#and also beasts. cant forget the beasts. and forest paths. and blood and killing and murder

[mantisgodsdomain]

Finished Slay The Princess.

Final order of princesses: The Stranger, The Damsel, The Moment of Clarity, The Prisoner, The Wounded Wild

Final number of princesses killed: Somewhere between 0 and 0.5

Final number of princesses slain: 0

Out of all of the Princesses, The Beast ranked at #1 enthusiasm from the liveblog chat and #7 (out of 7) at amount of coherent commentary made. #1 comment across all routes was "women" from all members of chat. Had a lot of fun doing it. We are really, really bad at slaying princesses.

[the-fox-knows]

‘I’ll Tell You a Story’

Resigned, but not Hopeless (3)

Ragnar mayn’t have known the land intimately, but he knew that where there was a manor, a hamlet would be nestled nearby. It was there that they would find the supplies needed. The woman, Molly – he silently tested the feel of her name on his tongue – had made it clear that she had some preliminary knowledge in how to treat his wounds. After extensive fighting and some rather enjoyable acts, regardless of their authenticity (the taste of berries still sweetened his mouth), the gash he had sustained in battle was lancing pain through his leg. He would soon be unable to walk on it without losing every last ounce of breath. Even riding made him grit his teeth.

When asked, Molly confirmed his theory of a nearby village, relaying a quick route ere interrupting herself.

“You don’t mean to attack them, do you?”

As best he could, he spared a quizzical glance over his shoulder at the ridiculous assumption.

“If you think me capable of executing a one-man assault in my current state I fear you either give too much credence to my skill or believe me to be a fool.”

Behind him, she mumbled something unintelligible to his ears. Then she said a little louder and in a tongue recognizable to him, “they are only farmers after all.”

“You disabuse the farmers when you do not know them. Do not be so quick to underestimate farmers’ capabilities.”

“I disabuse the farmers because I know them,” she returned. “They are pitiful to watch when tax season is due.”

“Your master,” Ragnar began, “he is unkind to his tenants?”

“Extremely so,” she answered immediately. “His mother was better, but she died two years ago. But I no longer have a master,” she added, her tone full of derision and aimed at the back of his head. Ragnar indulged in a brief grin.

“If it is disagreeable for you to be without a master - I can be yours.”

“No you cannot!” and her arms withdrew from around his waist, giving him a rough shove to the back, causing him to wince. “And don’t you dare even think it!” Her tone was full of feeling as he felt her hands settle behind him, refusing to once more embrace him. He did not smile again, though his demeanor suggested amusement rather than the reverse.

After a time, Ragnar returned to their original point.

“I was a farmer.”

Silence followed this statement until Molly responded with a curt, “really,” indicative of acknowledging what he said without possessing interest.

“When I think of it, it seems now to belong to another life.”

While his goal was to draw her out, he could not help getting caught up in those not-too-distant memories of a simpler time when his only responsibility was for himself, his modest land, and any trouble Rollo might have gotten into.

Unknown to him, the object of his current interests was now fully listening to him as his words struck her with familiarity. The past was another life that belonged to another person; more care-free and ignorant of what would become of them.

“You say nothing to this?” Ragnar questioned, returning to the present. “I thought you would scoff or laugh or make one of those unintelligible sounds women are so fond of making.”

She made one now in response, though, she coupled it with an answer.

“You may have been a farmer, but you are, before anything, a Northman.”

“Why ‘before anything’?’” he inquired, curious at her sentiment.

“Because farmers tend the land and their families; they do not seek distant shores to pillage and plunder, to rape and kill.” After speaking her meaning she withdrew once more and he felt the stiffness of either fear or worry or perhaps even hatred enter her.

He could not deny that those actions named were unknown to the men of his community – of his country. But it was also true that what those actions provided in the long-term was future prosperity for his people and the beginnings of a security gained in the ever-vast and changing world. A foreigner’s ignorance could be excused. As it was, further talking was proving to be less and less enjoyable while stabs of pain cut him to the bone with every other stride of the horse.

Therefore, they both of them remained ensconced in their own thoughts for the remainder of their flight through the woods.  Once or twice they were forced to be still or pick around a less open path to avoid the approaching sound of a mounted guard, but other than a few close encounters they detangled from the low branches and, at times, unruly bush unmolested.

She would tend to him, and then he would find the way back to his camp. A string of well-aimed curses to be delivered to Horik circulated his mind, indulging in the foulest of insults simply because he knew he would never be able to use them and survive. His approach would have to be one of patience and cunning. He sniffed, swallowing back blood and mucus. It was nothing foreign to his nature. Had he not done the very same with Haraldson?

Behind him, Molly grumbled something.

She would be coming with him to the camp. And then…

He wasn’t certain.

He could try to tie her up again, though he suspected that she would be sensitive to any motions towards that and would slip away before he had the chance of hauling her pretty behind once more onto the boat. What a state of fury she would be in. In spite of his dark thoughts, he smiled at the image it conjured of her rich, long hair flying madly about her head, of her color rising with exertion.

Ragnar was not yet certain of how he would do it, but he was certain of wanting her. That was enough. Her words returned to him: ‘pillage and plunder, to rape and kill.’ It was what she expected from him, he realized. What she did not expect, however, was that his interest in her, while assuredly charmed by her physiognomy, was of a somewhat wholesome nature. Somewhat.

He no longer felt her book against his back; that item that had become something akin to a cumbersome talisman that he refused to part with. Now returned to its key, and the ultimate fountain that could spurt forth answers to questions that had had the chance to grow and multiply with the time given it, the book’s value was diminished only by its true owner. But only so long as he had the true owner.

“Give me your book,” Ragnar said without preamble. They had come to the eaves of the forest and could now see the quaint hamlet Molly had directed them to. It sat nestled in the lap of a small valley – a poor location if they ever needed to defend themselves, Ragnar automatically considered.

“No. Why?” She clutched it to her chest.

“There is something I would ask you about it.”

“Ask me now,” she persisted, unrelenting.

With a huff of impatience and a grunt of pain, he turned to look at her over his shoulder.

“Consider that your book has been in my care this past half decade,” he pointed out. “In your own presence are you so unwilling to let me handle its pages?”

He caught her eye, challenging her.

With a huff of her own, she exclaimed, “fine! Take the journal! Ask your questions. Kidnap me a third time, why don’t you!” Though, most of this was said in her own language, her general ire was felt without need of translation.

He accepted the book thrust into his lap, albeit with a small hiss of pain at her force, and then said, “thank you. Now off you go.”

“I beg your pardon?” She canted her head at the shooing motion he was making with his hand. Before she could wonder at his apparent changeability, he elaborated.

“Your neat little basket is not with us, yet we are still in need of the contents it held. That hamlet is our new basket. And this,” he grasped the book, “is my insurance.”

“Your insurance? For what?”

“For your return.”

He saw her quick comprehension and was glad for it. The pain was growing to an unbearable level, making his breathing a tricky accomplishment.

“I have not any money,” she said at once. “And I cannot go to them like this,” she added, looking down at her own bloodied state.

“I have no money either, and I am in an even worse state than you.”

After a heart beat’s pause, she stated, “you mean me to steal what we need, don’t you.”

When his answer was a curled lip, she continued.

“And on my own! What if I am caught? Your security will mean nothing then.”

“And if we ride in together do you suppose none will recognize me for what I am, and this beast for what he is, and come to the conclusion that we are unlikely friends?”

She sat silently behind him for several seconds before abruptly pushing away from him with a sound of disgust. She spat something out at him in her own language as she swung her leg over and landed with a thump beside the horse.

“Don’t forget to find yourself something pretty,” he couldn’t help calling after her. Her response was a hand gesture with her middle finger extended. He did not know its significance, but he felt confident in hazarding a guess.

. . .

It was perhaps the worst possible time to sneak around a hamlet in bloodied clothes and with the intent of thievery. The sun was full-up, the women were at work in their homes and the men busy in the fields or walking the many by-ways of little footpaths. Molly thought initially that she might turn her gown inside out, but a quick look told her that the rusting brown of the blood had soaked through to her chemise and had even tainted her skin.

With the constant evidence of recent violence etched upon her person, an impression of color on her very skin, Molly walked without the sense of walking. The weakness in her legs did not inhibit her progress, but it did give the feeling of numbness. She wouldn’t have known she was walking had she been devoid of her senses. As it was, those senses were at an absolute opposite of what they had been immediately following Emory’s death and her and the Viking’s mad dash to the forest. She was hyper aware of every little sight and sound; every movement that turned out to be only the wind caressing a bush or an animal prowling about on its own business.

She made deliberate strides towards the back of the houses, ducking around doors and windows, and all the while feeling a perverse sense of equal anger and amusement. It had never been a thought that this day would see her sneaking around as a pantomime spy, rigged up in the clothes of a time she formerly would have only considered wearing for Halloween or RenFests. She oddly felt a mixture of Inspector Clausue and Maid Marion within her.

Domestic humming was on the air and the squeal of a child startled her by its suddenness. It was not a squeal of discovery, but simply a child’s delight of having a voice and using it. There was no line of helpfully strung laundry as there usually is in those films catering towards thieves with a conscious. Nor was there a bowl of milk or a husk of bread on the windowsill that she might easily snatch. The likelihood of alcohol was near to none.

Molly sighed, bracing her back against the outer wall of the croft.

Was her journal truly this important to her? Why did she not simply abandon the Viking to his fate and discover a new one for herself?

‘Because I know that his words were true – I wouldn’t last a single night on my own. Not this time.’

Before, the danger had gone with the Viking’s on their ship. Presently, the guards of her former employer were symbiotic with the land; they knew its personality and, in return, it would sustain them. If only she hadn’t called out that warning to the Viking as he had battled Emory. If only she had not let herself be dragged away by the very man who had given her some of her worst nightmares, waking her in cold sweats. If only she had not submitted to his insane idea of false love-making, only to be the witness of two more murders involving the security of her former employer’s.

If only, if only, if only…

If only they had kept hold of that damned basket!

Taking a breath, she closed her eyes, psyching her mind in preparation of the crimes her body was about to commit. Momentary guilt crept on her that her worry stemmed more from the fear of getting caught than the act itself – and what it would mean to those she took from. What if this was their only supper? Their last pale of milk?

Too many considerations and not enough hours in the day. Thinking would be her downfall, therefore, she closed the door on that strain of morals temporarily and gave herself to the mantra of ‘action’.

The humming drifted in and out of hearing, sometimes near, sometimes further. It was during one of the humming’s absences that Molly stole her resolve and crept into the back door of the small croft. All at once, she could see nothing as the space was considerably darker than the brilliant day outside. The humming remained in the only other room of the home, however, so Molly did her best to sidle out of the doorjamb so as not to be haloed by its light. Within a few seconds her eyes adjusted and she could see that the mother was in the midst of preparing a meal; formed dough sat on the work table, flour spread around its surface and the smell of yeast in the air.

The humming flourished into abrupt singing of questionable talent, easily startling Molly in her current state. She froze where she was, an out-stretched hand hovering over a small clay cauldron. The singing continued, unabashed and contained in that second room. Molly breathed out and finished grabbing the cauldron. It was chipped and worn and by the looks of it, not much used if the layer of dust was any story to go by.

Now in possession of her first steal, the rest came a little easier. Food, clothes, milk if there was any; that was her grocery list. Over and over she repeated it until she had collected them all and was on the verge of departing with the stealth of an alley-cat when a pair of eyes arrested her escape. She and the woman were both frozen, yet those eyes and their inevitable descent to the blood stain on Molly’s gown, was the breaking of the spell. Those lungs, well practiced in singing ditties and country love songs, had little difficulty in raising the alarm with an ear-shattering scream as she came at Molly with whatever she had in her hand.

Practically electrified into motion, Molly ducked out of the way, awkwardly clutching all her goods to her chest and ran for the door. Her pace did not relent as she ran flat out across the land she had moments before been creeping down. Sounds of a village coming alive with panic and distress spurred her faster, though the incline of the hill snatched at her breath. She was practically doubled over by the time she reached the summit and the welcoming protection of the forest.

Momentarily caught up in prey mentality, she abandoned the Viking’s instructions of meeting him past the second spruce that crowned the lip of the hill, a large tree that provided sufficient cover, and ran straight for the immediate cover that the overlapping trees offered.

Fortunately for her the Viking had been waiting for her the moment he heard the first scream. The sound of pounding hooves reached Molly and, recognizing it – as well as the shout of her name – the flight left her. She slowed to a stop and teetering towards a tree so that her weight might be taken as she regained breath and balance.

The Viking rode up to her, the mar of pain clear on his features, though his next words a sign of his natural humor.

“I am impressed. You managed to rouse the entire hamlet with your glare and another’s blood alone. Most shield-maidens are not so successful their first time.”

That very glare showed itself now, peeking through her eyelashes and up at the mounted man she seemed unable to shake.

 . . .

 “Would you hold still? I’ve barely even touched you yet,” Molly entreated with utmost exasperation. The clay cauldron now had meaning in its inanimate life, as it was filled nearly to the brim with stream water and placed cleverly over designed sticks and branches to hang over a fire. It was a small fire, though the smoke still took some persuasion in exiting out the shallow cave’s entrance.

Cave was perhaps a generous word for Molly and the Viking’s current hiding place; it was more an alcove in the rock. Regardless of its proper term, it was a suitable declivity that had been discovered by Molly many years prior. A mere slip of an entrance that appeared non-existent when looking directly at it, but which had the width to accommodate a broad-shouldered Viking. It did not, however, have the space to entertain the horse they had commandeered. Commandeered and reluctantly returned. They could not have his presence outside the rocky cliff-face giving away their presence; therefore a hard slap to the stallion’s rear had sent him galloping off through the trees.

“Your hands are cold,” the Viking complained. He was laid flat at Molly’s command, one of his smaller knives in her hand as she tore away at the fabric around his leg. His propensity for cracks and half-smiles was causing an ache in her jaw for all the times she grit her teeth. Only he could draw this reaction from her. If it had been any other, in any other time, after any other experience she knew she would not be this sour – it was not her nature.

The trauma of the afternoon’s events had receded somewhat during her ‘reconnaissance’ mission; she’d had a goal, an aim that distracted other thoughts from fermenting. Before that, the return of her journal had been like a sudden beam of sunlight that no cloud could dampen for the brief moments of happiness it brought. But then the facts of her situation returned; etched in vivid detail as each came to the forefront of her mind.

“Shall I stick your leg in the fire, then? It will surely . . .” she intended to say ‘cauterize’ but knew not the term for it in her second language. Instead, she clamped her mouth and redoubled her focus on clearing away any obstructions around the wound - her jaw tight.

Along with the clothes she’d relieved the singing woman of, Molly had also snatched up a random cotton sheet. Presently it lay in torn strips, each awaiting their turn for a dip into the boiling water, while those already treated to the sauna were draped over a long branch, drying. Molly took one now, wringing out the excess water before applying its purity to the coating of dried blood. The Viking hissed again but was ignored as she pressed gently around the wound, teasing flakes and grime away. Slowly and with the help of the many cotton strips, Molly made progress in distinguishing between whole flesh and the clean line of tortured skin. It was not as deep as she’d anticipated, though its length was daunting. Stretching from just below his groin, it curved in a graceful arc until just reaching the side of his knee.

As she worked further up his leg, her eyes darted periodically to see where his were looking. She was very aware of his partial nudity and the fact that her hands were inching closer to a personal area on any human. Her disquiet easily took form as memory of the Viking between her legs came willingly to taunt her; his kissing her in a way she’d never been kissed before, and the fear that he might expect more.

For his part, he remained mostly silent; watching her work or fixing his gaze to random points of the cave’s ceiling. It was easy to tell that he was visibly exhausted. The weight of the day showed in every inch of his haggard form. Molly was then reminded that she only knew the contours of his day from the point of reunion. The events preceding that meeting (specifically why he was injured to begin with) were still a mystery to her.  

Seeing him as he was now - tired, quiet, though still marred by the scars of the day — the mud and blood that seemed a staple to his appearance — only confused her vision of him. It was a contradiction to see this frightening image of violence succumb to the weaknesses that afflicted mortal men; which in turn forced the admission that he was nothing more than a man. The fear of his violating her was real . . . yet, as she looked down at him in the fickle light of the small fire, a small voice in her head felt confident against that supposition. She couldn’t say why or that she even wanted to trust this voice in her head, but the grime that coated him notwithstanding, Molly almost considered him to appear vulnerable. She found it both reassuring and unnerving to view him this way. Despite her opinion of him - and the fact that he was the root of her current situation - he was also her only shield now.

“You are staring at me,” he said, his eyes swiveling to look at her. His voice was low in his throat.

Embarrassed at being caught, she deflected and asked, “how did you get this?” She referred to the thin line of red highlighting his thigh. Once healed, it would be only a faint scar.

“Someone mistook me for ingredients for their dinner.”

She looked back up at him.

“It’s fortunate they realized you were too tough to chew before choking on you,” she returned, not missing a beat. “It would be a shame to suffocate on something unpleasant.”

“Fortunate for me to be tended so nicely,” he returned, grinning. His first since she’d begun her treatment. She turned her gaze back to his leg.

“Where is that from? You didn’t have it earlier?” he asked.

The Viking was looking at her face, nodding his chin in her direction. His arms were clearly too exhausted to function.

“What are you talking about?”

“A scratch. On your face. You did not have it this afternoon.”

Molly straightened up and brought a hand to her left cheek then her right where she felt a thin line raised above her skin. With her fingers she traced the scratch across her cheekbone, feeling dry bumpiness and seeing no blood when she pulled her hand away.

“It’s nothing. I must have gotten it in the forest.”

She suddenly remembered exactly when she got it. The sound of her breathing clouding her mind; the leaves underfoot as she worked to get away; there was no escape, even as her legs sprinted past all hopes of expectations towards the illusion of freedom. The low branch struck her face, whipping past her as she flew by, not pausing for a moment as she ran from the Viking — his taste still potent in her mouth.

“It is not so bad, I think. The blood made it appear far worse than it was. It’s as well that you likely will not need stitches for I lack the skill for such an operation,” she said, turning back to his wound with methodical intent. With a will, she shut the events of the afternoon out of her mind. Hysteria was only a thought away afterall.

“Stitches? You thought to sew me up like a garment?”

“Not quite,” Molly said, amused in spite of herself at his assumption. “But very like. Had the cut gone deeper, the skin would have needed help in healing back together. Still, I need to – to . . . Oh! There is no word for it! I need to clean it so that . . . so that it can heal with cleanness.” Her frustration was apparent as more words failed her. Though, that frustration quickly turned to another train of thought as she suddenly considered that boiled water alone would not be able to enter his wound to disinfect it. She’d burn him terribly and cause more problems than what they were already dealing with. What she really needed was alcohol. Pure, straightforward alcohol. It would sting him most assuredly but the risk of infection would be considerably lower.

“If your furrowed brow is an indication of your thoughts,” the Viking began, distracting her from her worries, “you are either meaning to translate an uncooperative word or there is more to be said about my leg that you wish not to share.”

“It’s neither actually – or, well, mayhap there is some truth to the latter. I need alcohol – for your leg. Not to drink.”

“I remember you said. What is its purpose?”

“It cleans; ridding the wound of . . . germs, thus stopping infection and probable amputation due to gangrene,” she relayed, falling back on English words in her impatience. He watched her with a studied air. “Do not ask me to translate, I don’t have the words. What’s important is that alcohol is needed and we have none,” she finished.

“I have survived worse than this. I will likely manage without your medicine,” he said unconcerned.

Molly looked him over once more before turning her head – done with him for the present. Mindful of the fire, she situated herself towards the entrance of the cave and looked out. Night had fallen and the cool breeze that greeted her warmed cheeks refreshed her spirits.

There was much to think about . . . and yet, she wanted nothing more than to embrace a blank state of mind and let all the kinks of the moment sort themselves out. She was beyond the point of reasoning with herself over the wisdom of helping this Viking. She had made her decision – or rather, it had been made for her. She could not imagine returning to that terrifying existence of not knowing whose goodwill she could trust as she had done upon being received into her former Mistress’ employ. The Viking certainly was not one she could trust, but he was still the lesser of two evils.

At least she hoped it was so.

Something told her it was so.

Molly looked back at him to see if she could still see the horrible monster that had suffered exaggerated villainy through her imagination. He was asleep, or perhaps only his eyes were closed. His breath came evenly; his clothed chest rising and falling, creating mountains and valleys of shadows that shifted with each inhale. He was calm.

It surprised her to recognize the man in the nightmare, but so it was.

Again he had found her, appearing behind her and with that stupid cock-eyed grin that expressed much more than simple mirth. Was it fate that had drawn them together, she wondered. Fate was a thing far easier to believe in and turn to after having passed through the veils of time, and it was to that nuanced entity she reserved most of her questions. Was the Viking’s reappearance perhaps symmetry of her experiences these past six years? Was his presence - their meeting - the precursor to a miraculous return home?

Inevitably, thoughts turned towards the hypothetical and scenarios began playing out in Molly’s mind’s eye. She envisioned reuniting with her family and her friends; of what their reactions would be and what possible excuse she could give for having been missing for more than half a decade. As she ran down the list of plausible reasons and coming up with the grand total of nil, the hopelessness of her fate struck her anew. It was one thing to want something beyond belief, another to achieve that self-made utopia. She may return one day, to her time and her people – but there was no going back.  

“Why are you crying?” his voice came out of the quiet, breaking her musings, though, he spoke barely above a whisper. In reaction, she hastily wiped her face and denied the accusation.

“You may have fooled me had you not thoroughly rubbed away the evidence; the light is not so good so I may have been persuaded that it was not tears in your eyes, but a natural brightness.”

“Does it matter that I was crying?”

“I thought I would ask,” he shrugged, “you have been taking care of me. I would not like to think that the strain has emotionally exhausted you.”

Molly stared at him, mouth unsure of a forthcoming answer to his ridiculous statement, when suddenly, the purest sound escaped her. She laughed.

“That is an improvement to your scowling,” he remarked.

Ignoring him, she clasped her hands over her face, resting her knuckles against her bent knees and let the gentle chuckles waver between pent up hysterics. A giggle here, a masked sob there; it was the release that was coming all day - since the moment she had witnessed Emory’s murder.  

“Regardless of your health, an acquaintance with you is likely to exhaust anybody,” she resumed after a brief time; her voice thick.

“I have heard it said,” he smiled. She noticed that there was no double meaning in the current expression.

Prompted by the rawness of the moment, she asked, “what do you want with me?”

His smile broadened before assuming a more sober air. Bringing her journal forth, he considered the green leather of its binding as if viewing it for the first time. Turning it in his hands, his eyes met hers and held the contact.

“Out of all my . . . visits to this land I have never encountered a random meeting. I once met the brother of King Aelle. It was not a good introduction for him,” his tone possessed a matter-of-factness that attempted to disguise itself with an amount of playfulness. It only served to engage the listener the more, and Molly couldn’t help feeling intrigued.

“Yet, the meeting itself held purpose. We received our ransom. We also humiliated the King. In my heart I know that there are yet more meetings to be had with that King; whether by myself or with a horde of men at my disposal. It is the nature of Fate is it not? Those we are destined to have in our lives, weaving in and out of our tale, for good or ill. We will meet them . . . and sometimes we will meet them again.”

His gaze held hers strongly now.

“It is destiny that we have met again,” he said quietly, “for, as I know of unfinished business with Aelle, I have known that you are my key to something new. You were a woman from another land when first we met; with raiment foreign to the peoples of my lands and to the lands of the Christians; with mysterious treasures and a book of fine quality containing a script illegible to all – including my monk. You ask of me what I want with you, and I will tell you – I want to know what you know. I would have it all.”

Molly did not shy away from his gaze as an ensuing silence fell between them. The space they occupied in that small cave needed a moment of its own ere they began speaking again. The snap and crack of the fire was enough to fill the void at present as each felt a fresh wall of hostility evaporate in the stuffy space.

Slowly, Molly reached a hand out, wordlessly asking for her journal. The Viking didn’t hesitate in returning it once more.

It was a Celtic design on the cover, bought specifically in anticipation for her trip to the UK. She traced the Celtic knots and whorls, toying with the pages between as she psyched herself up for another glimpse of a life forever lost to her.

Opening to a random page she read the entry. The lines grew blurry as tears clouded her vision, but she would not blink lest the salty tear-drop smudge her writing. She managed a few paragraphs before decisively shutting the journal and wiping her eyes. She looked up to see that the Viking was watching her.

“What you ask of me is . . . personal,” Molly admitted. Her voice was hushed. “What you call a book is a journal, my journal. It is my writing in these pages.”

The Viking was surprised.

“And what is a – a gornull that women have the ability to write in them. What is written in them?”

“It is a place to record the events of a day; of the events of a certain time.”

“Why? What is the point of that?” he continued to search.

Molly stared at him, amazed at his genuine ignorance of why such a practice would be beneficial.

“For memory,” she explained. The Viking still did not look convinced of its usefulness.

“So a bunch of women are daily writing down the mundane routine of their duties and chores – “

“Men and women; and it is more than simply documenting the mundane. It captures the moments shared with people, of emotions and places. It is a thing to look back on when you are old and grey and share with your children and grandchildren.”

“They are your stories then?” he concluded, grasping at an explanation that made sense to him. He seemed eager now.

“Yes. They are stories – sometimes badly told,” she admitted, thinking of her own dismal writing, “but stories nonetheless.”

“Will you read them to me?” he asked, sounding hopeful. She hesitated.

“No. I don’t know. Not right now, at least,” she wavered. She was unsure of the rapid progress in their communications and felt the impulse to revert to terms of antipathy and suspicion.

“You need rest and I – “ she sighed. “I need to think.”

She said no more to the Viking that night, and he in turn followed her instructions. The cave eventually filled with soft snores as weariness carried the Viking towards the regenerative sleep he had required hours prior. Molly did not watch him, but she could not help but wait for that inhale every time he mumbled out an exhale through parted lips. She feared he would die in the night and leave her defenseless in, what was now, enemy territory.

The quiet night opened to her, stilling the ticking clock of Time in an illusion of gained hours in which to contemplate her new circumstances. Only the fire was an indication of movement during the dead of night when any tint of dawn would be impossible to disturb her ruminations.

Alcohol and death. Those were her present concerns. They existed in the immediacy of unraveling events that she perhaps had the power to prevent. Sentiments and hopeful thoughts could be appreciated only in the peripheral at present.

The consequences of his death implied various outcomes. Relying on previous information, Molly assumed that he must have been separated from his brethren, for she doubted he had made it all the way to Wessex on his own. Her concern lay not in returning his body to his kin, but in avoiding those kin should he perish. She must also take into consideration the as-of-yet nameless foe the Viking had engaged with before their meeting. It was also true that she could not know how long her former master would pursue the hunt, and if she was not careful she might become the easily caught prey between three fierce forces. The only difference of that scenario should the Viking live would be the assumed protection he would extend over her should they make it to his Viking friends.

‘But then,’ Molly continued voicelessly, pursing her lips and raising her eyebrows, ‘I would have to – again – find a way to escape him.’

The fear of the unknown and the half-guessed in regards to being taken to his lands raised a series of warning bells should he try to trick her onto a boat. Not least due to her own superstition of not leaving these shores. It was on this island that the doorway had opened for her unwilling passage. It was, therefore, this island that she must remain should that doorway ever open for her again.

Looking over her shoulder, Molly watched him. The flickering light cast by the diminishing fire nearly concealed the tattoos she’d earlier noticed on the sides of his shaved head, making the color appear as the first growth of hair after a buzz cut. He had aged since their first encounter. She remembered his hair being thicker atop his scalp and his beard not so long. There was some grey there too, and momentarily she wondered how old he was.

Her eyes traveled down towards his wound. Its redness had not faded, nor did she expect it to. Of course there was a possibility that it would not get infected, though, she felt that was a big ‘if’. Creeping slowly towards the fore of her mind, an idea was formulating into an impulsive sketch of a plan.

The gamekeeper kept a still near abouts. The bluff they sheltered at the base of was south of the manor. Molly knew the gamekeeper preferred height for his precious still; she had once come across it and was nearly chased away by his shouts and some farming implement she hadn’t had the time to inspect.

Turning her gaze back to the outside world, she craned her head to look up at the pitch night. It was unlikely that he would be there at this time. She was also encouraged by the lack of moonlight that would have highlighted her progress to any who may have been watching.

Reclining back into herself, Molly huddled her knees close to her chest, resting her brow against them. It was a risk. Was she willing to go that far in order to maintain her shield? She looked back at him, gritting her teeth, though not in anger or annoyance directed at him. It was a reflexive action against the fear of cowardice.

She did not like him; she knew plainly that her only interest in caring for him was selfish. Yet there was that spark of humanity that had been instilled in her through her religion. Sanctity for life. Unrelated to her own desires, his death was not something she craved. And if their second meeting was truly Fate she would never forgive herself for remaining passive when she had the power to act.

Chapter Four→

[the-fox-knows]

‘I’ll Tell You A Story’ (3)

Resigned, but not Hopeless

← Chapter Two

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Ragnar mayn't have known the land intimately, but he knew that where there was a manor, a hamlet would be nestled nearby. It was there that they would find the supplies needed. The woman, Molly – he silently tested the feel of her name on his tongue – had made it clear that she had some preliminary knowledge in how to treat his wounds. After extensive fighting and some rather enjoyable acts, regardless of their authenticity (the taste of berries still sweetened his mouth), the gash he had sustained in battle was lancing pain through his leg. He would soon be unable to walk on it without losing every last ounce of breath. Even riding made him grit his teeth.

When asked, Molly confirmed his theory of a nearby village, relaying a quick route ere interrupting herself.

"You don't mean to attack them, do you?"

As best he could, he spared a quizzical glance over his shoulder at the ridiculous assumption.

"If you think me capable of executing a one-man assault in my current state I fear you either give too much credence to my skill or believe me to be a fool."

Behind him, she mumbled something unintelligible to his ears. Then she said a little louder and in a tongue recognizable to him, "they are only farmers after all."

"You disabuse the farmers when you do not know them. Do not be so quick to underestimate farmers' capabilities."

"I disabuse the farmers because I know them," she returned. "They are pitiful to watch when tax season is due."

"Your master," Ragnar began, "he is unkind to his tenants?"

"Extremely so," she answered immediately. "His mother was better, but she died two years ago. But I no longer have a master," she added, her tone full of derision and aimed at the back of his head. Ragnar indulged in a brief grin.

"If it is disagreeable for you to be without a master - I can be yours."

"No you cannot!" and her arms withdrew from around his waist, giving him a rough shove to the back, causing him to wince. "And don't you dare even think it!" Her tone was full of feeling as he felt her hands settle behind him, refusing to once more embrace him. He did not smile again, though his demeanor suggested amusement rather than the reverse.

After a time, Ragnar returned to their original point.

"I was a farmer."

Silence followed this statement until Molly responded with a curt, "really," indicative of acknowledging what he said without possessing interest.

"When I think of it, it seems now to belong to another life."

While his goal was to draw her out, he could not help getting caught up in those not-too-distant memories of a simpler time when his only responsibility was for himself, his modest land, and any trouble Rollo might have gotten into.

Unknown to him, the object of his current interests was now fully listening to him as his words struck her with familiarity. The past was another life that belonged to another person; more care-free and ignorant of what would become of them.

"You say nothing to this?" Ragnar questioned, returning to the present. "I thought you would scoff or laugh or make one of those unintelligible sounds women are so fond of making."

She made one now in response, though, she coupled it with an answer.

"You may have been a farmer, but you are, before anything, a Northman."

"Why 'before anything'?'" he inquired, curious at her sentiment.

"Because farmers tend the land and their families; they do not seek distant shores to pillage and plunder, to rape and kill." After speaking her meaning she withdrew once more and he felt the stiffness of either fear or worry or perhaps even hatred enter her.

He could not deny that those actions named were unknown to the men of his community – of his country. But it was also true that what those actions provided in the long-term was future prosperity for his people and the beginnings of a security gained in the ever-vast and changing world. A foreigner's ignorance could be excused. As it was, further talking was proving to be less and less enjoyable while stabs of pain cut him to the bone with every other stride of the horse.

Therefore, they both of them remained ensconced in their own thoughts for the remainder of their flight through the woods. Once or twice they were forced to be still or pick around a less open path to avoid the approaching sound of a mounted guard, but other than a few close encounters they detangled from the low branches and, at times, unruly bush unmolested.

She would tend to him, and then he would find the way back to his camp. A string of well-aimed curses to be delivered to Horik circulated his mind, indulging in the foulest of insults simply because he knew he would never be able to use them and survive. His approach would have to be one of patience and cunning. He sniffed, swallowing back blood and mucus. It was nothing foreign to his nature. Had he not done the very same with Haraldson?

Behind him, Molly grumbled something.

She would be coming with him to the camp. And then…

He wasn't certain.

He could try to tie her up again, though he suspected that she would be sensitive to any motions towards that and would slip away before he had the chance of hauling her pretty behind once more onto the boat. What a state of fury she would be in. In spite of his dark thoughts, he smiled at the image it conjured of her rich, long hair flying madly about her head, of her color rising with exertion.

Ragnar was not yet certain of how he would do it, but he was certain of wanting her. That was enough. Her words returned to him: 'pillage and plunder, to rape and kill.' It was what she expected from him, he realized. What she did not expect, however, was that his interest in her, while assuredly charmed by her physiognomy, was of a somewhat wholesome nature. Somewhat.

He no longer felt her book against his back; that item that had become something akin to a cumbersome talisman that he refused to part with. Now returned to its key, and the ultimate fountain that could spurt forth answers to questions that had had the chance to grow and multiply with the time given it, the book's value was diminished only by its true owner. But only so long as he had the true owner.

"Give me your book," Ragnar said without preamble. They had come to the eaves of the forest and could now see the quaint hamlet Molly had directed them to. It sat nestled in the lap of a small valley – a poor location if they ever needed to defend themselves, Ragnar automatically considered.

"No. Why?" She clutched it to her chest.

"There is something I would ask you about it."

"Ask me now," she persisted, unrelenting.

With a huff of impatience and a grunt of pain, he turned to look at her over his shoulder.

"Consider that your book has been in my care this past half decade," he pointed out. "In your own presence are you so unwilling to let me handle its pages?"

He caught her eye, challenging her.

With a huff of her own, she exclaimed, "fine! Take the journal! Ask your questions. Kidnap me a third time, why don't you!" Though, most of this was said in her own language, her general ire was felt without need of translation.

He accepted the book thrust into his lap, albeit with a small hiss of pain at her force, and then said, "thank you. Now off you go."

"I beg your pardon?" She canted her head at the shooing motion he was making with his hand. Before she could wonder at his apparent changeability, he elaborated.

"Your neat little basket is not with us, yet we are still in need of the contents it held. That hamlet is our new basket. And this," he grasped the book, "is my insurance."

"Your insurance? For what?"

"For your return."

He saw her quick comprehension and was glad for it. The pain was growing to an unbearable level, making his breathing a tricky accomplishment.

"I have not any money," she said at once. "And I cannot go to them like this," she added, looking down at her own bloodied state.

"I have no money either, and I am in an even worse state than you."

After a heart beat's pause, she stated, "you mean me to steal what we need, don't you."

When his answer was a curled lip, she continued.

"And on my own! What if I am caught? Your security will mean nothing then."

"And if we ride in together do you suppose none will recognize me for what I am, and this beast for what he is, and come to the conclusion that we are unlikely friends?"

She sat silently behind him for several seconds before abruptly pushing away from him with a sound of disgust. She spat something out at him in her own language as she swung her leg over and landed with a thump beside the horse.

"Don't forget to find yourself something pretty," he couldn't help calling after her. Her response was a hand gesture with her middle finger extended. He did not know its significance, but he felt confident in hazarding a guess.

. . .

It was perhaps the worst possible time to sneak around a hamlet in bloodied clothes and with the intent of thievery. The sun was full-up, the women were at work in their homes and the men busy in the fields or walking the many by-ways of little footpaths. Molly thought initially that she might turn her gown inside out, but a quick look told her that the rusting brown of the blood had soaked through to her chemise and had even tainted her skin.

With the constant evidence of recent violence etched upon her person, an impression of color on her very skin, Molly walked without the sense of walking. The weakness in her legs did not inhibit her progress, but it did give the feeling of numbness. She wouldn't have known she was walking had she been devoid of her senses. As it was, those senses were at an absolute opposite of what they had been immediately following Emory's death and her and the Viking's mad dash to the forest. She was hyper aware of every little sight and sound; every movement that turned out to be only the wind caressing a bush or an animal prowling about on its own business.

She made deliberate strides towards the back of the houses, ducking around doors and windows, and all the while feeling a perverse sense of equal anger and amusement. It had never been a thought that this day would see her sneaking around as a pantomime spy, rigged up in the clothes of a time she formerly would have only considered wearing for Halloween or RenFests. She oddly felt a mixture of Inspector Clausue and Maid Marion within her.

Domestic humming was on the air and the squeal of a child startled her by its suddenness. It was not a squeal of discovery, but simply a child's delight of having a voice and using it. There was no line of helpfully strung laundry as there usually is in those films catering towards thieves with a conscious. Nor was there a bowl of milk or a husk of bread on the windowsill that she might easily snatch. The likelihood of alcohol was near to none.

Molly sighed, bracing her back against the outer wall of the croft.

Was her journal truly this important to her? Why did she not simply abandon the Viking to his fate and discover a new one for herself?

'Because I know that his words were true – I wouldn't last a single night on my own. Not this time.'

Before, the danger had gone with the Viking's on their ship. Presently, the guards of her former employer were symbiotic with the land; they knew its personality and, in return, it would sustain them. If only she hadn't called out that warning to the Viking as he had battled Emory. If only she had not let herself be dragged away by the very man who had given her some of her worst nightmares, waking her in cold sweats. If only she had not submitted to his insane idea of false love-making, only to be the witness of two more murders involving the security of her former employer's.

If only, if only, if only…

If only they had kept hold of that damned basket!

Taking a breath, she closed her eyes, psyching her mind in preparation of the crimes her body was about to commit. Momentary guilt crept on her that her worry stemmed more from the fear of getting caught than the act itself – and what it would mean to those she took from. What if this was their only supper? Their last pale of milk?

Too many considerations and not enough hours in the day. Thinking would be her downfall, therefore, she closed the door on that strain of morals temporarily and gave herself to the mantra of 'action'.

The humming drifted in and out of hearing, sometimes near, sometimes further. It was during one of the humming's absences that Molly stole her resolve and crept into the back door of the small croft. All at once, she could see nothing as the space was considerably darker than the brilliant day outside. The humming remained in the only other room of the home, however, so Molly did her best to sidle out of the doorjamb so as not to be haloed by its light. Within a few seconds her eyes adjusted and she could see that the mother was in the midst of preparing a meal; formed dough sat on the work table, flour spread around its surface and the smell of yeast in the air.

The humming flourished into abrupt singing of questionable talent, easily startling Molly in her current state. She froze where she was, an out-stretched hand hovering over a small clay cauldron. The singing continued, unabashed and contained in that second room. Molly breathed out and finished grabbing the cauldron. It was chipped and worn and by the looks of it, not much used if the layer of dust was any story to go by.

Now in possession of her first steal, the rest came a little easier. Food, clothes, milk if there was any; that was her grocery list. Over and over she repeated it until she had collected them all and was on the verge of departing with the stealth of an alley-cat when a pair of eyes arrested her escape. She and the woman were both frozen, yet those eyes and their inevitable descent to the blood stain on Molly's gown, was the breaking of the spell. Those lungs, well practiced in singing ditties and country love songs, had little difficulty in raising the alarm with an ear-shattering scream as she came at Molly with whatever she had in her hand.

Practically electrified into motion, Molly ducked out of the way, awkwardly clutching all her goods to her chest and ran for the door. Her pace did not relent as she ran flat out across the land she had moments before been creeping down. Sounds of a village coming alive with panic and distress spurred her faster, though the incline of the hill snatched at her breath. She was practically doubled over by the time she reached the summit and the welcoming protection of the forest.

Momentarily caught up in prey mentality, she abandoned the Viking's instructions of meeting him past the second spruce that crowned the lip of the hill, a large tree that provided sufficient cover, and ran straight for the immediate cover that the overlapping trees offered.

Fortunately for her the Viking had been waiting for her the moment he heard the first scream. The sound of pounding hooves reached Molly and, recognizing it – as well as the shout of her name – the flight left her. She slowed to a stop and teetering towards a tree so that her weight might be taken as she regained breath and balance.

The Viking rode up to her, the mar of pain clear on his features, though his next words a sign of his natural humor.

"I am impressed. You managed to rouse the entire hamlet with your glare and another's blood alone. Most shield-maidens are not so successful their first time."

That very glare showed itself now, peeking through her eyelashes and up at the mounted man she seemed unable to shake.

. . .

"Would you hold still? I've barely even touched you yet," Molly entreated with utmost exasperation. The clay cauldron now had meaning in its inanimate life, as it was filled nearly to the brim with stream water and placed cleverly over designed sticks and branches to hang over a fire. It was a small fire, though the smoke still took some persuasion in exiting out the shallow cave's entrance.

Cave was perhaps a generous word for Molly and the Viking's current hiding place; it was more an alcove in the rock. Regardless of its proper term, it was a suitable declivity that had been discovered by Molly many years prior. A mere slip of an entrance that appeared non-existent when looking directly at it, but which had the width to accommodate a broad-shouldered Viking. It did not, however, have the space to entertain the horse they had commandeered. Commandeered and reluctantly returned. They could not have his presence outside the rocky cliff-face giving away their presence; therefore a hard slap to the stallion's rear had sent him galloping off through the trees.

"Your hands are cold," the Viking complained. He was laid flat at Molly's command, one of his smaller knives in her hand as she tore away at the fabric around his leg. His propensity for cracks and half-smiles was causing an ache in her jaw for all the times she grit her teeth. Only he could draw this reaction from her. If it had been any other, in any other time, after any other experience she knew she would not be this sour – it was not her nature.

The trauma of the afternoon's events had receded somewhat during her 'reconnaissance' mission; she'd had a goal, an aim that distracted other thoughts from fermenting. Before that, the return of her journal had been like a sudden beam of sunlight that no cloud could dampen for the brief moments of happiness it brought. But then the facts of her situation returned; etched in vivid detail as each came to the forefront of her mind.

"Shall I stick your leg in the fire, then? It will surely . . ." she intended to say 'cauterize' but knew not the term for it in her second language. Instead, she clamped her mouth and redoubled her focus on clearing away any obstructions around the wound - her jaw tight.

Along with the clothes she'd relieved the singing woman of, Molly had also snatched up a random cotton sheet. Presently it lay in torn strips, each awaiting their turn for a dip into the boiling water, while those already treated to the sauna were draped over a long branch, drying. Molly took one now, wringing out the excess water before applying its purity to the coating of dried blood. The Viking hissed again but was ignored as she pressed gently around the wound, teasing flakes and grime away. Slowly and with the help of the many cotton strips, Molly made progress in distinguishing between whole flesh and the clean line of tortured skin. It was not as deep as she'd anticipated, though its length was daunting. Stretching from just below his groin, it curved in a graceful arc until just reaching the side of his knee.

As she worked further up his leg, her eyes darted periodically to see where his were looking. She was very aware of his partial nudity and the fact that her hands were inching closer to a personal area on any human. Her disquiet easily took form as memory of the Viking between her legs came willingly to taunt her; his kissing her in a way she'd never been kissed before, and the fear that he might expect more.

For his part, he remained mostly silent; watching her work or fixing his gaze to random points of the cave's ceiling. It was easy to tell that he was visibly exhausted. The weight of the day showed in every inch of his haggard form. Molly was then reminded that she only knew the contours of his day from the point of reunion. The events preceding that meeting (specifically why he was injured to begin with) were still a mystery to her.

Seeing him as he was now - tired, quiet, though still marred by the scars of the day — the mud and blood that seemed a staple to his appearance — only confused her vision of him. It was a contradiction to see this frightening image of violence succumb to the weaknesses that afflicted mortal men; which in turn forced the admission that he was nothing more than a man. The fear of his violating her was real . . . yet, as she looked down at him in the fickle light of the small fire, a small voice in her head felt confident against that supposition. She couldn't say why or that she even wanted to trust this voice in her head, but the grime that coated him notwithstanding, Molly almost considered him to appear vulnerable. She found it both reassuring and unnerving to view him this way. Despite her opinion of him - and the fact that he was the root of her current situation - he was also her only shield now.

"You are staring at me," he said, his eyes swiveling to look at her. His voice was low in his throat.

Embarrassed at being caught, she deflected and asked, "how did you get this?" She referred to the thin line of red highlighting his thigh. Once healed, it would be only a faint scar.

"Someone mistook me for ingredients for their dinner."

She looked back up at him.

"It's fortunate they realized you were too tough to chew before choking on you," she returned, not missing a beat. "It would be a shame to suffocate on something unpleasant."

"Fortunate for me to be tended so nicely," he returned, grinning. His first since she'd begun her treatment. She turned her gaze back to his leg.

"Where is that from? You didn't have it earlier?" he asked.

The Viking was looking at her face, nodding his chin in her direction. His arms were clearly too exhausted to function.

"What are you talking about?"

"A scratch. On your face. You did not have it this afternoon."

Molly straightened up and brought a hand to her left cheek then her right where she felt a thin line raised above her skin. With her fingers she traced the scratch across her cheekbone, feeling dry bumpiness and seeing no blood when she pulled her hand away.

"It's nothing. I must have gotten it in the forest."

She suddenly remembered exactly when she got it. The sound of her breathing clouding her mind; the leaves underfoot as she worked to get away; there was no escape, even as her legs sprinted past all hopes of expectations towards the illusion of freedom. The low branch struck her face, whipping past her as she flew by, not pausing for a moment as she ran from the Viking — his taste still potent in her mouth.

"It is not so bad, I think. The blood made it appear far worse than it was. It's as well that you likely will not need stitches for I lack the skill for such an operation," she said, turning back to his wound with methodical intent. With a will, she shut the events of the afternoon out of her mind. Hysteria was only a thought away afterall.

"Stitches? You thought to sew me up like a garment?"

"Not quite," Molly said, amused in spite of herself at his assumption. "But very like. Had the cut gone deeper, the skin would have needed help in healing back together. Still, I need to – to . . . Oh! There is no word for it! I need to clean it so that . . . so that it can heal with cleanness." Her frustration was apparent as more words failed her. Though, that frustration quickly turned to another train of thought as she suddenly considered that boiled water alone would not be able to enter his wound to disinfect it. She'd burn him terribly and cause more problems than what they were already dealing with. What she really needed was alcohol. Pure, straightforward alcohol. It would sting him most assuredly but the risk of infection would be considerably lower.

"If your furrowed brow is an indication of your thoughts," the Viking began, distracting her from her worries, "you are either meaning to translate an uncooperative word or there is more to be said about my leg that you wish not to share."

"It's neither actually – or, well, mayhap there is some truth to the latter. I need alcohol – for your leg. Not to drink."

"I remember you said. What is its purpose?"

"It cleans; ridding the wound of . . . germs, thus stopping infection and probable amputation due to gangrene," she relayed, falling back on English words in her impatience. He watched her with a studied air. "Do not ask me to translate, I don't have the words. What's important is that alcohol is needed and we have none," she finished.

"I have survived worse than this. I will likely manage without your medicine," he said unconcerned.

Molly looked him over once more before turning her head – done with him for the present. Mindful of the fire, she situated herself towards the entrance of the cave and looked out. Night had fallen and the cool breeze that greeted her warmed cheeks refreshed her spirits.

There was much to think about . . . and yet, she wanted nothing more than to embrace a blank state of mind and let all the kinks of the moment sort themselves out. She was beyond the point of reasoning with herself over the wisdom of helping this Viking. She had made her decision – or rather, it had been made for her. She could not imagine returning to that terrifying existence of not knowing whose goodwill she could trust as she had done upon being received into her former Mistress' employ. The Viking certainly was not one she could trust, but he was still the lesser of two evils.

At least she hoped it was so.

Something told her it was so.

Molly looked back at him to see if she could still see the horrible monster that had suffered exaggerated villainy through her imagination. He was asleep, or perhaps only his eyes were closed. His breath came evenly; his clothed chest rising and falling, creating mountains and valleys of shadows that shifted with each inhale. He was calm.

It surprised her to recognize the man in the nightmare, but so it was.

Again he had found her, appearing behind her and with that stupid cock-eyed grin that expressed much more than simple mirth. Was it fate that had drawn them together, she wondered. Fate was a thing far easier to believe in and turn to after having passed through the veils of time, and it was to that nuanced entity she reserved most of her questions. Was the Viking's reappearance perhaps symmetry of her experiences these past six years? Was his presence - their meeting - the precursor to a miraculous return home?

Inevitably, thoughts turned towards the hypothetical and scenarios began playing out in Molly's mind's eye. She envisioned reuniting with her family and her friends; of what their reactions would be and what possible excuse she could give for having been missing for more than half a decade. As she ran down the list of plausible reasons and coming up with the grand total of nil, the hopelessness of her fate struck her anew. It was one thing to want something beyond belief, another to achieve that self-made utopia. She may return one day, to her time and her people – but there was no going back.

"Why are you crying?" his voice came out of the quiet, breaking her musings, though, he spoke barely above a whisper. In reaction, she hastily wiped her face and denied the accusation.

"You may have fooled me had you not thoroughly rubbed away the evidence; the light is not so good so I may have been persuaded that it was not tears in your eyes, but a natural brightness."

"Does it matter that I was crying?"

"I thought I would ask," he shrugged, "you have been taking care of me. I would not like to think that the strain has emotionally exhausted you."

Molly stared at him, mouth unsure of a forthcoming answer to his ridiculous statement, when suddenly, the purest sound escaped her. She laughed.

"That is an improvement to your scowling," he remarked.

Ignoring him, she clasped her hands over her face, resting her knuckles against her bent knees and let the gentle chuckles waver between pent up hysterics. A giggle here, a masked sob there; it was the release that was coming all day - since the moment she had witnessed Emory's murder.

"Regardless of your health, an acquaintance with you is likely to exhaust anybody," she resumed after a brief time; her voice thick.

"I have heard it said," he smiled. She noticed that there was no double meaning in the current expression.

Prompted by the rawness of the moment, she asked, "what do you want with me?"

His smile broadened before assuming a more sober air. Bringing her journal forth, he considered the green leather of its binding as if viewing it for the first time. Turning it in his hands, his eyes met hers and held the contact.

"Out of all my . . . visits to this land I have never encountered a random meeting. I once met the brother of King Aelle. It was not a good introduction for him," his tone possessed a matter-of-factness that attempted to disguise itself with an amount of playfulness. It only served to engage the listener the more, and Molly couldn't help feeling intrigued.

"Yet, the meeting itself held purpose. We received our ransom. We also humiliated the King. In my heart I know that there are yet more meetings to be had with that King; whether by myself or with a horde of men at my disposal. It is the nature of Fate is it not? Those we are destined to have in our lives, weaving in and out of our tale, for good or ill. We will meet them . . . and sometimes we will meet them again."

His gaze held hers strongly now.

"It is destiny that we have met again," he said quietly, "for, as I know of unfinished business with Aelle, I have known that you are my key to something new. You were a woman from another land when first we met; with raiment foreign to the peoples of my lands and to the lands of the Christians; with mysterious treasures and a book of fine quality containing a script illegible to all – including my monk. You ask of me what I want with you, and I will tell you – I want to know what you know. I would have it all."

Molly did not shy away from his gaze as an ensuing silence fell between them. The space they occupied in that small cave needed a moment of its own ere they began speaking again. The snap and crack of the fire was enough to fill the void at present as each felt a fresh wall of hostility evaporate in the stuffy space.

Slowly, Molly reached a hand out, wordlessly asking for her journal. The Viking didn't hesitate in returning it once more.

It was a Celtic design on the cover, bought specifically in anticipation for her trip to the UK. She traced the Celtic knots and whorls, toying with the pages between as she psyched herself up for another glimpse of a life forever lost to her.

Opening to a random page she read the entry. The lines grew blurry as tears clouded her vision, but she would not blink lest the salty tear-drop smudge her writing. She managed a few paragraphs before decisively shutting the journal and wiping her eyes. She looked up to see that the Viking was watching her.

"What you ask of me is . . . personal," Molly admitted. Her voice was hushed. "What you call a book is a journal, my journal. It is my writing in these pages."

The Viking was surprised.

"And what is a – a gornull that women have the ability to write in them. What is written in them?"

"It is a place to record the events of a day; of the events of a certain time."

"Why? What is the point of that?" he continued to search.

Molly stared at him, amazed at his genuine ignorance of why such a practice would be beneficial.

"For memory," she explained. The Viking still did not look convinced of its usefulness.

"So a bunch of women are daily writing down the mundane routine of their duties and chores – "

"Men and women; and it is more than simply documenting the mundane. It captures the moments shared with people, of emotions and places. It is a thing to look back on when you are old and grey and share with your children and grandchildren."

"They are your stories then?" he concluded, grasping at an explanation that made sense to him. He seemed eager now.

"Yes. They are stories – sometimes badly told," she admitted, thinking of her own dismal writing, "but stories nonetheless."

"Will you read them to me?" he asked, sounding hopeful. She hesitated.

"No. I don't know. Not right now, at least," she wavered. She was unsure of the rapid progress in their communications and felt the impulse to revert to terms of antipathy and suspicion.

"You need rest and I – " she sighed. "I need to think."

She said no more to the Viking that night, and he in turn followed her instructions. The cave eventually filled with soft snores as weariness carried the Viking towards the regenerative sleep he had required hours prior. Molly did not watch him, but she could not help but wait for that inhale every time he mumbled out an exhale through parted lips. She feared he would die in the night and leave her defenseless in, what was now, enemy territory.

The quiet night opened to her, stilling the ticking clock of Time in an illusion of gained hours in which to contemplate her new circumstances. Only the fire was an indication of movement during the dead of night when any tint of dawn would be impossible to disturb her ruminations.

Alcohol and death. Those were her present concerns. They existed in the immediacy of unraveling events that she perhaps had the power to prevent. Sentiments and hopeful thoughts could be appreciated only in the peripheral at present.

The consequences of his death implied various outcomes. Relying on previous information, Molly assumed that he must have been separated from his brethren, for she doubted he had made it all the way to Wessex on his own. Her concern lay not in returning his body to his kin, but in avoiding those kin should he perish. She must also take into consideration the as-of-yet nameless foe the Viking had engaged with before their meeting. It was also true that she could not know how long her former master would pursue the hunt, and if she was not careful she might become the easily caught prey between three fierce forces. The only difference of that scenario should the Viking live would be the assumed protection he would extend over her should they make it to his Viking friends.

'But then,' Molly continued voicelessly, pursing her lips and raising her eyebrows, 'I would have to – again – find a way to escape him.'

The fear of the unknown and the half-guessed in regards to being taken to his lands raised a series of warning bells should he try to trick her onto a boat. Not least due to her own superstition of not leaving these shores. It was on this island that the doorway had opened for her unwilling passage. It was, therefore, this island that she must remain should that doorway ever open for her again.

Looking over her shoulder, Molly watched him. The flickering light cast by the diminishing fire nearly concealed the tattoos she'd earlier noticed on the sides of his shaved head, making the color appear as the first growth of hair after a buzz cut. He had aged since their first encounter. She remembered his hair being thicker atop his scalp and his beard not so long. There was some grey there too, and momentarily she wondered how old he was.

Her eyes traveled down towards his wound. Its redness had not faded, nor did she expect it to. Of course there was a possibility that it would not get infected, though, she felt that was a big 'if'. Creeping slowly towards the fore of her mind, an idea was formulating into an impulsive sketch of a plan.

The gamekeeper kept a still near abouts. The bluff they sheltered at the base of was south of the manor. Molly knew the gamekeeper preferred height for his precious still; she had once come across it and was nearly chased away by his shouts and some farming implement she hadn't had the time to inspect.

Turning her gaze back to the outside world, she craned her head to look up at the pitch night. It was unlikely that he would be there at this time. She was also encouraged by the lack of moonlight that would have highlighted her progress to any who may have been watching.

Reclining back into herself, Molly huddled her knees close to her chest, resting her brow against them. It was a risk. Was she willing to go that far in order to maintain her shield? She looked back at him, gritting her teeth, though not in anger or annoyance directed at him. It was a reflexive action against the fear of cowardice.

She did not like him; she knew plainly that her only interest in caring for him was selfish. Yet there was that spark of humanity that had been instilled in her through her religion. Sanctity for life. Unrelated to her own desires, his death was not something she craved. And if their second meeting was truly Fate she would never forgive herself for remaining passive when she had the power to act.

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Chapter Four →