#on the minus side it sapped my fic writing energy

[kvetchinglyneurotic]

unstoppable force (desire to write) vs immovable object (tired)

[saxspielercaderface]

Fic: Welcome Home

This was a a short writing prompt that turned into a 6 page long fic hoooo boy.

This serves as part of a re-work of Finley’s backstory/childhood, specifically detailing part of the aftermath of Blood Runs Deep and the whole Dagannoth/Fremennik war. As a warrior/raider, Finley’s seen and been through some shit during that time, and it takes its toll on her, hard.

Once again, a huge ty to Shady for the prompt, ideas, and proofreading!

I’ll put warnings here for drug abuse, addiction/withdrawal, vomiting, implied physical abuse, suicide ideation, and general unpleasantness. Dead dove, do not eat.

No one recognized her at first when she stepped off the boat from Rellekka. Normally assured, confident strides reduced to dragging shuffles, once proud shoulders slumped forward, and bright eyes dulled, the only indication that the figure was indeed Feurhildr Lartinsdóttir was the pair of massive wolfdogs heeled at her side.

Regent Sigvald Lartinsson met her at the docks, hustling her up the coast to Miscellania Castle, where the rest of the family waited to welcome her to her new home.

They passed the massive gatehouses and worked their way through the bailey. Sigvald, never releasing his sister’s shoulder, nodded in greeting to his subjects - the artisans, farmers, even the flower girl skipping about by the blacksmith’s stall.

Soon, the massive doors of Miscellania castle loomed above them, embossed with a sprawling relief of an oak tree, a grizzly bear and a direwolf standing rampant and supporting its trunk. At Sigvald’s command, they swung open on well-kept hinges, welcoming the pair inside.

They stepped across the threshold, all regality and poise sloughing away, leaving only Sullivan Bannbreker and his sister, Finley, behind.

“Welcome home, Fin,” Sullivan said, giving Finley’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Finley, however, didn’t respond. Her gaze was distant, and not even the arrival of the rest of her siblings - minus one, she reminded herself grimly - and their subsequent dogpiling of her made any difference.

Not even Liam taking her into his arms and assuring her that this, too, shall pass seemed to sway her at all.

***

Weeks went by.

Finley remained sequestered in her room, Eir and Nanna growling whenever anyone strayed too close to the open door for comfort.

Unlike Rosta, the two wolfdogs were very much war animals, bred and trained to protect their master and neutralize all approaching threats, and they did not take kindly to any of the Bannbreker’s attempts to check on Finley’s condition.

It took days of Conor’s budding animal handling skills, Maeve’s soothing lyre playing, Breandan and Aideen’s combined ruses involving bits of yak jerky and distracting noises, and, finally, an incident involving a fox, an imported watermelon, and Liam’s old wolf-head hat to get the two wolfdogs out of the castle and allow Sullivan to enter Finley’s room at last.

Immediately, he wish he hadn’t.

What first hit him was the smell. Daggermouth blood. A putrid, poisonous stench laced with saltwater and rot, barely masked by the woody bite of alcohol and the energizing bitterness of bilstyggr holly berries.

Daggerblood swill. Dammit.

His cloak brushing the floor, he made his way across the still unembellished room, nudging stinking, empty, and broken flasks out the way with his boot.

The stark emptiness of the walls and shelves struck him, and he realized that its occupant had not brought anything from Rellekka. No mementos from the old house. No trinkets from Geilir’s place. No reminders of her service. Not even an axe to hang decoratively on the wall.

Dust hung in the air, covering everything except the bed and the chest next to it, its lid slightly ajar.

Wary, he approached the bed, poking the lump under the three fur blankets with his finger.

A low groan answered him, and he began to peel the blankets back.

“Finley?”

Another groan, this one trailing off into a hiss.

The final blanket pulled back, Sullivan stared down at the tangle of emaciated limbs and matted hair that just barely passed for his younger sister.

The stink of daggerblood swill clung overwhelmingly to her and, as he manhandled her into a sitting position against her headboard, his hands came away coated in a thin layer of what he assumed to be her expelled stomach contents.

“V’s sake, Finley…” Wiping his hands on his trousers, he knelt and brushed the hair from her sunken, red eyes and turned her head to face him. “Ye tryin’ to kill yerself or something?”

She wrenched her face from his grasp and closed a hand around a half-empty flask set beside her pillow, raising it to her lips.

Sullivan snatched it away, the deep red liquid inside sloshing out and over the blankets.

Finley backhanded him across the face with a snarl, snapping his head to the side.

He balked, but not from the pain.

More from the lack of pain, the lack of strength behind the blow.

And far more from the fact that Finley, of all people, perhaps the only Fremennik to hold reservations over slaughtering the Daggermouths, had just struck him out of anger.

“Ye BASTARD!” she spat. “That was my last one!”

Her voice was steely, grating, no longer the bright lilt he was used to, and he snagged her wrists, holding her in place as she began to spasm and scream. Fingers curled around bone - Sullivan felt as if he could’ve snapped her wrists clean in half with little more than a thought.

He had to calm her down.

“Finley, STOP!” he cried, face still stinging where she had struck him, her own sobs and wails starting to echo. “Stop, please!” She shook and shook, coughs replacing sobs, and, with a great yank, threw herself out of Sullivan’s grasp and over to the other side of the bed.

Thick retching followed, liquid splashing on stone.

He watched, his own stomach crawling as he caught sight of her ribs and spine, showing starkly through her tattooed skin.

He waited.

Soon enough, the retching gave way to painful-sounding coughing, then to feeble spitting and wheezing. With a sigh, Sullivan eased his cloak from his shoulders and draped it over Finley’s, sitting her back on the bed in the process.

He would need to have it washed later, but that was hardly a priority now.

Finley drew her legs up to her chest and pulled the cloak tighter around herself, still shivering, and the sight ate at Sullivan’s heart. To see her like that, small, starving, and shaking - it was unnerving and wrong, as if something alien had skinned her alive and taken up residence.

He had started to comb Finley’s hair back from her eyes again when a set of frantic footsteps approached.

“Sully?!?” His gaze shot toward the doorway - Teague stood there, a half-skinned fox slung over his arm. “I heard screamin’ - what’s all this about, then?!?”

“Teague! Go get some water and hare broth from the kitchen, now.” Sullivan jabbed a finger toward the hallway beyond to drive his point home, and Teague nodded.

“Aye!” With that, the doorway was empty again, and Sullivan turned back to look at Finley.

She was wiping her face on the hem of his cloak, the fur and fabric soon damp with tears and sick.

Having the cloak washed shot up several rungs on the priority ladder, but Sullivan did little but grit his teeth and shake his head.

“Ye haven’t eaten anything in weeks,” he began. It wasn’t a question - meals brought up to her room came back untouched at best, devoured by the wolfdogs at worst. From the state of the room, and her, he guessed that all she had even tried to touch was that damnable swill, which led him to an actual question. “How did ye get a hold of this infernal piss-water anyway?”

She shrugged, mumbling something about Ragnvald sneaking flasks of it in for her, and only then did Sullivan notice the makeshift bucket lift hanging out the window.

“Dammit, Fin-”

“...hurts.”

“Wha?” He barely caught her voice, quiet as it was. “What was that?”

“It hurts,” she mumbled, wiping her eyes. “Everything. Need the swill. It makes everything-” she gestured broadly to nothing in particular- “not hurt.”

“Ah.”

Sullivan worried the inside of his cheek as the term entered his mind.

Blood-sickness.

He’d seen the warriors and raiders back in Rellekka. The more worn ones, especially, who depended on daggerblood swill to keep their energy high, to numb the pain of their wounds, and to build up a resistance against the Daggermouths’ poisonous saliva. As they got older and inevitably retired, they would try to stop drinking the swill. But most who tried, couldn’t.

They would fall ill with a high fever and tremors. A single touch could have them crying out in pain. Any food they ate had a good chance of coming right back up.

It was as if their strength had been sapped from them, and the only thing that could replace it was more of the swill. A dependency.

“Is this all ye’ve been drinkin’ or eatin’ for the past month, then?” he asked. “Just to get rid of the blood-sickness? Bukalla’s balls, Finley, it’s a wonder yer not dead yet.”

“A bloody unwelcome miracle,” she coughed, refusing to look at him and white-knuckling the hems of his cloak.

Sullivan felt as if he’d been slapped in the face all over again - no, he would rather be slapped in the face all over again if it meant he didn’t have to hear Finley confess that sentiment.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, and instantly regretting the action as his hands were still soiled, he sighed, aching to get to the root of the problem.

“But it’s not just the blood-sickness, Fin. Something else’s eatin’ at ye, I can see it.”

“Aye,” she sighed, shrinking further into the cloak as if trying to disappear.

“Right, then. What is it?”

She shook her head furiously, scowling.

“Fuck on off, Sullivan! Ye wouldn’t understand, aye?”

Sullivan returned her scowl, cuffing her lightly across the shoulder.

“Language, ye great, smelly dog-walker.” He grasped her arm, gently turning her to face him again. “Look, if I don’t understand, then who might? Koschei? Thorvald? Ah...that woman you were seeing? Valka?”

Finley looked hard at him, eyes mattering at the edges, and he immediately regretted mentioning that final name.

“Right, maybe not. But if not her, then who, Finley?”

She sighed, looking away.

“Athrhan. She’d understand.”

It took all of Sullivan’s strength not to roll his eyes and scoff.

I don’t think she’d understand anything that you’re feeling, Finley, he thought, just barely keeping the words to himself - she’d need to hear them eventually, but not now. That beast couldn’t understand anything but her own twisted definition of suffering. That, and her need to carve everything she didn’t like apart, bit by bit.

“How?” he settled for asking, crossing his arms.

“She fought. She was there - she saw what I saw, saw everyone...torn up.” Finley shivered violently, eyes glazing over before she buried her head in her hands, tugging at her hair. “The blood, the bones, everything. Gods-” she dry-heaved- “I just want all that out of my head, aye?”  

“And how would Athrhan help that, then? By bashing yer skull in like she always threatened to do?!?”

“AYE, MAYBE!” Finley snapped, tearing out a chunk of hair and tossing it aside.

Feeling his teeth grinding together, Sullivan released Finley’s arm, an ugly and perhaps misplaced sense of relief prickling the back of his mind.

Well then it’s bloody well good that she’s not around to do that anymore.

He glanced to the mess that was Finley’s right shoulder, just barely covered by her mane of hair. The gaping axe wound there was beginning to scar over - soon, it would just be a reminder of another Athrhan-related ‘accident.’ One of perhaps hundreds.

Sighing, he fished for the right words.

“Look. Finley. I know you miss Ma and...Athrhan.” He spat the latter name, wanting nothing better than to never speak it again. “I do too.” A half-truth. “And, yer right. I don’t fully understand what yer going through right now. So, help me to understand. If that’ll help ye get past all-” he waved a hand at the flask-littered room- “this, I want to understand, aye?”

She didn’t answer besides a nod of the head and a resigned sigh, but Sullivan could tell the words had sunk in.

Satisfied, he stood, yanked the bucket from the window, and began filling it with discarded flasks. It did nothing to rectify the lingering stench in the room, but at least the floor was clean. Carefully setting the now full bucket just outside the room, he approached the bedside chest, cracking the lid.

Ah, there they are, he thought, smiling slightly as he looked over the contents. Finley had brought things from Rellekka. She had just hidden them away.

One by one, he took each object from the chest, showing them wordlessly to Finley before placing them around the room.

A pair of worn dolls from her early years, one a warrior, the other a Daggermouth.

A hat, knit by their mother.

A bone hair comb, whittled by their father.

A drinking horn, made from the hollowed out claw of a Daggermouth - Thorvald and Koschei owned very similar ones.

Several intricately-carved runestones in a woven bowl, from her time with the Moon Clan.

A pair of mitten and sock linings, felted from Rosta’s shed fur.

Rosta’s old collar, damaged heavily by salt and chewed in half.

A sheath-knife, it’s antler handle carved with the likeness of a moose - the only thing of Geilir’s she kept.

A necklace, the charm a piece of driftwood carved in the shape of a fishhook and inlaid with protection runes. A gift from Valka, when times between her and Finley were better.

Her waraxe and shortsword, both blunted from years of use.

A strange staff that smelled of cinnamon, humming with magic.

After everything had been placed, the room seemed a bit brighter, a bit more welcoming. More of a part of home than a prison to waste away in.

The smallest of steps forward, but a step forward all the same.

“Right.” He pulled the now empty chest closer to the bed and took a seat on the lid. “So. Are ye wantin’ to talk about what’s eatin’ ye and help me understand it all?”

Finley sighed, a low, rattling, defeated sound.

“Seein’ all that. Everything. The war, fightin’ in it. Everyone bloody and torn apart. I still see it all.” She buried herself deeper in the cloak. “All the time. Every night. Every day. Can’t sleep. Can’t talk to anyone, can’t bloody think sometimes. I’m scared, I’m hurting, I’m...I’m alone.”

It was a while before Sullivan could even pull together a response, his mouth flapping open and closed uselessly in the interim. Eventually, however, he managed to say something semi-coherent, squeezing Finley’s shoulder.

“Look, ye might feel alone now, but I don’t know what else to say other than...yer not? Yer home, Fin. You’re safe. And we’re all here for ye, aye?”

And that bloody beast can’t hurt ye any more, he added mentally.

Finley just nodded, sniffling slightly, and the two sat in silence.

***

Teague returned sometime later with a mug of water and a bowl of warm broth.

“Should I bring the others up?” he asked, handing the mug and bowl to Sullivan. “They’re fussin’ over this quite a bit, especially Da.”

Sullivan shook his head.

“No. Not now. The last thing she needs is to be overwhelmed, aye? Tell them they can come up one at a time later on.”

“Right.”

With that, Sullivan returned to Finley’s bedside. It was an arduous process, getting the water and broth into Finley and not all over the bed, but she kept it down well enough, drifting off into a fretful sleep once both the mug and bowl were empty.

Another small step forward.

Two down, perhaps a thousand more to go, and none of them easy.

Weaning her off the swill would no doubt be harder than a stroll through Waterbirth’s cave system.

Convincing her that Athrhan’s absence would do her good in the long run would be harder still.

And he wasn’t particularly looking forward to that.

***

“Fin, are ye done in there?” Sullivan called, knocking hard on the door.

“Aye, give me a minute - bleedin’ trousers won’t stay up.”

A few curses and exasperated sighs later, and the door cracked open to reveal Finley - bathed, combed, and finally clothed.

“A dress might’ve worked better, ye know,” he said, watching her fumble with the belt tied around the loose-fitting tunic she wore. The thing was a sack on her now - made to fit a much broader and healthier Finley. “At least ye wouldn’t have to worry about yer trousers fallin’ down.”

She shrugged, tying off the belt.

“‘M cold.” She shuffled back to her bed and proceeded to bury herself back under the heap of - now washed - blankets. Sullivan followed her into the room, glad that it no longer stunk of swill and vomit, and took a seat on the trunk once again.

“How was breakfast?” he asked. She dry-heaved, making him flinch.

“Came back up,” she mumbled, tugging at her collar. “Just like dinner.”

“Ah.” Frowning, he ran a hand through his hair.

Progress was slow, if even existent - every step forward seemed to be followed by two steps back, and Sullivan would be lying if he said he wasn’t constantly frustrated by the whole mess.

Yet, he still kept hold of some hope. Especially today, what with the rest of the family finally allowed to visit her.

One by one, they all crowded in, expressions ranging from concern to fear. The tension was palpable - Sullivan wrung his hands, jaw clenched, waiting to see what would happen.

The only one to approach the bed was Liam, who sat on the edge of the bed, took Finley’s hand in his, and drew her into a careful hug.

“Hi, Da,” she choked, burying her face in his shoulder.

“Welcome back, Finley,” he said, starting to sob into her hair. “Welcome home.”

The tension dissipated, Sullivan releasing his held breath and allowing himself a small smile.

Finley’s road to recovery would be long, hard, and painful. Perhaps impossible. Yet, one step forward would become two, then three, then four.  

And now, at least, she had eight more pairs of feet to help her along.