulder, quietly letting him know all was good and that she would care for the new guests.
The Dane gave Cwen a nod before slowly walking away, leaving them be though not before disappearing without giving them warning crossing the brown in his eyes.
Uncaring for it, Uhtred had spoken again with a soft chuckle slipping through at her welcoming words, his attention placed solely on the woman. “You look well.” He stepped forward and leaned in, his arms wrapping around her figure as he hugged her.
The others, surprised at such unexpected familiarity, had remained quiet – simple observants.
She had reciprocated the gesture, gently patting his back before pulling away. “And you look old.”
Her remark got his men quietly sniggering behind their Lord. Uhtred turned to them, raising a brow at their reaction before looking back at Cwen, who was smiling from amusement at the little annoyance sprayed as a shadow across his face.
Satisfied with herself, she pursued her little taunts, the jesting sparking up old flickers of residue from their past. “Word is, you are the new Lord of Rumcofa.”
“I am.” Uhtred handed her a sealed parchment without another word, letting the letter speak for itself as Cwen opened it and started reading the content.
She scoffed, her eyes meeting his again. “Her Ladyship couldn’t find another village for you to terrorize?” The sarcasm in her tone did not go unnoticed, leaving Uhtred to smile again, the rhythm of their exchange becoming a familiar routine for the ages.
“It’s nice to see you again.”
She gave him a grin. “You too, old friend.” The softness of the gesture left them to linger for a split second, forgetting for that moment where they stood.
The interruption came from a little boy; he moved from where he stood next to Finan and partially hid behind Uhtred as he gazed upwards at the two adults, curiosity picking at him.
She glanced at the boy before tilting her head up to her friend. “Your son?” Without looking away, Uhtred rested his hand on the child’s head. “My ward.”
Cwen frowned, playfully skeptical of the painting in front of her; she bent down, meeting the little one at his eye level. “And what is your name, darling?”
Unsure, the boy looked up to the man next to him for permission to speak. With a simple nod from Uhtred, he met Cwen’s gaze, his voice soft and timid.
“Aethelstan.”
She gave a friendly beam to the shy boy. “A good, strong name. I like it.” Her compliment made him smile, his timidity silently reaching his cheeks as he leaned closer towards Uhtred.
Cwen leaned closer, whispering secretive words to the boy, away from grown-ups' ears; Uhtred watched the interaction, a soft curious smile reaching him.
A moment later, she pulled away from him as he nodded to her. She shared a childish wink and lightly poked his nose – a simple tap of her fingertip, earning a chuckle as the child remained attentive to her.
Ruffling the boy’s hair as she stood back up, Cwen eyed Uhtred. “I wonder what you slipped in her Ladyship’s water for you to have become Lord of this place.”
Finan let out a choked cough, his breath stuck in his throat at the woman’s sudden comment – the hidden undertone only understood by him and his friend.
Unfamiliar with the look in Uhtred’s eyes, Cwen moved on and leaned sideways, greeting the rest of the men that quietly stood by their horses. “Hi, boys.” She then shifted her eyes back to her friend. “Wards of yours as well, Lord?” She bore a teasing smirk, the sided upward curve of her lips making the Saxon smile again.
She quickly followed by looking back at his men. “You can take the horses to the stable boy, and he’ll take care of them while you get acquainted with the village.” She turned to Uhtred once again, already taking a step back. “You, come with me.”
He did as told and went her way while Finan and the rest went in the opposite direction.
By her side, he followed her and looked around, taking in the sight of villagers going on about their businesses while children were carefree and running around, playing with each other.
She let him be for a moment, watching him before looking in front of her again.
“Have you ever overseen a village before?”
Tilting his head to his left, he glanced at her before turning away again. “I have.”
“A village with people, right? Not just an empty patch of mud and grass?” The sided coy look, the sarcasm enlaced in her tone made him chuckle.
“Yes.” He turned his head again to her, leaving her to do the same as they stopped in their steps. “We were in Cookham for a long time. People liked me there.”
She softly snickered, a slight snort catching up to her. “Sure. I’ll get those testimony myself if you don’t mind.” With a mischievous wink, she had started walking again, taking steps backwards as he watched her while shaking his head, amused.
Turning back around, the lightness surrounding them had lowered slightly, though not completely as to dampen the mood. “How long has it been? Since we last saw each other?” She had asked, nostalgia slowly filling as blood cells in her body.
He did not think long about her inquiry, not having the heart to answer with the truth. “It’s been way too long.”
“Mhmm.” A small huff from her, parted as a snicker. She then pivoted to him, her tone into her words meant to be light. “You are only saying that to flatter me, Uhtred.” Looking away, her eyes unfocused on the path in front of them as they kept going, almost reaching the finishing point. “I have not crossed your mind since you left. Do not lie.”
He did not sense anything somber in her pitch, which was what she was going for. She had not been one for sentimentality, trying to portray herself with a more playful demeanor than bereavement.
Especially to him.
Knowing him from their past, or at least the younger version of him – the arrogant, restless, fierce, and at times, slightly egotistic Uhtred – was not helping though, his presence stirring a part of her she had buried long ago.
They had only met after the battle of Edington; losing Iseult to Skorpa, that period of his life, of his youth, had turned hazy due to his grief.
And so, Cwen’s words were not a lie. Or almost, he believed.
She might not have been in his everyday thought, and he might have forgotten about her over the years, but the second he saw her again, the second he heard her voice and laid eyes on her – she had not left him, he had noticed, knocking the air out of his chest.
It was mouth to mouth resuscitation.
She brought him out of his thoughts, her remarks letting out a deep breath from his lungs.
“I do not say that to make you feel bad.” A sympathetic smile across her features, she continued. “You are not the only one who’s forgotten us. You were not very memorable.”
“I did not plague your dreams, then?” Laced with mirth, he eyed her with a little glint discernable in his eyes.
She played along, always up for a little bit of jest. “Actually, just this once.” She pretended to go deep in thought, her lips pursing in response. “More of a nightmare though.”
Uhtred arched his brow, curious and waiting for her follow up.
She lingered in silence a little bit longer – a split second that seemed to dwell forever. She then bit her bottom lip, proceeding to tease her friend. “You had become Lord of a village. It was horrible!”
Laughing at her words, she watched and quietly followed suit, content with such response at her attempt at humor.
They reached the hall, Uhtred’s new house, with the place almost empty apart from a handful of people who were sitting in the main room, drinking and making conversation.
He watched them, quizzical; Cwen sensed he wanted to speak of what they encountered and so, she intervened, softly speaking to him. “Do not worry. Now that you are here, they will not be coming back.”
She silently greeted the men at the table as she guided Uhtred inside, showing him around. A sigh left her, small – almost soundless.
He could see, she had come down from her playful behavior and looked to her, intrigued.
She chewed the inside of her cheek, trying to bring herself to glance at him in a more serious manner. She had still been on edge, masked by their backchat, unwilling yet to completely trust him.
“Uhtred...” She looked for words, the pensive look she bore making him wonder what could have changed between them. “This may not be the home you dreamed of, but it is for the people here. So, please, do care for this village as you did with Cookham and as you would have with Bebbanburg.”
He remained still, his gaze unwavering as he examined her.
She had been wary, and it was clearly written across her face.
He could not decipher if discomfort had run him down, or maybe it was her hues staring right back at him as if she looked for the soul that hid behind his own eyes.
He silently nodded, glancing quickly around him before turning to her once again. “I promise, I will care for this place.”
She remained still for a second, taking in his words – the sincerity splayed across his tongue.
“Mhmm.” She nodded as well, taking a step away from him, her arms behind her back. “I’ll be watching you, Lord.” Emphasizing on the last word had brought back the lighter air, her mocking him with his title, giving him back the upward curves of her lips.
She turned around and walked away, leaving him to chuckle to himself as he watched her go, his blue eyes lingering on her figure until she was out of sight.
“She must have been something...”
Weeks had passed since Uhtred and his men settled in their new home, taking the reins of overseeing the village – from its people to the borders surrounding the land.
Though things were quiet, peaceful and content even, Cwen remained on her toes, cautious of his presence; she had been paying close attention to him, watching from afar and exchanging quips and words from time to time, but on the occasions they were distant, she kept her eyes on him – on guard.
She did not mind the others as they did not seem to have whatever affliction was hitting their Lord, leaving them to be merry on their own and bring some enjoyment around them.
But for some reason, Uhtred had been the one she could not settle on – whatever hung above him had created dreaded heaviness in her chest.
And so that’s how she found him, sipping on his ale in front of his fireplace watching the flames dance to the percussing sounds of their crackles.
To her voice, he turned his head to her. “Who?”
She took a step closer, gently closing the door behind her.
“The woman who broke your heart.”
He turned away, shifting in his seat as he leaned against the back of his chair.
“What makes you think a woman broke my heart?”
He had been mourning the end of his relationship with Aethelflaed, his mind overwhelmed by the events leading up to their separation. He had been silent about it – grieving in the dark, not realizing his ache was visible to the people around him.
“You have that look in your eyes.”
He huffed, not caring for the intrusion; he turned his head again to her, showing her the slight bothersome gaze he wore. “It is none of your business.”
She sucked in a breath, rolling her eyes, she looked up at the ceiling, her hands on her hips in annoyance. She then turned to him again with a soft scowl, her head falling slightly sideways. “It is when you are scaring the villagers with that face of yours.”
For the true nature of her visit, she had received grievances. Words dripped in bourgeoning fear as people came to see her about him, revealing their hesitancy to make contact with the man, partially afraid of him; whatever gripped at him, Uhtred could not see it had been affecting his day to day, his state visible through his mannerism and facial stance.
She ran her fingers through her hair, sighing as she took a seat next to him; he had been staring at her, not understanding her complaint.
She softened, gentle for him. “I understand the pain of heartbreak. I know what it does to someone.” She turned to face the fire, unable to meet his gaze just as he caught her profile, her skin timidly glowing against the light. She gathered her breath and spoke again. “Just... don’t let it affect your duty as Lord.” She tilted her head to her right, catching sight of his blues. “You have people who need you, who depend on you to be the lead of their village.”
He could only nod, agreeing with her words. He took another sip of his ale with his eyes falling onto the cup as he remained silent.
She let out another breath and stood up, her steps already leading her to the exit.
“She must have been one hell of a woman...”
She lingered, slightly leaning against the door as she gave Uhtred one last glance.
“She is.” His response was somber, nostalgic. He did not turn her way, unable to look at her; he did not have the strength to be held by her gaze.
Instead, he kept staring at his fire as he followed the flames’ routine, an intimate dance meant just for him.
He was hurting and it broke her heart.
She did not push, not wanting to disturb his tormented peace.
Instead, she quietly walked out, gently closing the door behind her before making her way back to her home, contemplative.
The hassle of the people had become background noise as Uhtred and Cwen walked, with the Lady adding insight to the comings and goings of the trades happening by the edge of the village.
His ears were tickling at the sound of her voice, the vibration seeping through and warmly coating his insides; he chased for it, taking in every single way the words would spill out of her, the syllables smoothly running down her tongue and painting her lips.
He found himself smiling as he listened to her guide him on the workarounds of the trades happening by the port, the names of the people passing through knowingly spoken by the sweetness in throat.
Over time, they had been growing closer.
Cwen took notice of Uhtred’s behavioral change; he had been trying to put his grief behind, sealing his heart tightly against his chest.
He held his head high, holding his promise to her and wanting to prove he could be counted on, not just as a warrior, but also as a Lord who people could turn to in times of need – as he had been in Cookham.
As for that night, the subject was never brought up again. Cwen did not push on it, out of irritating him, as well as out of disinterest in the matter.
But even though she believed he was putting in an effort, it had not stopped the thoughts at the back of her mind, pushing her to remain guarded by his side. She still lent a hand where she could, the villagers still regarding her as their Lady, ignoring the mismatch between the title and her person.
Uhtred did not mind it; it was fitting to her persona, and found he enjoyed calling her this way – the first time he did, in jest, he had noticed the way her cheeks blushed, her skin turning a shade of red from shyness.
“You tease too much, Uhtred!”
“I apologize, Lady.” He was holding back his laughter, loving her fluster. She hit him, a simple slap across his chest, unable to contain her own cackles, making him smile as well. “Stop it!”
This might have been the moment that changed things between them.
They could not tell.
Either way, he tried ignoring whatever sentiment gnawed at him from her presence – for fear of loss again, his heart had decided.
It proved difficult though, unbeknownst to him. Even sealed in the dark, wanting to remain away from experiencing amorous grief all over again, wonder pricked at him the way a rose pricks at your finger; it had not hurt, but curiosity was holding its own, desperate for some shade under the light.
They were now standing at the top of the tower overlooking the river. Cwen had been detailing the when’s and where’s from each present boat that lied underneath them; she had not realized Uhtred earned some of the knowledge of Rumcofa’s trade through Finan, the Irishman having studied the routes as well.
He did not want to interrupt her – so he let her be, staring at her as his subconscious mind shadowed the movements of his hues while they followed her silhouette, observing the way her soft blond locks flowed with the gentle autumn breeze, the way her tongue would subtly lick her lips for refreshment, or how her fingers would pick at her sleeves, pulling them to cover her palms while she had been facing the waters, names of traders spoken with delight.
His icy blues remained stuck to her, a soft smile picking up at the corner of his lips – unknowingly.
She leaned against the wooden railing with her arms stretched out as she looked ahead, enjoying the way the light puff of wind gently traipsed through her hair – increasing the floral scent that danced around her. It caught Uhtred’s breath, leaving him to deeply inhale, the fragrance coating his inside in pure contentment.
His eyes, unfaltering, followed the form of her dress, taking in the subtle ways the thick dark green linen hugged her; it had been mended, noticing the seam along the sleeve of her inner arm.
“You are not married?” He already knew the answer to his question, as he had not seen her attached to another man since his arrival, nor did he think she was promised to another, his eyes keeping to the gentle re-work of her dress, the different color thread laced intricately and subtly into the existing fabric.
He could not understand why he was pushed to ask her such an inquiry.
From the small horizon, she turned her head to him, a mellowing smile to her lips. “No, Lord.”
The question did not seem to faze her, he thought. But her answer only pushed him into wanting to know more. “I think my father gave up all hope of having me married.”
He frowned, curious. “What happened?”
She tugged the inside of her lip, a smirk forming across. She pivoted to lay her back against the railing with her elbows resting on top while turning her head back to him.
“I bite.”
He let out a small chortle, making her grin – she had grown used to hearing the quiver of laughter in his voice, not realizing she had grown attached to it, warmth settling across her chest at the sound of it.
He approached her, leaning sideways against the edge of the tower, his expression softening. “And your mother? Is she faring well?”
He had not seen the other woman, making him wonder if she had remained in Cetreht with only Cwen moving to Rumcofa. He remembered his initial encounter with her mother, the woman having quickly grown fond of him – which not all Saxon women had. Cwen’s mother had been one of the rare exceptions where she used to push her daughter to him as a prospect wife.
Her smile faded, avoiding his stare as she looked in front of her, her eyes reaching the village. “She... passed on a few years ago.” Her shoulders slightly depleted as a heavy breath escaped her. “With my siblings away with their own families, I am the only one left.”
“No children, then?” He did not mean to pry, but he wanted to know more, to re-discover a lost friendship that had been pushed into the mud long ago. She may have had a child tucked somewhere in the village he had yet to meet, he thought. She could still be holding some parts of her life secrets to him, secrets for her to keep her own.
“No. Not for me.” Relief might not have been what he felt, but he let a sigh out. Silent to her ears, she gave him a sympathetic smile before she pushed herself to stand up, taking the downwards steps to leave the tower.
As they reached the bottom, he was about to speak again when they got interrupted by another woman looking for her.
“Cwen!” The intruder was almost out of breath, her feet having forced her into a run. “It’s time!”
Before Cwen got the chance to answer, Uhtred intervened, standing taller – his stature almost imposing to both ladies. “I am Lord here. Anything that needs assistance, I can take care of.”
The Danish woman stared at Uhtred, growing impatient. “Sorry, Lord, but I do not think you can help with this one.”
Cwen was restraining a snicker as she stood in the middle, watching the duo close to battling it out.
Uhtred eyed his friend before looking back to the other woman. “Why do you require Cwen, then?”
Cwen looked at the woman. “Ingrith, you can tell him.” She spoke with an amused grin on her face, holding back her laughter.
Ingrith sighed, looking towards Uhtred. “We need a midwife.” She spoke with a straight face. “We have a woman in labor, and she has requested Cwen’s presence. Unless you know how to birth a child, Lord, I believe you are not required for such task.”
Uhtred’s face dropped, slightly embarrassed while Cwen giggled again. He tried not to let Ingrith’s words rough him up and instead looked back at Cwen, swallowing his fluster. “You are excused.”
She was still grinning, her voice sweetly speaking his name. “Thank you, Uhtred.”
She started walking away, giving him one more head turn his way. “Later, then?” She had sounded hopeful, almost.
He nodded and watched her as she took Ingrith’s arm in her own and left, both ladies laughing between themselves.
Uhtred had not moved, entranced by Cwen as she gave him another last look, a simple glance as she tilted her head before disappearing to the other side of the walls.
“Everything alright?” Finan having left the traders and found his friend, stood next to him, following the line of vision the other man was plagued with.
“Yes, just a birth.”
Finan frowned, paying closer attention to the other woman. “Who’s the lady with Cwen?”
Uhtred eyed him, a look of surprise on his face. “Has someone finally caught your eye, Finan?”
The Irishman chuckled, shaking his head. “I could say the same to you.” He patted him on the back, knowing Uhtred had grown smitten with Cwen.
“Sulking again, I see?” She was leaning against the entrance to his home, finding him sitting in front of a warm fire, ale in his hand.
He smiled at the sound of her voice, the softness of her words sweeping gently through his ears.
He did not answer her question – instead, he turned to her, changing the subject. “How is she?”
“She is well. Just tired, as any woman would be.” Night had fallen by the time Cwen helped deliver the newborn. The village was quiet, safe for the household that welcomed the baby into their home.
It had been an arduous delivery, but the results had been worth it.
“And the babe?”
Cwen smiled, appreciative of the care he placed in his queries. “The babe is well. A healthy baby boy.”
Uhtred acknowledged her answer with a nod before he turned and leaned against the back of his chair.
Carefully closing the door behind her, she quietly approached him, taking a seat by his side before pouring herself a cup.
He did not mind her presence – feeling a little better already. Tension would wash away whenever they were near; she had turned out to become one of the very few people he kept close to his heart.
“Uhtred.” The way his name spilled out, cautiously and caringly – as if she was afraid to break him; he kept it, already carrying it within him, the letters to her cords tied to his ribcage.
He met her gaze, noticing the worry etched across her features. “Do you want to win her back?”
A sadness across his lips, he felt his heart squeeze just a little bit at the thought of Aethelflaed.
He sighed, his head falling against the top of his seat. “I cannot... She has...”
She quickly caught on, the syllable of his response striking her like lightning, the realization of his loss reaching the pit of her stomach. “She did not choose you.”
He tried to hold his lips upwards. “Something like that.” But she could see he was only doing it for her, as if he was attempting to hide behind it – like a shield.
“I am sorry.” She looked away, her mind swirling in front of the hearth while her fingers traced the cup that rested on her lap.
She was lost in thought, trying to find ways to lift his spirits.
She did not know who this woman was, but she swore to herself that if they ever crossed path, she would not be so gentle towards her. A bitter aftertaste had simmered at the back of her throat to that imagery.
Cwen did not understand the strange feeling that boiled in her; unfamiliar and bothersome, she tried to let it go, her focus placed on the feel of her fingers against her cup.
She bit the inside of lip, speaking once again where her soft voice carried intimately within their space. “Have you thought about being with someone else?”
The puzzling look on his face pushed her to proceed with what infested her mind.
“I don’t mean giving your heart or to marry, even.” A small sigh left her as she leaned against her seat, gripping tightly onto the ale on her lap. “But to share your bed with another woman. To ease the suffering of your grief and simply find yourself some enjoyment.”
He fixated on her, taken aback by her words. He placed his cup on the table behind him, before tilting back to Cwen.
“It is not often Saxon women tell men to hump whoever they please.” He sported a smirk on his face as he spoke, inciting a chuckle on her end. She got up from her seat, placing the mug back on the table, ready to leave – the grin unable to leave her cheeks. “I did not mean to pry. It is just...”
A small huff of laughter escaped her, cringing to herself as she pinched her nose bridge, regretting bringing up such a subject.
She took a moment, all the while Uhtred watching her patiently – he found it too amusing, relishing in the way she seemed to be looking for tact in such conversation.
“Have you seen the way the women in the village look at you? Married or not, they are all wanting to climb you.” Her arms crossed over her chest, she was leaning on her hip, imitating the way his lips curved into a smirk – picking up on his enjoyment of the situation.
He tempted his chance, the way she phrased her words pushing him to his feet.
His figure – looking taller than usual, she thought, loomed over her despite the distance that separated them. He did not give up the sly grin on his face, pursuing the conversation. “And what of you? Do you want to climb me as you so eloquently said?”
She suddenly felt unable to swallow. Her throat dried as his eyes intently stared at her, leaving her frozen in her spot.
She cursed herself at her inability to leave, as if he had been holding her by a rope, tying her to him. She was taken by the way he seemed to have lowered the levity of their talk, everything shifting to a more serious undertone.
If there was a woman he would tempt Fate with, it would be with her. It was ringing in his ears, his want of her growing by the day, his need to have her close etching itself right between his ribs – like a stomach hungry, desperate for nourishment.
She rolled her eyes, attempting to hide her blushing cheeks. She had been denying the way she felt for him, the way her body would silently call out for him, in an attempt to fall under lustful bliss.
The smugness on his face was not helping her; the teasing smile made her heart flutter.
Approaching her, Cwen tilted her head upwards as he towered over her.
The air grew thicker by the second, her lungs begging to grasp what it could as it laid heavy under her chest.
It had been the way he stared at her – how the blues of his irises tightly wrapped around her, like furs keeping her warm, lowering any inhibition that could ignite – inciting a bold response to roll down her tongue, while grasping onto the fallen threads of the playfulness of their exchange.
“I don’t climb, Lord. Men usually do the lifting for me.”
“They do?”
“Or women, if you prefer.” He chuckled, taken by the matter-of-fact light tone she had chosen. “I tend to be swept off my feet.”
She had no expectation from him for her words; it should have continued as their regular banter, the swift back and forth between them.
“Like this?” The tone of his voice dropped, the vibration pulling her seductively.
She did not realize how close he had gotten; his breath swept against her own as his eyes cast downwards towards her, inspecting every spec of the darker blue that colored her orbs. She lost her breath for a moment, unable to comprehend the unraveling of steps as they overtook her, controlling the strings attached to her veins running across her body.
He lifted her up and wrapped her legs around him before sitting back down, placing her on his lap with her legs by his sides, her toes grazing the ground.
The tip of his nose brushed against hers, a tickle to her skin as her breath stuttered.
Slowly grasping at reality, she frowned while trying to catch up in the race between her body, her mind and her heart; all elements moving at separate speeds.
“Uhtred...” She was uncertain, her heart beating loudly between her ears, she could barely hear herself think. She tried focusing on her breathing, but all that she could do was take in the way his hands felt on her waist, his fingers digging into her as he observed her, waiting for her to speak.
She placed her hands on his chest, a silent motion to stop him – though, it might have been to stop herself.
“Am I really the woman you want to share your bed with?” Gathering her courage, she finally looked him in the eyes, the icy shade of his hues leaving her breathless. “There are better options in the whole of this place-” His hands trailed up her back until he cupped her cheeks, his thumb softly grazing her bottom lip. She tried to ignore the gesture, forcing her voice to push beyond her tongue. “I can introduce you to-”
He cut her off by leaning to capture her lips, silently answering her question and sweeping the air out of her lungs into his own.
She did not push him back, nor did she pull away to stop.
She was slowly succumbing to the feel of his lips gliding against her own, the feel of him pressed against her, her body growing warmer by the second.
A soft frown rested across her face as confusion settled under her chest; lips lingered against one another until she finally slowly pulled away from him, her limbs starving.
Rendered speechless, she could only feel the flavor of him numbing her tongue as a bittersweet aftertaste.
They did not move, as if suspended, the strings of gravity pulling and tugging at each other for closeness.
She leaned her forehead to his, her gaze on his lips.
She then quietly licked her own before tilting closer until he caught up to her, kissing her fervently.
His hands wandered her body, retracing the curves hiding under her clothes. The strength of his hold weakened her knees; imagining the ways he could embrace her against him, the ways he could make her enfold within him, fitting every part to one another, had made her dizzy. The thoughts generated a soft moan between tongues, a need to make them come true overtaking her senses.
With a mind of their own, her fingers reached for his shirt, tugging at the fabric as they pulled him closer, the rumbling of hunger tremoring at the tip.
They stopped once again, heavy breathing escaping them both.
She took this moment to remove his shirt, leaving his upper body bare.
Her fingers rested on his cheeks, tracing down to his lips and further down, looking over the scars he had accumulated over the years.
She bit down her bottom lip, swollen, as pictures of battles crossed her mind in a race.
She was brought out of thought when she felt him tugging at her dress; his hands on her shoulders, he pulled down the fabric gently, her sleeves uncovering her arms until she sat exposed to him.
A chill ran down her spine from the tepid air in the room, the fire burning her back.
The softening beige of her locks rested around her shoulders, caressing the swell of her breasts. He gazed at her, making her hold her breath in wait, unable to read him. Would he reject her? Want her less?
Without turning away, his knuckles grazed her skin, leaving her to silently shudder under his touch, her lips parted.
Uhtred wrapped his arms around her, pulling her upwards before he leaned against her upper body, his lips wetting her chest as he placed teasing kisses along and across her breasts.
Her head fell back at the sensation, grabbing onto him as his teeth nibbled in the valley between, as if to mark her as his.
Her scent intoxicated him – the soft floral aroma, the hinted mint interlaced with roses, had left him lingering, breathing her in with all his might as he savored every inch he could taste. She shivered under his tongue, adding to his delight.
He then reached her collarbone, his teeth gently clashing against the bone underneath her skin. She hissed in response just as he softly tickled her, placing peppered kisses along her shoulders.
He gathered her hair to one side of her neck, swiftly and quietly, and buried his face in, caressing her skin with every press of his mouth to the pinching of his teeth – famished.
She sighed, the warmth growing in the pit of her stomach, inch by inch.
She closed her eyes, focusing on the way he toyed with the column of her neck; being held so close to him, with the friction between their bare chests, how slowly he moved – he enjoyed the slight torture he was putting her through, feeling her impatience slowly growing as it crawled through her blood stream, pumping her vessels with haste.
He repeated the motion on the other side, pushing her locks away before he nestled against her neck again, cherishing her.
She hung onto him with her nails biting into his back, softly sighing into the air by his side; her sense of smell heightened, tasting the hint of marjoram – the mild mint and the sweetening woody scent – at the tip of her tongue, thirst budding in her mouth.
Sitting on his lap, her legs parted on each side of him – in retaliation, she teased him, pressing herself further against him. She earned another nip at her neck, his muted groaned masked behind his teeth. She rolled her hips again, a simple faint movement that made his throat rumble, his muscle twitch in want.
His hand wandered to her hair, gently grabbing a handful from the back of her head, pulling away to look at her; meeting her gaze, he was stricken by the way her eyes swallowed him.
He was caught by the depth of her pupils, unable to turn away – enthralled by such a palette.
He could swim through these waters, drown in them and still feel like he was floating, the drops hydrating his scarred flesh anew.
The silence behind her eyes, the desire imbued across every wave, had taken the air out of his lungs, his chest unmoving at the sight.
The ache, emergent, hastened his movements; letting go of her hair, he went for her dress, hiking her skirt from the bottom while he remained glued to her, his stare unwavering. Resting it around her hips, her thighs were now exposed to his touch.
A stuttered breath left her to the feeling of his warm palms on her while thoroughly rubbing her skin; movements to ensure she remained carved into his hands.
She noticed a coy glimmer in his blues; she reached for them, her fingertips softly tracing them before leaning to press her forehead against his, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.
She was parched for his lips, the taste of them having lingered like a craving unable to be sated. His lower lip between her teeth, she gave a light tug before kissing him, catching his breath with the air of his lungs weakening her knees.
In a trance, relishing in the gluttonous caress of his tongue with her own, she had not felt the tightening grip to her body.
He rolled her hips, wanting to toy with her in reprisal from just a few moments earlier; she gasped at the sensation, her mouth apart between his, her eyes attached to his own with yearning stitched within her hues.
He repeated the movement, controlling the motion sensuously as his fingers dug into her flesh. He then pulled her in again, tugging at her mane as he kissed her fervently, her chest pressed firmly against his as his other arm was wrapped around her waist, holding her in place, his muscles molded into her back.
Nestling in his embrace, she reached for the curve of his jaw, her nails faintly scratching his cheeks with her thumbs retracing his lips. She hung onto him, the chafing of their bodies causing her to shiver as he rolled her hips – firmer than the last, hungrier.
A breathless moan fell into his mouth, her jaw slack as he repeated the motion, chasing his own incipient pleasure, the claws scraping at the base of his spine; it was the reaction stitched across her features, the wanton look on her face that left him besotted.
Her fingertips traipsed down his chest as she slightly pulled away from him. Reaching his breeches, she started unlacing them while keeping her eyes on him – he followed her with a locked gaze, unmoving.
Freeing her from his hold, he reached for her hands, leaving her to think he would aid in her quest.
Instead, he caressed them before sliding his palm forward, hiding under the scrunched-up skirt that laid around her hips.
An instant gasp out of her lungs, the feel of his callous fingers nestled between her thighs with his left hand placed at the junction of her pelvis.
He was toying with her, the fluttered touch grazing her warmth as he watched her intently, taking in every single trait of pleasure that echoed across her face.
Her knuckles whitened as they held onto the laces of his pants, her strength ready to break them from their confine. The lump in her throat remained stuck, her vocal cords silently shaking at the heat that seeped from his touch.
He held onto his willpower with all his might, wanting first to have her crumble under him, to taste first such divinity coating his digits. He slid in deeper, his thumb circling her apex while his finger stroked her wantonly; her head fell on his shoulder as her hips chased for his strokes, instinctively rolling her body against him. He lingered in his pacing, purposely, famished by the soft whimpers that left her mouth for his ears – silently begging him, pleading for relief.
And the more he could hear her, the more her faint voice – the musical strings tying him with every note infused into his veins, blood pumping and coursing with quickened steps – had been inebriating him, impatience was flourishing, its bones and flesh taking hold as it stirred restless in the pit of his stomach.
He nuzzled his face in the crook of her neck, nipping at her skin and breathing her in; her scent incited a soft groan hidden behind his throat, increasing his pace as he stroked her continuously in such a way her knees were starting to shake – he felt her tremble against him and it only hardened his resolve, to have her fall apart at his touch, to be the reason she needed relief, to watch her and know he was the cause of such desperation.
With whatever strength resided in her, she started undoing his trousers; she pulled her head away from him, her gaze cast down towards her actions. Glancing at the way his hand and wrist remained concealed under her dress made her shudder, stopping for a moment as her teeth slightly took in her lower lip. She met his gaze again, trying to fall back into focus while his tantalizing ministrations steadied at a now faster pace, the smirk ghostly settling across his face.
He felt himself slowly unraveling, simmering from the bottom as his body grew warmer against her.
He was ready to quit mid-task, simply wanting to undress and take her, to feel her take him and melt at her touch.
She struggled to voice any sort of comprehensible words – she went for his mouth, his lips clashing with hers as she kissed him again, the gesture feeding into the thrill residing between her thighs. The look of concentration on her face, taking in the way his fingers grazed and curled inside her, shook at the back of her throat as they reached for her moans over and over again.
He swallowed her sound, the euphoric sob warmly settling under his bones.
A chill then ran up her legs, the sudden loss of contact forcing his name out of her mouth in complaint.
Her chest expanded from her heavy breaths, a frown ghosting over her brows as she fell into his eyes.
Uhtred said nothing as his fingers – slick, moved away from her; another whimper left her from annoyance, void intruding and unwanted.
Stare locked in, she was stuck into the blue of his eyes as her body moved to his whim, his hand resettling her on his lap. His pants had slid down far enough to feel her wet and dripping above him, skin to skin.
They did not look away from each other as the air thickened around them – opaque in its composition; labored breaths grew, his fingers digging into her hips with a slow shift.
He used his strength to slightly lift her up until he was guiding her back to his lap as she sunk onto him, ever so slowly.
She grabbed the back of his chair, her nails grasping at the wood as shivers ran down her spine, the air in her lungs dancing into her chest.
Her mouth ajar, voiceless, to every sweet inch she could take. The soft groan rumbling at the edge of his throat had only added to the overwhelmed sensation that struck her.
And he had watched her, enamored by the way she was blissfully taking him, by the way his name had finally reached her lips again – pronounced with longing etched across her tongue. The tremors of her muscles echoed, leaving him to feel every spec of raised skin against his, from the way her breasts stroked his chest, to the way her thighs had tightened on his sides, clutching at her seat.
Joint hips, he stilled, shuddering under her touch as her arms gathered around him, gently caressing the nape of his neck; he whispered her name, the sound inciting control over her body.
They were catching their breaths, the suspense of imminent ecstasy nipping at their flesh.
The minute had hung in the air, in wait – Cwen needed her moment, her limbs adjusting to his presence, to the way he was buried inside her. The pinch of discomfort had faded, heat coiling under her ribs, trapped and dissipating ferociously throughout her blood stream in perfervid greed.
Uhtred caressed her, gingerly pushing her locks away from her face. She leaned into his touch, kissing the heel of his palm, her teeth grazing the skin – slowly, lingering almost. His fingers lost in her hair, he pulled her in and captured her lips with his own, laying claim to her in an unbridled manner.
Feeling her throb around him, he was gentle at first as he started thrusting. The rhythm of her hips, rolling – moving in want – was but a taste, a flicker of ember before the fire was set ablaze. A stuttered moan whispered under her breath, rushed an electrical spark to course through his veins, heating his skin with beads of sweat coating his body.
He was merciful, giving her what she was desiring as he controlled her hips; he was hypnotized by the way her body fitted with his – every muscle knitted together in such sweet harmony – by the way she was taking him, her soft cries thrumming under his chest, rushing down to him.
Unabashed, he whispered dirty nothings in her ear. The muttering of his words, as he declared how perfectly she molded around him, how enraptured he was by the warmth set between their hips, how starved she was for him – coaxed her teeth into his shoulder, her body shifting accordingly as she gradually hastened her pace, the percussion of his voice leaving her flushed and breathless.
In response, her tongue was only capable of whispering his name repeatedly, a mantra stuck at the back of her throat as every letter to his lustful lullaby coming out of his mouth came to her in waves.
The rawness of the act, the unadulterated pleasure seeping to their core – she cursed under her breath, her head falling backwards; she was overwhelmed, her mind clouded by the way he was stripping down her senses.
She clenched around him at the feel of his fingers finding their way back to her, squirming under her skirt. The added pressure faltered her movements for a moment, getting re-acquainted with the way he toyed with her pearl; her pupils blown, rapture pulsing erratically in her gut, scratched into the marrow of her bones for sweet release.
Her gaze fixated on him, his icy blues captured her in a haze, in complete wonder. Two oceans collided, dancing side by side as the soft waves wrapped them in a waltz, the caring movements gliding through seamlessly.
Swallowed into each other’s shades, submerged under the depth of such color, he found himself never tiring at the way she was looking at him.
Into the months he had settled in Rumcofa, he had stopped denying the way he felt about her – how attracted he had grown to become. He cared for her despite still loving Aethelflaed.
She would always be holding a part of him, but the woman in his arms, the one that clung to him for dear life as they chased joint ecstasy, had been plaguing his mind since arriving in the village – and he was not good at hiding it. Finan had teased him whenever he caught his friend making coquettish glances at Cwen. For Uhtred, it was not thought about it much – the gazes having intricately become part of their dynamic.
Yet tonight, drinking her ocean eyes into his own, drinking the cries of pleasure that rippled through their bodies, he wondered if it was time to truly move on from his past, to hang on to the woman who could give him what he wanted.
Peace and companionship.
The growing winter sun was reaching him, pulling him out of his slumber.
He stretched his arm towards the other side of the bed in the hopes of pulling her back against him.
He found it empty instead.
It woke him up.
He saw the void next to him and pushed himself up, resting on his elbows as he looked around his room; her clothes were nowhere in sight.
A routine that had been ongoing for the past few weeks – Cwen had taken the habit of waking up early and sneaking out of Uhtred’s home, not wanting to spark gossip amongst the villagers.
Such a dance had to remain private, an intimate affair between the two friends.
From the crack of dawn to nightfall, the steps to their serenade had secrecy involved – from the illusion of normalcy in the public eye, pretending as if no strings tied them together, as if Uhtred had not spent the better part of the previous night with his head between her thighs, in the throes of sweet euphoria.
And as much as they tried to remain subtle, as much as they tried to stay away, tempting danger with lingering stares and knowing looks shared from a distance, subtle smiles hiding behind their cheeks – the false imagery did not go unnoticed to their closest allies.
And as much for their attempt to remain in the dark, for their relationship resuming only behind closed doors – as much as Uhtred and Cwen cared for one another, their hearts were kept at bay, unable to fully crumble under the weight of their emotions.
The companionship at their feet was all it was – two people seeking warmth in each other’s embrace, away from the loneliness that pried into their daily lives while ignoring the faint screams singing in the back of their minds.
They were content with how things were – it was meant to stay easy, matters of the heart to be caged away under their bones.
But for Cwen, a shadow gnawed at her, unable to hide the way his heartbreak tore at her now that she was sharing his bed – it was worry filling her, frustrating her almost on the days Uhtred seemed to have fallen back into his old ways, on the days where his grief had guided his movements.
Her own grief sometimes haunted her like a ghost in the night – but with Uhtred around, having him by her side had resolved the ache she had been carrying on her shoulders.
It had created tension at times, a budding argument between them at the thoughts of their pasts hovering between the sheets.
“Can I not want you, and still love someone else?” He had protested, leaving her to sigh while looking at him with her frustration dying down, knowing he was right.
“Yes, you can.” She held herself back from him, her arms wrapped around herself, trying to hide away from him. “Just... I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t look for her – whoever she is – in my bed.”
He nodded, agreeing with her complaints. “That’s fair.” He tried to lighten the mood, reaching out for her, his fingers grazing the fabric of her dress.
“Uhtred.” His name was heavy on her tongue. “I mean it.” She ignored his attempt at touching her, needing to get her words out. “I’m fine with whatever this is, truly, but please do not think I am her. Do not hold me and care for me thinking you are holding and caring for her.”
He looked at her, attempting to approach her again as he caressed her cheek, his knuckles stroking her skin in silent suckling affection.
She sighed, closing her eyes as the warmth of his touch soothed her.
“I know who you are, Cwen.” She silently met his irises; he held onto her saddening gaze, desperate to wash it away. “And you are right. As much as I miss her, I do not invite her in my bed, or in yours.” He leaned closer, tilting her head up with his forefinger, closely whispering to her. “It’s just us.”
He gently pressed his lips against her own, kissing her with softness lingering into his touch – an attempt to ease her ache.
He then pulled away, just far enough to still feel the tickle of her lips. “I will only ever want to please you.” He smiled to her, his try at seducing her – leaving her to chuckle as she broke away from his embrace.
“Then you still have work to do, Lord.” She patted his cheek, teasingly, and managed to back away before he could catch her, leaving him to look at her dumbfounded to her comment where the sound of her sweet laughter echoed within the walls of his home.
A Prodigal Son Returns - Err, is Kidnapped - Oops, Wrong One
For @bhxrdy @itbmojojoejo and @gemini-mama
Yes, I wrote this in like an hour. This is my muse on coffee with an idea.
So, for everyone else... what if Uhtred, Finan, and Sihtric kidnapped the wrong boy from the monastery?... Here is the real story on how Cynlaef joined them.
No betaed, any grammar and spelling mistakes are mine, and unlike Uhtred, I own up to my mistakes lol
It was beautiful spring day.
Cynleaf was boiling though in the stupid wool robe under the hot sun.
He kept working in the garden though. He looked up and rolled his eyes as he saw Uhtred whistling as he worked the soil.
The boy annoyed him to no end. The only victory Cynlaef had over the older boy so far was the fact that he was taller than Uhtred.
Cynlaef had heard stories of Uhtred's father, also named Uhtred, I guess there is a lack of good Saxon names suddenly. He was known as the Dane-Slayer. And was said to be a giant with bright blond hair and blue eyes the colour of ice. That to look into the eyes of the Dane-Slayer was to lose one's soul.
“Cuthbert,” Brother Oswald said. “You must turn the soil more,” he added.
Cynlaef lowered his head and nodded. He went to work turning the soil more. He was not sure what he hated more about this place; the itchy hot robes or the fact that they had changed his name on arrival. He had been a boy of four when he had arrived and he was currently eleven going on twelve. He was surprised he remembered the name his mother had given him.
He certainly couldn't remember her face.
He pushed his thoughts aside when he stood straight and looked up. He saw a man laying on the roof of the monastery. He opened his mouth to say something when a bag was pulled over his head and he was grabbed on both sides.
“What!” he exclaimed.
“This one is a true sinner, father!” he heard an Irish voice say.
He fought as he was dragged away but he was no match for who had him. Warriors, he thought.
He was thrown over a horse and held on tight as they rode away.
Night fell and he was finally pulled from the horse and the bag pulled from his head. He blinked over and over and looked around. He saw three men, two Danes and another warrior, watching him.
“My son,” one of the Danes said as he stepped forward.
“Ah,” Cynlaef said. He reached up and brushed his hand through his dirty blonde hair. “What?” he asked softly.
The man in front of him reached out and pressed his hand to his cheek. “Uhtred, I have come to get you so that you may come with me when I reclaim Bebbanburg, my birthright and yours.”
Cynlaef's dark blue eyes stared at the man in front of it.
He thinks I'm his son, Uhtred. That means he's... Oh fuck me.
“Lord,” he said carefully, so not to lose any of his body parts, “I am not your son,” he added.
He saw the other Dane frown as did the other man leaning back against the tree trunk. Uhtred, the Dane-Slayer perhaps the most feared man in all of Britannia if the stories were to be believed, looked at him, anger written all across his face.
This is it. This is where I die, Cynlaef thought.
Uhtred dropped his hand and stepped back. “Lord?” came the question from the warrior leaning against the tree. There was a slight Irish twang in the man's word.
“This is Alfred's doing. The man has turned my son against me,” Uhtred spat out. “This is his legacy, not mine.”
“I, no,” Cynlaef tried but Uhtred was already walking away. He rubbed his face. He turned when the other Dane walked over to him with a little pony almost.
“To ride,” he said.
Cynlaef eyed it. “Yes, a magnificent beast,” he muttered.
The Irishman laughed and chuckled. Cynlaef took the reins and looked at the three warriors. He had no choice but to follow them.
And hopefully he could get them to believe him when he said he was not Lord Uhtred's son.
***
... it had been three days and Cynlaef was beginning to understand why the young Uhtred wished to be away from his father and his father's band of fools.
They were idiots.
They had to be.
Cynlaef had told them multiple times in every language he knew, even the broken Latin that he was not Uhtred, son of Uhtred. He was Cuthbert, born Cynlaef Harldson.
And so far, no luck.
Uhtred, the great Dane-Slayer believed Cynlaef was lying; that his son had disowned him. “Alfred's last punishment to me. How he must be enjoying this from his Christian heaven.”
Cynlaef was beginning to wonder how it was this man, this seemingly foolish man, was the great Uhtred Ragnarson, breaker of shield walls and Alfred's chosen warrior.
It just did not make sense.
“There you are, Uhtred,” Finan, the Irishman said. He walked up with another man, Osferth. Cynlaef had learned this was the bastard son of Alfred.
And clearly the only man within Uhtred's merry band who possessed at least one ounce of brains.
“I told you my name is not Uhtred,” Cynlaef muttered.
“Cynlaef,” Osferth said softly. “Come with us,” he nodded towards the gates. “There is someone here who wishes to see you.”
Cynlaef frowned. He did as they asked through, and he followed them through Coccham. He looked up when he saw Uhtred arguing with a priest, while another young monk stood by. Cynlaef frowned.
The young monk was Young Uhtred.
“You took the wrong monk you fool!” the priest yelled.
“I would recognize my own son, Beocca!”
“Clearly, you did not!”
Cynlaef laughed. He couldn't help it. He just laughed as he walked over to them. Uhtred, Beocca, and Young Uhtred looked at him. Cynlaef rubbed his face and shook his head.
“I have told you, I am not your son, lord,” he answered softly. “He is,” he pointed at Young Uhtred.
He watched as Uhtred looked back and forth between them. Cynlaef saw the realization dawn on him. Young Uhtred shook his head.
“I cannot believe I share blood with you,” he said.
Finan snapped his fingers. “Ah, there it is. The distain and annoyance that only the blood of Uhtred could produce,” he said.
Cynlaef snorted as Uhtred gave Finan a glare. “Really, Finan?” he asked.
Finan shrugged. “What? I wasn't the one who didn't recognize his own son.”
Father Beocca shook his head. “Come, Cuthbert, let us get you back to the monastery and-.”
Cynlaef looked at Uhtred. “Actually,” he started. He bit his bottom lip. “I would like to stay, if you would allow it, lord,” he said.
Finan chuckled and Osferth smiled as well. Beocca rolled his eyes. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “Only you, Uhtred, could lead a monk astray.”
Uhtred smirked. He looked at Beocca. “Well, I did also show Hild the savage life as well. And you, Beocca,” he shrugged, “perhaps your God has decided to use me to help lead his children away from his church to better things.”
Finan snorted and Osferth crossed himself as he rolled his eyes. Boecca shook his head. “That is not how it works, Uhtred,” he said.
“So, that's it,” Young Uhtred cut in. “No one cares that he clearly did not know what his own son looked like?”
Cynlaef snorted. “You must have recognized Finan and Sihtric, and yet I did not see you shouting that they had the wrong boy, either, Uhtred,” he said.
The young man eyed him. “I hate it here,” he muttered and stalked away.
Finan watched him go. He pointed at him. “I see it now; the scowl, the angry walk, the stance,” he looked at Cynlaef, “ya are not stubborn enough to be Uhtred's son.”
Osferth snorted and grabbed Cynlaef as Beocca began to tear into Uhtred again. “Come on, Finan, let's find somewhere for Cynlaef to sleep, since Uhtred will not doubt will be taking his room in the hall.”
“Ya go, baby monk. I am enjoying watching Beocca tell Uhtred off. I'll join ya in a bit.”
Cynaef laughed. He looked back and saw Uhtred look down, actually looking ashamed. He turned around and let Osferth tug him back towards Coccham.
Uhtred and his men may not be that smart, but they were a family.
And Cynlaef desperately wanted one of those; he needed one.
He had a feeling he would fit right in with them all.
𖦹. 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ₊̇*⸼ The day Wulfwynn was cruelly torn from the life she had always known was a crisp day of autumn. When the green leaves of the trees turn brown and the wind grows colder. The day Wulfwynn miraculously stumbled upon Uhtred and his companions in the depths of the woods was a cold day of autumn. When the lakes are blanketed with frost and the fields are bare. And yet, despite the frost and the wounds, Wulfwynn met her destiny that day.
𖦹. 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 *𖧧₊‧ Days and days. Cold night and colder days yet. Days running, fleeing. Fearing for her life. Until God sent her Uhtred and his men.
𖦹. 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏 ₊̇*⸼ Finan x Wulfwynn of Northumbria (Original Female Character), Finan x Wulfwynn of Northumbria x Sihtric Kjartansson, Sihtric Kjartansson x Wulfwynn of Northumbria, Finan x Wulfwynn of Northumbria x Sihtric Kjartansson x Uhtred of Bebbanburg, Uhtred of Bebbanburg x Wulfwynn of Northumbria, Finan x Sihtric Kjartansson x Uhtred of Bebbanburg, Osferth x Ealhflæd of Cent (Original Female Character), Leofric x Mereswyth of Wessex (Original Female Character).
𖦹. 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 *𖧧₊‧ Alternate Universe, Everybody Lives/Nobody Dies (Almost), Show Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Multiple Graphic Descriptions Of Wounds, Multiple Graphic Descriptions Of Battles And Post-Battles, Blood On Several Occasions, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canonical Character Death, Non-Canonical Character Death, Polyamory, Polyamorous Character, Slow Burn & Fast Burn (You'll Understand), Fast-Developing Relationships, Age Difference, Coping With Grief, Dealing With Traumas, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder | PTSD, Bonding Over Traumas, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Multiple Smuts (Ratings Specified In Concerned Chapters), Breaking Up & Making Up, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Protective Finan, Finan Needs A Hug, Finan Backstory, Protective Sihtric, Jealous Sihtric, Sihtric Backstory, Protective Uhtred, Uhtred Is A Little Shit, Adorable Osferth, Soft Osferth, Osferth Backstory, Leofric Lives, Clapa Lives.
𖦹. 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 *𖧧₊‧ Mild-Graphic Description of Bruises And Injuries.
𖦹. 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 ₊̇*⸼ 2,912k.
𖦹. 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 *𖧧₊‧ Just so you know, my timeline is just a bit different from the books and show. At first, I had planned to stick to the books' timeline, but it would have made Uhtred (and therefore Finan and Sihtric) too old for Wulfwynn. Well, I speak of Finan and Sihtric but, in the books, Finan's age is not precised (nor is Osferth's) and, as for Sihtric, when he meets Uhtred, he does not know his own age and Uhtred apparently guesses that he's somewhere around 14 years old. The show's timeline encapsulated two books per season, meaning that by season 3, Uhtred would have been between 34-44 years old (yes, because if we follow that logic, it means that each season stretches on a period of time of 10 years, which, you will agree, is clearly not the case).
That is why I decided to twist the timeline a bit and rearrange the ages to my own preference. No, about Finan. It is my own headcanon that he is not younger than Uhtred, but just slightly older than him by 3 years. For Sihtric, I wanted him to younger than both Uhtred and Finan (as in the show and books) and therefore closer to Wulfwynn's age but still older than her. Now, about Osferth, in the books we know he is already born when Uhtred spies on Alfred at the age of 10 but it is not precised when he was born. So I just kind of guessed and twisted things again to make him the age I liked when he joined Uhtred. And, for Clapa, to me (in the show, at least, because I have only read the first book at the moment) he was clearly older than Uhtred by, at least, 9 years.
That being said, this story still contains huge age gaps. Uhtred is 16 years older than Wulfwynn, Finan is 19 years older, and Sihtric is 6 years older. Adding to that the gap that already exists between Uhtred, Finan and Sihtric, since Uhtred is 10 years older than him and Finan is 13 years older. In real life, these differences in ages would be quite problematic, but here, we are in a fictional story and as long as these examples are not transferred to real life, it is still acceptable.
Also, I mean to stretch my story from season 3 to season 5 and even perhaps to the Seven Kings Must Die, but I do not know yet. So I will keep a timeline updated in the notes at the beginning of each chapter so you do not lose yourself too much ahah!
𖦹. 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 ₊̇*⸼ 892-895 AD ⵓ 6th November 892 AD - 9th November 892 AD ⨾ Uhtred is 34-37 yo ⨾ Finan is 37-40 yo ⨾ Sihtric is 24-27 yo ⨾ Clapa is 43-44 yo ⨾ Osferth is 29-32 yo ⨾ Wulfwynn is 18-21 yo.
ƬӇҼ RƲⱮՏ ⱮҼƝƲ. + ƬӇҼ ՏҼRӀҼ ⱮҼƝƲ. + CHAPTER TWO. + Archive Of Our Own. + The Playlist. + The Guild of Dragonlings. ₊‧
SOMEWHERE BETWEEN CIPPANHAMM AND MELKSHAMM, WESSEX, 892 AD.
Fear. Dread . It crept its way into the heart, maliciously, viciously, its hideous claws jagged, and hooked, burrowing in its throbbing flesh. It gnawed venomously into the guts, tangled into hundreds of hundreds of tightly knitted knots. It crawled malevolently into the lungs, its coarse scales scraping, and into the throat, its rugged tongue scratching. It soaked bitterly into the bones, into the marrow, cold, terribly cold.
Wulfwynn was devoured with fear. Wrecked with dread. She felt the ache in her limbs, the burn in her lungs. She felt the cold whipping at the crusted scratches that littered her knuckles, her palms, her knees and her muddy heels. She felt the soreness of the swelled bruises that dotted her thighs, her arms and her wrists, her neck and her ankles, and her cheeks. They scattered across her body, mingled with her freckled flesh, scarlet and maroon, melded with her delicate moles, purply and olive.
Wulfwynn felt utterly terrified.
Twiddled branches and tangled roots scrapped at her calves and knees as she delved into the depths of the woods. Breathy sobs escaped her chapped lips, while the cold that chilled her lungs licked at the salty tears that soaked her cheeks. The writhed birches swallowed the misty, gloomy skies, engulfed the pallid gleam that shimmered between their leaves. And they’d swallow Wulfwynn too. They'd swallow her whimpers, and they'd choke her with their branches, they’d throttle her with their roots—
Wulfwynn sobbed panickedly, as she whisked hurriedly between the pines and the bushes, her heart onto her tongue.
They’d scratch, and scrape, and rasp, and snarl and sneer and—
A strangled yelp choked in her throat as she stumbled onto a root. She swayed abruptly and fell. Whimpers and whines of throbbing anguish and nauseous panic swirled through the cinnamon and crimson leaves that twirled around Wulfwynn as she hurtled down the muddy hill. And she gasped breathlessly as she slammed into a thick trunk.
Wulfwynn clutched the bark, chafing her fingers, and wobbled, then rose quiveringly, but rose nonetheless, before her heel slipped in the mud and she tumbled again. She grunted as she fell, and fell, and fell, down the hill, down, down, until she landed into the dirt. Wulfwynn laid into the leaves and the dirt, perhaps an eternity, perhaps an instant, furled and shuddering, her heart throbbing into her temples and her knees and elbows aching.
But, though she struggled, arose onto her palms. Bitter tears fell from her reddened cheeks, from her chin, onto her scratched, scarred fingers and between her knuckles. And then, a shout resonated through the pines,
“Lord !”
Fear gripped at Wulfwynn’s heart with it crooked claws. She fumbled panickedly with her kirtles and skirts, shuffled and tumbled, and wobblily arose, but fell onto her knees with a frustrated whine. She huffed shakily.
“Lord !” Wulfwynn prayed. She prayed fervently, as the worried yell swivelled in the chilly whiff. “Are ye— Are ye alright?” She’d have chuckled, but Wulfwynn merely sobbed. “Ye’re— Uhtred !”
She peered hesitantly and her glance landed onto the cross that dangled before her teary eyes. A heavy huff tickled her cheek.
“Ye’re alright, lass, ye’re alright,” He murmured quietly as he knelt. She felt his pity, his gentleness and his kindheartedness, and she sniffled. Her heart swelled. “Ye’ll be alright, I promise.”
Wulfwynn nodded meekly. His soft promise poured onto her sore scratches and scrapes, syrupy and smooth and warm. Her heart seared with a sour tincture of gratitude and lament, with a driblet of reassurance and a splatter of solace. Her glance anchored into umber orbs, tinged with warmth and kindness, and worry.
“Finan.” A whistle tickled Wulfwynn's guts. “ Finan !”
“Lord,” Finan startled, as he leapt onto his muddy boots. Wulfwynn shivered as the chill tickled at her neck. "She's hurt, Lord."
“Hurt?” The Lord —Uhtred, she assumed— inquired, with doubt and incertitude. And a tinge of scepticism. “Quite hurt.” Finan affirmed, and nodded.
A chiffchaff chirped. “Lord?” Queried a soft murmur. “She indeed seems quite unwell.”
The Lord’s glance landed unto the salty tears that streaked her cheeks, unto her bruises, and her scratches and scrapes, and she felt oddly, yet agreeably, absorbed into the frosty depths her eyes plunged into. His stare felt cold, but she embraced that cold. She felt queerly reassured, comforted, shrouded into that cold. The Lord hummed quietly. And nodded. Wulfwynn huffed a breath of relief.
Finan knelt beside her, his knees in the mud, and she felt his warmth caress her as he wrapped an arm around her waist. Wulfwynn grabbed her tattered kirtles, and Finan muttered, “ Jesus .” as he glanced at her legs. She grasped his hand, hers frail and fragile in his callused palm. She grunted with anguish, as she struggled to arise, but her knees buckled.
Finan's hold tightened, "Gently, gently." he reassured her softly, "Osferth!" he beckoned with a whistle and a nod. Saddle buckles rattled, leaves rustled and an arm slithered across her back. “Apologies, Lady.” and Wulfwynn uttered a quavery huff.
“Gently.” Finan repeated as Wulfwynn arose slowly. “Alright. We’ll get ye onto Sihtric’s horse.”
Osferth nodded. He gently took ahold of her elbow, and they strode to the horses. They approached Sihtric’s horse, and Wulfwynn glanced at the silhouette sat astride its saddle, shrouded in furs, as Sihtric’s stare anchored into hers. She felt Finan’s warmth fade when he stepped back and unbuckled his cloak's buckle, before he wrapped the warm, woollen garment around Wulfwynn’s shuddery shoulders.
“It’ll keep ye warm.” Finan murmured as he tucked the hood on Wulfwynn's messy, tousled curls and tresses. “Ye’ll ride with Sihtric. Alright?”
She nodded. Finan approached the horse and leaned down. He cupped his callused hands, fingers knotted, and Wulfwynn grasped his arm as she hesitantly placed her heel in his palm. "Alright. I'll hoist ye there and Sihtric will get ye, huh?" Wulfwynn hummed and, quite facilely, Finan lifted her. She gracelessly threw her leg across the saddle and, as he told her, Sihtric grabbed her. “Ye’re good?”
“Good.” Wulfwynn muttered with a nod. Finan’s eyes widened at the hoarseness of her mutter but he nodded nonetheless.
He and Osferth hopped back onto their horses. Wulfwynn fidgeted a bit, and grabbed Sihtric's thick, woolly ebony mantle with her fingertips. But he felt it and turned, and gently grasped her wrist before he wrapped it across his chest.
Wulfwynn jolted when he softly spoke, “You may hold on.” And, although timidly, Wulfwynn slipped her arms around Sihtric’s waist. Her fingers gripped the crisscrossed leather of his cotte, and her fingertips stroked the fur that flanked its edges. The scents of cinders and smoke, of dust and caked mud and hay tickled her nostrils. Yet she felt oddly soothed as she faintly breathed into the heavy wool.
“We ride!” then hailed Uhtred.
Wulfwynn’s legs dangled from the horse’s rump, and swayed slightly with his sturdy strides. The muffled thud of hooves as they rustled dead leaves, the snorts of the horses, the chirps of the birds and the warmth of Sihtric's furs cradled Wulfwynn. And slowly, as she fell into slumber, her head lolled and bobbed, and then, settled between Sihtric's shoulders.
And Wulfwynn slept, as much as she hadn't slept in weeks.
₊‧𒀭⋆₊
The noisy hustle and bustle of Wintanceaster was quite pleasant. With the yells of its merchants, as they tempted the villagers with their trouts and lampreys, their hot loaves of oat breads, their goat cheeses, and their turnips and parsnips, and their pears. The bright, merry talks of the villagers. The jolly chuckles and giggles of the children.
Wintanceaster was noisy and Finan basked in its noisiness.
He particularly appreciated this noisiness, as it differed considerably from the howls and yells that engulfed the field. As well as the smells. The scents of mud sodden, thickened with blood, of tangy sweat and barf were, at Wintanceaster, the scents of roasted pork and latterly brewed barley ale that wafted from the taverns.
Yet, this bustle hadn't awakened the lass, whose scratched and scraped arms were wrapped across Sihtric's chest, and whose reddened, bruised cheek was squooshed against his back, although she was shrouded with Finan’s hood. But Sihtric wasn’t bothered in the least.
“We'll take her to mine." declared Finan, as they strided towards the stables.
A snort. "Really? Huh." Clapa chuckled wickedly. He glared at the Dane. "Well, we're not gonna get her to yers, are we?" Finan retorted.
“He’d frighten her.” Uhtred sniggered, as he glanced at the giant. Clapa smirked.
“Frighten her? I’m but meek, sweet and gentle as a lamb, Lord.” He protested, and Uhtred chuckled, “Huh-uh.”
They approached the stables and alighted from their steeds. Finan felt the soreness in his legs as he neared Sihtric’s horse. He nodded towards Clapa, “Can ye take her?” and the Dane contourned the horse. He held his arms towards the lass, and Sihtric gently peeled her hands from the crisscrosses of his cotte, before Clapa slithered an arm across her back, as she slipped into his arms, and then slithered a hand beneath her legs. “I’ve got her.”
"Alright." Finan nodded. The muddy strands of straw of the stables crumpled beneath the soles of Sihtric's boots, when he leaped from his horse.
The lass’ forehead was nestled in Clapa’s neck, and the hood had flopped back a tad from her head. Finan’s glance fell onto the maroon and olive bruises that dotted her cheeks and chin, the scarlet slit that carved in the slope of her nose and the split etched into her plump, chapped lip.
He then turned to Osferth, “We’ll need yer balms and herbs.”
“Aye.” he nodded and hurried to fetch the leather satchel on his saddle.
They then took her to Finan's. He didn't quite considered it— well, considered it what? A haven? His? His haven? Nah, his haven was Coccham. This was but a humble, wooden hut, scarcely adorned, with a bed padded with straw and wool, draped with a few woollen and linen pillows and blankets, and a few furs. A table, scattered with bowls, melted candles and a hutch of trinkets, stood in the corner, with three stools. Light linen sheers flanked the walls, near the bed, while a wooden chest sat beside it, and a bench stood in the corner, near the entrance.
Clapa settled the lass onto the bed, with greater gentleness than Finan had hoped, and, with care, Finan unbuckled the buckle of his coat and slipped the wool from the lass' frail, delicate silhouette, before Clapa laid her tousled head onto the pillows.
“‘Tis still as modest as it was the last I was here.” enthused Uhtred, as he entered the hut with Osferth and Sihtric.
Finan stared at the lass an instant, and then turned to Osferth. He startled and hurried to the table and, amongst the wooden bowls, grabbed the dusty pestle and mortar. He then brought the herbs onto the table from his satchel, and glanced at the sleeper before he took the yarrow.
They stared quietly at the monk, as he grabbed the pestle and mashed the dried yarrow into the mortar. He then grabbed a bowl and poured a quaff of his gourd, and sprinkled the dried plant. Osferth then took the bowl and told Finan, “It’ll soothe her body.”
Finan took the bowl and nodded. Softly, he knelt onto the bed's edge, and slowly tickled the beverage between the lass' chapped lips.
“Then?” Sihtric queried as he neared the table. Osferth took the bowl back. "Then," he mumbled, as he tossed plants in the wooden bowl, and took the pestle, "I'll tend to those scrapes and scratches with chamomile," he grimaced, as though he was scraped and scratched, "and soothe her bruises with nettle."
Sihtric glanced at the lass and the frown between her brows. And a tinge of concern tickled his chest. Osferth grinded the chamomile and the nettle in the bowl, and then poured a quaff, “She’ll heal.” he assured, as he approached the bed and settled on the edge.
“But she’ll need a while. She’s quite enfeebled.” he murmured softly, and placed the bowl onto the woollen blankets. “But she’ll heal.”
₊‧𒀭⋆₊
Wulfwynn felt cradled.
Shrouded in the softness of the wool of Cynefrith's sleeves across her hips, and swaddled in the warmth of Eadgyth's skirts and kirtles, her legs entangled with hers. She felt utterly well.
She hadn’t felt well in quite a while. But between Cynefrith and Eadgyth, she felt soothed.
Yet, Wulfwynn stirred in her slumber. She nestled her nose in Eadgyth's tangled and tousled tresses, and hummed with contentment when the scents of chamomile tickled her nostrils. She felt Cynefrith’s gentle breath tickle the back of her neck.
Wulfwynn sighed with delight. She laced her fingers with Cynefrith’s, and Eadgyth wrapped her arm around them, and cuddled them.
And an ache clutched at her chest.
Wulfwynn’s brows furrowed. She huddled and clutched Cynefrith's lithe fingers, and snuggled into Eadgyth's neck. But she gasped as her chest tightened.
And she sobbed. Whiffs of cinders and embers, of nettle and of dust swamped her nostrils and tickled her guts. She sobbed, and sobbed, as the ache clawed at her heart.
Sleep left her, slowly, so slowly it felt an eternity.
Her sight remained blurred a moment before she discerned the shutters, and the pale gleams of the morn that crept between them. Then she glanced beside her. But Eadgyth was not there. And when she turned and peered above her shoulder, Cynefrith was not there either. And then, she remembered.
The yells, the tears. The lake. The sobs, the pleas. The plains. The blood.
Cynefrith was not there.
Eadgyth was not there.
They were not here.
Wulfwynn whimpered. There was neither Eadgyth nor Cynefrith. There were not their embraces, merely linen blankets and furs. There was not their warmth, just a woollen and straw mattress. They were not there.
She sobbed, her hands clutched at her chest. She sobbed, her scraped and scratched knees beneath her chin. She sobbed, muffled into the blankets. She did not hear the squeak of the wooden door and the creak of the boots onto the floorboards.
“Lass?”
Wulfwynn perked and winced. "Ye're awake, at last." Finan huffed, as the concern that etched his face melted into relief. Wulfwynn's tears trickled from her cheeks and wetted the blankets. Finan approached the bed.
“Ye’re alright, lass. Ye’re alright.” he reassured her. But Wulfwynn wasn’t alright.
Her lips quivered, “I,” she huffed quietly, feebly, “I fled, but I—” and faltered, “I fled,”
“Hey, hey,” Finan neared her, and she felt her heart thump, "I— I fled but I—" she sobbed, "But—" And Finan gently seated at the bed's edge, “Hey, ye’re alright, lass, ye’re alright.” he repeated. “Ye’re fine,” he murmured softly.
Alright. She was alright. Wulfwynn nodded. Was she alright? She wasn not quite. But she nodded nonetheless. Her sobs ebbed. She felt, as she had felt with Uhtred, oddly, yet agreeably, comforted and reassured when her eyes anchored into Finan’s. But she felt terribly feeble too. And sore.
“Ye shouldn't tire yerself too much. Ye're still weak and ye haven't eaten yet.” he uttered prudently, as though he feared he might frighten her. “Ye’ve slept quite a bit and Osferth has tended to yer,” he swallowed, “wounds.”
Wulfwynn glanced down at her hands, wrapped in thin strips of linen, folded around her thumbs and knotted in the crook of her palms. The whiffs of chamomile and nettle wafted to her nose when she wiggled her fingers. She noticed she was no longer garbed in her shredded skirts and kirtles, drenched with sweat, sullied with guts and smeared with mud and dust, but a linen shift that smelt of sage. Hence why she had felt so comfortable in her slumber. And she frowned. If she’d been changed, then had they—
“We haven’t.” Finan assured, halting her thoughts, as though he knew what she was wondering. “Osferth merely tended to the wounds on yer arms and legs. Yer virtue is untarnished. Lord Uhtred's sister and Abbess Hild tended to those he couldn't. And then changed ye.”
She nodded shyly. “W-Where,” she licked her lips, “Where are we?”
“Wintanceaster, Lady.”
He stood from the bed and went to the table, in the corner, where there were three stools and, scattered onto the table, dusty baubles and wooden plates, bowls and cups. “Have I,” she straightened slightly and grimaced, “H-Have I slept long?”
He picked a goblet and grabbed the jug, near a plate in which there were the scraps of a meal. Wulfwynn then wondered if they had remained there while she slept. “About three days. Since we arrived.”
“Oh.” she murmured. Finan returned to the bed and handed her the goblet. She whispered her thanks, and wondered if he had heard her, but as he nodded, she thought he must have. She took a sip and felt the soreness of her throat.
Then her stomach rumbled.
Her cheeks dusted with embarrassment and she coughed. She had not eaten but a few berries in days, and had eaten aught but stale bread in weeks. The mere sight of the scraps of a meal had her stomach growl.
"Ye must be famished." Finan frowned, as if concerned. He then nodded, as though approving a thought he'd just had. "Alright. I'll get Hild fer ye and we'll take ye to the tavern. I'll be quick."
He then turned on his heels and strode out of the hut.
summary: flora returns to coccham after a visit to winchester
warnings: none, i think
word count: 618
prompt: “I knew you’d fight until the war was won, but you deserve a chance to meet your son. Look around, look around at how lucky we are to be alive right now ” — Lin-Manuel Miranda, Hamilton
for @emilyhufflepufftlk ‘s 200 follower challenge, congrats babe!! this is rlly short, but i hope you like it:)
— — —
Anyone who knew Uhtred knew Flora was almost always in arms-length distance of him. He protected her and trusted no one else to do the job correctly. In return, she supported him in all his endeavors, no matter what they were or how extreme and idiotic they were.
Uhtred took care of her like a sister, but not a sister because the way he first thought about her was not a way to think about a sister. However, that was long ago.
She stuck with him through wars and wives, kings and oaths; and never once thought about leaving his side.
Assisted by Beocca, she rode back from Winchester, immediately going to Uhtred to inform him of her return.
“Lord Uhtred, the Lady Flora has returned from Winchester,” a guard of Coccham reported and left just before the woman made her way into the hall.
“Uhtred, I have arrived!” she called as soon as she opened the door to the hall.
“I’ve been told,” he smiled at her as she groaned.
“They always ruin the surprise,” she pouted before quickly making her way into Uhtred’s embrace.
“Who brought you to Coccham? I was about to send Finan for you at sunrise,” he asked with a confused look, pulling away from her.
“Beocca,” she shrugged and began to remove a few layers of furs.
“The priest?” he questioned and grew angry.
“Yes…?” she trailed off.
“And what would he do if you were to be attacked? Pray to his God?” he almost yelled.
“Well, Uhtred, you could have joined me and seen your children,” she offered, “then I would have had the best protection, yes?”
“I could not, not now. We are preparing for an attack on—.”
“God, I knew you’d fight until the war was won,” she stopped him.
“I am a warrior; this is what I do. Where do you become confused?” he asked with a small, humorless laugh, “I have spoke to you many times. I fight and we stay here, I do this for us.”
“I know you serve the king and you do so well, Uhtred. Do not mistake my words—I am thankful. You are the great, undefeated warrior, but you deserve a chance to see your son,” she reasoned and rested her hand upon his shoulder.
“I have no time for the affairs of my children,” he shook his head, “and you visit them often.”
“Look around,” she smacked the back of his head, “Look around at how lucky we are to be alive right now. You have come close to death too many times and your children need you before it is too late.”
Uhtred sent her a look as to say he didn’t want to, “Uhtred is a—.”
“All your children, Uhtred,” she interrupted him, “even Os—.”
“You will not speak of that child!” he rose his voice as he towered over the woman.
“I am not one of your weak wives who will allow you to act this way toward me,” she spoke calmly, “I take care of your neglected children, I have stood by your side through all your strife, and I stand with Saxons every day. I will speak how I care to and you will not speak to me as I am lesser.”
Uhtred contemplated in silence for a moment before letting out a long sigh, “You are right,” he refused to look her in the eye, “You have done much for me and my children, I am grateful. I am glad to see you made it back alive.”
“As am I, now, who are planning an attack on?” she asked and sat at the table with the lord, who watched her with a prideful smile.
This was a little something I came up with yesterday at around 3 am while trying to sleep, I thought it was cute and quickly wrote it down on my phone so I could write about it. I hope all of you enjoy it like I did! Love you all xx
Pairing: Uhtred Ragnarsson x Reader
Warnings: None
P.S: This is set in an AU.
It was a day of celebration in Wessex.
Today was the banquet in honor of yet another victory in battle led by Uhtred Ragnarsson. It was also an excuse for King Alfred to find a suitable husband for his daughter, Princess Y/n.
The palace was decorated beautifully, with flowers hanging all over the ceiling, a group of musicians playing joyful songs and people dancing around while the rest ate and drank with cheerful smiles on their faces. As usual, King Alfred sat in the middle of the main table followed by her wife on his side and the other side occupied by his children, the princess and the prince.
Alfred looked at everyone in the banquet, his eyes roaming all around the place as he saw the respectable men from the different countries across the land; all of them perfectly suitable for his daughter. He just had to choose wisely.
On the other side of the table, Y/n slowly slid away from her chair, giving a wink to her little brother as he nodded in a silent agreement. She then with careful steps, disappeared off to one of her favorite rooms in the castle.
Her hands softly undid the tight braids on her head that her mother had made her wear for the celebration. Her feet swiftly carried her towards the room, her hands left her already messy hair to open the door of the room, and with a careful look to each side of the corridor she slid inside.
Being inside of the room wasn’t forbidden, yet she knew that missing out of the banquet would surely earn her a nice long talk with her mother.
She smiled as she walked around, her hands touching the desks that sat there along with some old books before she quickly made her way towards another pair of doors which she slowly opened, revealing a balcony where she would often sit down to admire the stars and constellations on warm nights. Her mind wandered off, thinking how there were so many things about the universe yet to be discovered, how they must look so little if someone were to watch them from above the sky.
Yet her thoughts were interrupted when she heard the door being opened, she knew that it couldn’t be her parents cause neither of them used the room. Her worries went away when she saw the familiar figure of the brave warrior, Uhtred.
“I thought you would be enjoying the banquet..” his deep yet gentle voice said, a smile curving on the side of his lips as he closed the doors behind him.
“I could say the same thing to you.” she chuckled. “After all, it was meant as a celebration of your glorious victory.” she spoke.
Uhtred made his way closer to her, looking around at the room they were in as she went back to stare up at the stars with a sigh. “I heard from trustworthy sources that your father took this opportunity to find you a husband, is that true?” he asked, taking a seat next to her.
She giggled for a moment. “Is there any chance that those trustworthy sources names are Finan and Father Beocca?” she looked at him, he simply nodded with a smirk on his lips. “But, yes. Alas they were correct.” her giggles died as she sighed.
“You do not sound quite content with that.” he commented
“How could I be content with my father marrying me off to some stranger? Marriage should be the sacred union of two souls who love each other, not a strategic contract.” she spoke firmly. “I guess that’s one of the many perks of being a princess, huh?” she sarcastically said as she played with the hem of her dress.
“Maybe.. maybe with time, you’ll be able to fall in love with the one your father has chosen for you.”
“How could I do that when my heart already belongs to someone else?”
She confessed, her eyes directly staring at his blue ones as they looked down for a moment before regaining composure once again. She was still, her heart beating faster as they stayed quiet for a moment.
“Sometimes life is not fair..” he softly said, grabbing her hand as he ran his fingers against her palm. “Sometimes all we can do it’s to keep on going and try to forget what we’re leaving behind.”
“I cannot do that, Uhtred.” a tone of sadness overcoming her voice as she almost choked on her words. “I cannot ignore the way my heart aches everyday, I simply cannot ignore the fact that my heart, body and soul aches for you..”
Uhtred eyes quickly diverted from the floor to her eyes, who were glowing under the moonlight and due to the tears that were filling it. His heart starting to beat faster, as she felt her hands squeezing his. Her eyes screamed his name in silence.
Both of them wanted to keep their unspoken feelings hidden, knowing that their love was not only impossible, but forbidden. Her father and mother wouldn’t approve, he was a pagan and she was a Christian. She needed a husband who could give her country a strong alliance, and Uhtred was still in the process of taking back Bebbanburg.
“I could never love someone as much as I love you, Uhtred Ragnarsson.” she sincerely confessed, moving over to him as her lips embraced his, moving in a passionate yet slow synchrony as his harms snaked around her waist, holding her as if someone were to take her away.
“My heart will always be yours, Y/n. From now until my dying breath.” he said breaking away from the kiss, pressing their foreheads together as her cheeks were getting wet with her tears. His hands wiping them away and holding her body against his, wishing for her to stay in his arms forever.
“I should’ve seen this coming.”
A voice on the far end of the room spoke, making both of them turn around quickly as their eyes fell on the figure of King Alfred, who made his way inside when both of them were too busy confessing their love for each other.
“I should’ve known that you two were in love.” he said, his arms crossed against his chest as he maintained a stern look on his face. “Yet I think I may have decided to unwillingly look past it.”
“Father, I—” she tried to speak as she stood up swiftly.
“Silence, now.” he said, holding his hand up to her as he looked at the man behind her. “I wish to speak with you, Uhtred.”
She looked back at Uhtred with a frightened look on her face, not knowing what her father would do to him with the information he had just acquired.
“Father, please..” she begged looking at him.
“At once, Uhtred. Please.” were the only words Alfred spoke as he walked outside of the room.
Uhtred stared at the woman in front of him, trying to give her a confident smile as he then walked towards the outside of the room. Once he was out, he closed the door after him, looking up to find the King standing in the middle of the corridor.
“I want to say that—”
“Do you truly love her, Uhtred?” were the first words that came out of the King’s mouth.
“What?” Uhtred spoke confused, that certainly was not what he thought the King would be asking him.
“Would you die for her, Uhtred?” he continued.
“I would do whatever it takes to make sure she is happy.” Uhtred replied without thinking. “I love your daughter with every fiber of my being and would die for her without a second thought.”
Alfred stared at him for what seemed like minutes, nodding softy as he intertwined his own hands and walked around for a bit before staring back at Uhtred.
“It’s decided then.”
Was the only thing he said, leaving Uhtred confused as Alfred opened the door and looked at her daughter who had tears in her eyes and a worried look on her face as she looked between Uhtred and her father.
“I have decided..” he started speaking to his daughter with a firm look on his face before it turned into a soft one. “That the man you shall marry with is Uhtred of Bebbanburg.”
Her mouth was agape as he stared at her father, she could not digest what he had just said as she looked at Uhtred, who also had a shocked look on his face because of what her father had just said.
“Nothing will ever be more important to me that seeing my daughter happy.” he told both of them. “And if my daughter’s happiness is being with you, then I would not have it otherwise.” he gave them a soft smile as he walked towards Y/n and caressed her cheek before kissing her forehead in a loving manner. “I would never forgive myself if you were to carry an unhappy life.. all that I ever wished for my children, is for them to live a blissful life, like the one I have with you, your mother and your brother.” he cleaned her tears as he gave her one of the sweetest smiles she has ever seen on her father’s face.
“Now, I will talk with your mother about this.” he explained as he looked between the two of them before staring at his daughter once again. “Have no fear my child, I know she’ll come to her senses once I talk to her.”
He then, with one last kiss to her daughter’s forehead, left the room.
Y/n was quick to jump into Uhtred’s arms, the man squeezing her so tight she was sure he would break her bones anytime. Joyful laughs came from his lips as she stared lovingly at him with happiness in her eyes. “I cannot believe what just happened.” she said between smiles.
He looked down at her, his blue eyes shinning with joy as he caressed her soft face. “I think it’s true to say that love conquers it all..” he gave her a warm smile.
“I love you, Uhtred of Bebbanburg.” she smiled brightly at him.
“And I love you, Y/n of Wessex.” he replied before closing the distance between them and kissing her lips passionately.
