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assortedseaglass · 7 months

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We Have This Hope - III

Osferth x Lady-in-Waiting

[Masterlist]

Story Tags: Fluff, Slow Burn, Mentions of Violence, Strong Language, Religious Guilt, Smut

Notes: Barely proofed. Will do later. Hope you enjoy my loves. H x

Aefry and Osferth’s mutual fascination continued over the week and, much to Aefry’s delight, she was provided with plenty of chances to see him, for wherever Aethelflaed went, Uhtred seemed to follow. What’s more, wherever Aethelflaed and Uhtred went, so too did her ladies and his band of warriors.

Following their fleeting meeting after mass, Aefry had glimpsed Osferth on her way back from the meadows just beyond the keep’s edge. She’d spent the day there with her book of psalms and her pages of drawings. Butterflies, plants, the skies above her and the ripple of the Itchen river. Wrapped in a shawl and sat beneath the old oak that guarded the grassland, Aefry was content to draw, read and daydream. Of her parents, of life beyond the keep, of warriors, of the boy with rough-shorn hair and worried eyes…

The day was drawing in when she made her way back to the warmth of the keep, the grey sky purpling as the sun descended below the trees. A brisk coolness settled on her cheeks, and she felt them turn red. These transitory days of autumn, like those of spring, brought a promise of something on the horizon that only the birds above them could see. In a life so still and, though she was grateful of her position, monotonous, Aefry found the quiet adventure in them thrilling. She thrilled too when, against the darkening sky, a white horse gleamed. Walking slowly, it’s head bobbing with each step, it looked like a spectre. Her cheeks burned all the hotter when she saw the man leading the horse to the stables.

Head downcast like that of his steed, he too seemed aglow in the twilight. Pale skin smooth as clay, his breath taking flight against the cold air. With his shoulders slumped, Aefry saw not the shy yet brave warrior monk she had become so intrigued by those last days, but a boy. Somehow, despite his quiet courage, he seemed defeated. Not once had he looked up to see his progress towards the stable, glancing only at his feet as they shuffled across the hard earth. He was missing the gentle sunset, had not stopped to look in the direction of the blackbird singing in the hedgerow, not noticed how she stood at the edge of the field, watching. She had to know what troubled him. Spurred on by that desire, any decorum left Aefry as she hurried forward.

At the rustle of leaves underfoot nearby, Osferth glanced up. Catching each other’s eyes, they both abruptly stood still. Osferth, hand at his sword, gawked at her. Aefry wobbled on the spot, having been caught rushing towards him. The white horse huffed and a great cloud of its breath rose into the sky.

The look that lingered between them was a second longer than proper, and Aefry became once more a young lady of propriety. Smiling gently, she moved slowly towards Osferth. He glanced quickly at the white horse, patting its thick neck as if finding something to do. Not even Uhtred or the King stirred this much nervousness in him.

“Forgive me, Sir-”

“Osferth,” he corrected. Aefry was relieved to see a small smile curve his lips.

“Osferth,” she whispered his name. To say it aloud, with no title, seemed indecent. “I am on my way back to my mistress, but when I saw you-” Aefry teetered on the precipice of this confession. Did it reveal too much? “Forgive me. I thought you looked sad.”

Osferth looked straight at her then, and the hand that rubbed the horse’s neck fell to his side. “Not sad, my Lady, just defeated.”

“Defeated?” She took a step closer to him, eager to know what caused the good man’s disappointment.

Osferth saw the worried crease of her brow and hurried to reassure her.

“Finan, he has been teaching me to spar. ‘Properly,’ he says.” It was as though the moon had risen early. All at once, Aefry saw the purple blooming under his eyes and the small grazes to his cheeks. When he held out his hands, dropping the reins of his horse to reveal the smattering of bruises across his knuckles, she gasped and took hold of them.

How intoxicating it was, this woman’s worry for him. Excitement, rapidly followed by shame, overcame Osferth and with all the effort he could muster he took his hands back from her. How wanton, to crave more of it.

“Wait, please,” Aefry said, turning in the direction she arrived from. Osferth watched her reach the edge of the meadow and crouch by a green mat of vegetation. In the low light, it was as if watching someone ascend from deep water. As she walked back to him, a handful of green clutched in her hand, she slowly came back into focus. Osferth shuffled from foot to foot and swallowed, looking quickly back to the horse. Blinking quickly, he saw the outline of her inside his eyelids. The ripple of her long hair, the sturdy footsteps towards him, her silhouette growing ever closer as her hips swayed side to side beneath the modest tunic she wore. He knew at once he would recount the image of her walking slowly towards him in the twilight. That night, in all likelihood. Osferth blushed and bowed his head. His boots were caked in mud, no doubt his tunic torn and much the same. He flattened the hair on his forehead and, shame yet again welling up inside him, hastily dropped his arm.

“I acknowledge my sin to you, and hide not my inequity-”

“Pardon?” Aefry had begun tearing the leaves in her hand as she stopped before Osferth.

“I-er, she is-she is restless,” Osferth gestured to the horse.

Even with his head bowed, his body stooping to appear small, he towered over her. Aefry came eye level with his leather cuirass, and the cross the rested there. A good man indeed. Funny, Aefry thought, that she found the holy men of the keep so pious they bordered on arrogance, boring to the point of inertia, or else more sinful than those they preached to. Power, she supposed, was the currency of man, and there was plenty for those who had taken holy orders under the command of the King. In Osferth, however, the presence of the cross at his chest calmed her, for she had seen the truth that he was a good man. Ruled not by power, but by his kindness and conscience. A true man of God. He was still shuffling uncomfortably at her side.

“Well then,” Aefry said with a gentle smile. “We best get you both inside.” Her twinkling eyes met his and Osferth’s heart drummed unsteadily in his chest. She turned on her heel and made her way towards the stables. With the click of his teeth, Osferth and his steed followed eagerly in her wake.

The closer they drew to the dimly lit stable, the clearer the voices within it became. That is to say, one voice. The two men inside barely noticed as Aefry pushed open the door and slipped inside. Instead, it was the sound of horse hooves on the dampened ground that told the men they were no longer alone.

“Hurt your bollocks as well as the rest of your body?” Finan said to Osferth, indicating the horse he hadn’t ridden and laughing heartily. Sihtric smirked but continued brushing the dark horse he rode. Beside them, Aefry appeared from a small stall with a bowl of water.

“Fuck!” Finan jumped back at the small woman’s seemingly sudden arrival.

Blushing at the language, Aefry laughed. “Perhaps, Osferth, you should take sparring lessons from me. He may be the brute but I clearly have the cunning.” She playfully nudged Finan’s shoulder and found he didn’t budge. It made her giggle all the more and the three men stared at her. Sihtric in question, Osferth in amazement and Finan in mirthful admiration. Unaware, Aefry continued tearing the plant in her hand and adding it to the bowl.

“What have you there?” Sihtric’s voice was quiet.

“Yarrow,” Aefry offered him one of the flowering stems. “It helps to soothe swelling.” She watched as Sihtric turned the flower between his fingers. Despite his height, his fearsome, bicolour gaze and endless stoicism, there was gentleness to this man she was certain many overlooked. To all of them. Whereas it was plain in Osferth, behind the tough exteriors of Sihtric and Finan lay good-hearted souls. Sihtric with his childlike wonder, Finan with his easy humour. Uhtred too possessed a tenderness, if the way he looked at Aethelflaed was anything to judge.

Silence, but for the huffing and shuffling of the horses, settled about the stable. Aefry worked the yarrow and water into a paste, unaware of the silent exchange occurring above her head.

Osferth, still shy around his adoptive comrades and overcome with an emotion entirely foreign to him in the presence of Aefry, looked everywhere in the stable but her. Occasionally, as he glanced between the ceiling’s beams or the hay-strewn floor, he caught either Finan or Sihtric’s eyes. Sihtric, in his usual way, fixed him with a knowing stare somewhere between teasing and curiosity. Each time Osferth caught Finan’s eye, however, he entered into a silent battle with the Gael.

Finan indicated Aefry with his head, encouraging Osferth to step closer, or else would mouth instructions. “Talk to her!” “Say something!”. Once or twice, he even caught Finan making lewd gestures. When the Gael balled his fist before his crotch, Osferth’s eyes widened and he darted into one of the stalls. In doing so he brushed against Aefry’s shoulder, and the warmth he felt beneath her shawl sent a surge of lightning through him.

Flustered by the commotion of his own sudden movement, Osferth almost lost track of where he was and what he was doing. He span around. “I’m sorry, my Lady-” Osferth’s voice died. Aefry was watching him with a smile. No annoyance at his carelessness, worry no longer knitting her brow. Simply smiling at him.

Though bolder than he was, Osferth had noticed in his few meetings with the lady-in-waiting, of which this was the third, that, like him, Aefry was content with silence. He wished then that he had the courage for idle chatter. This lingering silence was torturous. The more she looked at him, and the more he looked at her, the more likely it seemed to him that heaven truly was real and not just a tool to frighten men into subjection.

“Let me see your hand again,” Behind Aefry, Finan walked past the stall and winked. Osferth didn’t move, and so Aefry came to him. Mistaking his infatuation for his earlier disappointment, she reached out and took his hand. Osferth almost whimpered. He bit the inside of his cheek to silence himself and released a ragged breath through his nose.

“I’m sorry, but the yarrow will help.”

Osferth let out a shaky laugh at her unknowing sweetness. “‘Tis fine.” When she began massaging the yarrow into his knuckles, Osferth held his breath, for never before could he remember being touched with such gentleness.

He barely remembered his mother. Sometimes, he thought of her running her hand over his head, but was unsure if this was a memory or merely something his mind had conjured up in the absence of her. When he entered the monastery, it was with the clap of his uncle Leofric’s hand at his back and a promise that he would always be near.

In their memory, Osferth touched the cross at his chest. Aefry’s eyes flickered there but she asked no questions, and began rolling a torn piece of cloth about his hand.

Behind the walls of the monastery, Osferth knew nothing but prayer and penance.

The blond hair his mother had allowed to grow long was roughly shorn, his clothes were replaced with itchy hand-me-down robes, and despite having lived so meagrely before, he would have given anything to sleep on the hay mattress of his uncle Leofric’s rather than the wooden board and blanket of his shared quarters.

That first room he shared with two other boys, Arric and Hablendan. He did not need to ask why they were sent to the monastery. The abbots looked at the three boys with an obvious disdain that they did not show the other novitiates. They were woken between matins and prime, then set to work preparing breakfast for the sleeping monastery. After a long day of work and prayer, Osferth and his companions would say compline, or vigil before Sunnundaeg, and await the abbot to permiss them sleep, long after everyone else had retired.

Bastards. Shame of father and family. That was why.

“A stain upon the good King’s virtue.”

“Nothing but a whore’s shame.”

“It would have been far better if you had never been born.”

When Hablendan succumbed to a fever aged eleven, the penitential psalms were hurried, his anointing near forgot, and the abbots slung him in a haphazard grave beyond the monastery wall. Only Osferth and Aerric kept vigil.

Arric left the monastery suddenly, and from time to time Osferth imagined he had run away with a tradesman or visiting abbess. That way he could believe a life beyond that harsh place existed. A monastery in a warmer climate perhaps, or a new life altogether.

“Osferth?”

So tender was her voice that Osferth thought he’d imagined it. The voice of Hablendan or Arric. Perhaps even his uncle or mother.

He blinked in the dim light, and felt a warmth about his hands. She had taken both in her own, and held them gently before her. Her eyes, a muddy mixture of browns, were looking up at him with concern.

“‘Tis fine,” he said again, although the lump in his throat betrayed any attempt at ease. Aefry nodded, held his hand a moment longer, then let go. Osferth twitched awkwardly before coughing and clearing the stall to make way for his horse. That he had been about to take her hand once more, Aefry did not know.

“Will your mistress not worry where you are?” Sihtric was heaving his horse’s saddle onto one of the stable beams.

“If Lord Uhtred is with her, I doubt it entirely,” Aefry said with a smile. “Her mother, however-” The men laughed. “I am away. Remove the dressing in the morning and the swelling should have gone down,” she addressed Osferth. “If not, seek me out and I will gather more.”

“He surely will,” Finan stepped forward with yet another gleeful glance in Osferth’s direction as he wrapped a cloak around his shoulders. “I’ll walk you back.”

Osferth’s heart sank. He had not known Finan long, but it was enough to see the long looks women gave him. Wit, kindness, honour, strength. How could he possibly compete? Aefry and Finan were backing out of the door when Sihtric nudged Osferth’s shoulder and nodded in their direction. Aefry was looking hopefully at him over Finan’s shoulder.

“Goodnight Osferth, goodnight Sir,” Sihtric nodded his head at Aefry. Osferth bowed a little.

“Come,” Sihtric said to him. “You have more to learn than swordsmanship.” And together they trudged towards the inn on the outskirts of town, Osferth hanging off his every word.

In the opposite direction, Finan and Aefry walked in comfortable silence. The sun had set fully and torches flickered at the welcoming gates of the keep. In a few moments, they would be sheltered in its warmth. Aefry’s stomach gave a rumble and she laughed.

“Thank you, Sir, for walking me back,” Finan smiled and Aefry continued. “Though, and I do not mean to offend, I suspect it was not for my safety.” Expecting to see annoyance in her eyes, Finan looked at her. To his pleasant surprise, he saw her eyes twinkle in the low light. A broad smile stretched across his bonny face. “I do believe Saeflaed will have returned from her father’s by now.”

“I would not have let you walk back alone, lady-”

“Aefry.” She corrected, holding a hand to her chest. He copied the movement.

“Finan.” Aefry nodded and Finan continued. “But a glimpse of her would not go amiss.”

Aefry’s smile widened. Finan had thought her a meek little thing at first, smaller than her companions, not so pretty as Saeflaed or outspoken as Adburh. But he saw now that he was wrong. Behind the round cheeks and rosy complexion, pleasing manner and quiet reserve, a brightness burned within her. Quick to help and to laugh just as he. The youngest of Aethelflaed’s ladies, he thought perhaps, despite Saeflaed’s beauty, that Aefry was his favourite.

“She’s very pretty, isn’t she?” Aefry said, her voice full of that longing awe one heard in a girl recalling a princess, or a little boy dreaming of the battlefield.

“I’ve never seen a fairer lass,”

“And here she is,” she indicated the keep gates, where a golden haired girl stood waiting. Aefry turned to Finan, a knowing glint in her eye. “Almost as if this meeting were planned.”

“Not a word to your mistress of Uhtred,” Finan held her arm gently.

Aefry held a finger to her lips as she slipped away, and Finan watched as she clasped Saeflaed’s hand before disappearing through the gate.

Over the next few days, the three men and three women followed their leaders like a gaggle of children.

Having told Aefry how much she liked the man, Saeflaed either clung to her arm or Finan’s, whispering hurried observations in the former’s ear, flirtations in the latter’s.

“His wit is as sharp as his sword!”

“There’s something about his eyes,”

“I watched him train the monk,” Aefry’s ears pricked. “His arms, Aefry!”

Poor Adburh was quite taken as ever by the silent Sihtric, but the discovery of his wife had left her quite bereft.

“Many a man takes a mistress, Adburh,” Saeflaed had said.

“I’ll not be a man’s whore,” Adburh snapped from beneath her bedsheets.

“Not even a man so beautiful?”

Adburh sniffled and Aefry silenced her friend with a quick glance.

When next they saw Uhtred and his men, all walking the halls and corridors of the keep as he spoke to Aethelflaed in hushed tones, Aefry was forced to abandon her position by the monk to remind Adburh that she was at court. At once, the red-headed girl’s shoulders straightened, the crease of her forehead vanished and her steps became lighter.

“He is a handsome man, ‘tis true,” Aefry whispered to Adburh. “But not the man for you, my friend.” Adburh’s face soured at once and she made to protest. Aefry didn’t allow it. “Aside from his marital status, he is far too quiet and serious. Imagine the household you would run together! You, fearsome and outspoken. He, fearsome and silent. That poor man would not stand a chance.” Adburh laughed sadly and linked her arm through Aefry’s. Together, they processed behind the others.

Uhtred and Aethelflaed were a way ahead now. Uhtred too, seemed equally bewitched by Aethelflaed as Adburh was with Sihtric, and Aefry was glad to see a man bestow her mistress some compassion. The image of a gentleman in her presence, Uhtred listened to Aethelflaed’s words as though she were bestowing upon him a prophecy. He walked half a step behind her at all times, and always, his gaze was directed toward her.

Finan and Saeflaed, still holding his arm, were a few paces behind them with Sihtric. Aefry giggled as Saeflaed’s golden curls bounced animatedly as she spoke to him, and Finan looked over his shoulder at the noise and winked.

Osferth saw him do so and glanced to where Aefry and Adburh walked. The moment he looked at her, Aefry’s steps faltered.

“Are you alright?” It was Adburh who sounded concerned now.

“Yes. Yes, fine,” Aefry resumed her steps and looked to Osferth. He had turned back to face the front. Let him look round again, please. The strange sensation that had made its home in Aefry’s chest ever since she met the monk stirred, and she gulped a few times to steady her breath.

“Are you sure?”

“Adburh,” Aefry lay a hand atop her friends. “Believe me when I say, I am fine.” Adburh eyed her suspiciously but they continued ahead.

Osferth walked alone between the groups, hands clasped behind his back. As people passed them in the corridors, going about their business, Aefry found a new appreciation for his height. She had seen few men so tall. He was taller than Finan, that was certain. Now, she saw he was taller than Uhtred and much the same height as Sihtric. She thought of the three warriors and their broad backs, and her mind wandered to what lay beneath Osferth’s robes. Whether he would become as muscled as them as he continued his training-

I’m sorry. Let him look at me, and I’ll spend Sunnandaeg in the chapel.

Aefry did not know precisely what it was that she longed to see, but when Osferth turned to look at her again, his mellow eyes brightening when he saw her already watching him, she felt a small part of her desire to be seen by him sated.

“Aefry, your cheeks are flushed. Are you certain-”

“Adburh!” Aefry dropped her friend’s arm in annoyance and took a few rushed steps forward before realising where she was; a step or so behind Osferth. When Adburh stomped past them, her temper flaring, Osferth startled and gazed back. Upon seeing Aefry so close, he startled again but smiled all the same.

“Her fires are burning rather hot today,” Aefry mumbled, giving Osferth a small curtsy.

“Is everything well?” said Osferth as he watched Adburh storm ahead.

“She had some bad news,” Aefry wouldn’t betray Adburh’s feelings, no matter her annoyance.

Osferth hummed and waited for Aefry to fall into step beside him. Unlike that which she had shared with Finan, Aefry could not say their silence was comfortable. On the contrary, both seemed strained to think of something to say and altogether uneasy.

“The yarrow worked-”

“How is your practice-”

Both spoke together, blushed and allowed the quiet to resume. After a moment, Aefry took Osferth’s hand. Perhaps it was an excuse just to touch him, but she brought his knuckles to the light of a passing window and examined his bruises. The yarrow had worked indeed, for she could make out the bone and blue veins of his hands. His hands. How small hers suddenly felt underneath his. When she looked up at him, she saw he was still staring down at their entwined hands.

“Do you need anything more of me?” she whispered.

Osferth’s eyes flickered to hers. “Lady, I-”

“Come on, Osferth!”

Finan’s voice boomed down the corridor and Aefry stepped quickly away from Osferth. Onward they walked.

“That is much like how he speaks to me when teaching,” Osferth said lowly and Aefry laughed. “But he is kind do it, and a good man.”

“That he is.”

Osferth watched her from the corner of his eye. She smiled as she looked in Finan’s direction and he tried to quell his jealousy. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,” he whispered.

Ahead, Uhtred and Aethelflaed had stopped outside a large cabinet of rooms at the fore of the keep, and Aefry, distracted on their journey there, noticed at once that it was the study of the King. She quickened her steps, leaving Osferth’s side, to stand behind her mistress. It would not do for Lady Aelswith to see her at the side of one of Uhtred’s men and not her daughter.

No sooner had she, Saeflaed and Adburh settled behind Aethelflaed did the door to the cabinet open. Father Beocca stepped out and grasped Uhtred’s hand. A moment after, the King entered the corridor and all in his presence bowed their heads. Aethelflaed kissed his cheek.

“You are ready?” He said to his daughter and Uhtred, to which they nodded and entered his private chambers with Beocca. As Aefry bowed once more, she noticed the King’s intelligent eyes carry over Finan and Sihtric, before flicking to the man stood still in the corridor.

Subtly, so imperceptibly, Aefry saw Alfred falter. From her reverent position, she looked sideways through the veil of her hair.

Osferth was looking pointedly at the ground, his shoulders a little stooped, his head a little bowed.

When the King turned away, Osferth looked up and saw that Aefry was watching him again. With a sad smile and nod of his head, he retraced his steps, away from his fellows, and out of sight. A haunting sadness had returned to his eyes, and Aefry thought of little else all evening.

Early one morning under the guise of prayer, Aethelflaed brought her ladies-in-waiting to the town chapel so she may share some secret with Uhtred before he and his men left for the north.

Finan and Sihtric were stood at the door, happily talking when they arrived. They bowed to Aethelflaed as she passed, sharing a knowing look, and greeted the ladies. Saeflaed placed herself by Finan and leant gaily against the stone wall so that her hip jutted just so. Adburh, too, stood scandalously close to Sihtric. He said nothing. Aefry did not worry about Osferth’s own whereabouts, for she knew he would be inside.

Sure enough, when she pushed open the chapel’s great doors, daylight streaked into the chamber and set him aglow. Sat on a simple wooden bench at the back of the chapel, his head was bent in prayer. Like a moth to a flame, she drifted towards him, sitting carefully beside him as he prayed.

The creaking of the wood gave her away, and Osferth opened one eye. When he saw her sat beside him, he smiled and relaxed in his seat. Together, the monk and the young lady sat in contended silence at the back of the chapel. After a while he looked at her fully and saw the happiness on her face.

“What has you smiling, my Lady?” Osferth whispered in her ear as they sat side by side. Aefry looked up at him. His hands were clasped in his lap, his head bowed slightly to hear her answer. Wherever he went, he always looked in prayer, and she wondered if it was the same on the battlefield. If he fought with as much grace as he did everything else.

“Those two,” she indicated Uhtred and Aethelflaed with her eyes. “It is good to see her smile again.”

From the corner of his eye, he watched her face glow with tenderness. It seemed her permanent state. On occasion, he had seen her about the keep with Aethelflaed and her other companions. Where Adburh and Saeflaed seemed suited to keeping the princess jovial, the lady beside him must have been picked as a companion for her quiet sincerity. When Aethelflaed fell into clouds of despair, it was Aefry she went to to lift her spirits.

When Osferth stumbled upon Aefry in the town, or sat in the meadow beyond the keep, she moved with serenity, like river buttercup in a stream. It struck him that she was prayer incarnate; contemplative, curious, calm.

When tending to the horses, he watched her in the meadow. She gathered flowers, read beneath the oak tree, or when not alone, talked spiritedly with her companions. Just as fascinated as she was with the monk, he too was with the lady-in-waiting.

“Though she doesn’t show it, not to Lord Uhtred, she is sad.” The monk titled his head towards her as she spoke. “You are away tomorrow, are you not?”

He nodded, eyes scanning hers. Would she be sad when he left? As Aethelflaed was for Uhtred?

“Take care, Just Osferth,” she smiled. His mouth twitched at the corners, and she knew he wanted to smile. “What?”

“My lady, do you think perhaps you could simply call me Osferth? The others have given me their own name, I should like to hear mine just plainly.”

The lady’s eyes lit with mirth. “What do the others call you?”

He sighed and looked at the cross atop the alter, as if pleading for help. “‘Baby monk.’” He whispered it in her ear like he was at confession, and she would have shuddered were it not for the ridiculousness of the name. She sniggered and the monk pinched his nose.

“Are you a monk anymore?” She had turned to him slightly, though she still glanced at her mistress every now and again. “Now that you are in Uhtred’s company?”

He thought a moment and watched his hands. “I don’t know what I am anymore.”

She took his hand in hers and faced him directly.

“You are Osferth.”

“That I am.” There it was again. Pride. Looking at her pretty face, open with kindness and judging of nothing as she watched him, Osferth felt that whatever he had been, or would be, was fine because she saw him. She.

“What do you think life would have held for you? Had you the choice?” Aefry knew the question was intimate, and should he rebuke her, she would understand. To her happiness, he did not.

“I do not think it matters, lady.” Visions of himself as a prince, or an ealdorman with wife and child flashed before his eyes. “My lot was chosen long before I was born.” Aefry knew he was thinking of his father’s actions but said nothing, only let him continue. “With another mother, another father, in a different realm perhaps my life would have been different, but it does not do to dwell. I am thankful for what I have been given.”

He watched her side, for she had turned to face Uhtred and Aethelflaed solemnly. Her lips parted delicately, plainly thinking over what he had said. A few strands of hair had fallen loose from the braid knotted at her nape, revealing the pulse point on the elegant column of her neck. Osferth was struck with the desire to run his finger along it and the britches beneath his tunic tightened. He shifted on the hard pew. Damn. Faintly, as though listening through water, he heard her say something similar to “we should leave them be.” He looked up to see Uhtred and Aethelflaed departing through the door behind the chancel.

“Will you pray with me?”

Her hand was still in his and she squeezed it before clasping her own in prayer. “Of course.”

Aefry knelt before him and he swallowed, shifting his hands beneath his tunic before kneeling beside her. Osferth wasn’t sure how long they prayed. Or rather, how long she prayed and he tried to. Her devoted mutterings and deeps sighs of breath were beautifully distracting, so he settled on watching her pray instead.

She leant her head on her hands, as though this would open a direct channel to help her commune with the divine. She glanced up on occasion, to gaze at the altar, before casting her eyes down. When she hastily wiped a tear from her cheek between devotions, he found he could take it no more and moved towards the offertory shrine next to the tabernacle. He hadn’t seen someone so moved by prayer since the monastery, and even then he believed the abbot did it to scare the oblates into servitude.

He took a candle and, placing it next to its fellows, lit it with a taper. Closing his eyes with the flame in hand, a moment’s solace finally found him, and he prayed for that which he always could. When he opened them, she was there beside him, placing her own candle upon the shrine having silently finished her prayers. As if in slow motion, he watched as she covered his hand with hers and moved the taper he still held to the wick. The candle flickered into life, and she let go.

“Who did you light your candle for?” she whispered, watching the flames dance together.

“My mother.”

“I lit mine for you. I want to see you safely back in Wintancaester.” Sadness befell Aefry’s eyes and Osferth said the only thing he could think that would ease her unhappiness.

“I shall try, my lady.”

She nodded. “He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.”

His lips parted with barely supressed awe. “Psalm ninety-one.”

Aefry nodded again. “The psalms are my favourites.”

“My lips praise you, because your faithful love is better than life itself.” Osferth whispered, his eyes intent on hers.

“Psalm sixty-three.”

“Yes,” Each time he was near her, his voice floundered. It seemed it was not just he who struggled. The light of the chapel cast Osferth in a soft glow and his eyes, pierced by the sun, looked aflame. Aefry watched as his tongue ran slowly over his bottom lip and, mindful of their place in God’s house, pressed the back of her hand to his so as to feel close to him.

“I must away, my lady.” His words were abrupt, their sudden intimacy overwhelming.

“Yes, you must,”

Osferth swallowed, and with some urgency said, “But I will see you soon.” Her beautiful face became doleful as she looked at the bidding candles and he stepped closer to her. Her eyes, brimming with tears, took in his face and as he made to brush them away, she stood on her toes to place a chaste kiss against his cheek.

Frozen before the shrine, Osferth listened as her steps carried her from the chapel, away from Adburh and Saeflaed, from Finan and Sihtric, and from him.

In the meadow beyond the town, beneath the oak tree, Aefry let her tears fall.

“The sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night,” she said aloud to the grasses and the birds. Please, she begged, please let him come back.

Notes: Matins, prime, compline and vigil are part of the liturgical hours in the catholic faith, and are prayers that are said throughout the day. Typically for a monk, there would be matines, prime, lauds, none, sext, vespers and compline. Vigil came before holy days and some even took nocturnes which is around 1am. I used to live with a monk (true!) and sometimes I would do lauds with him. Fifteen minutes of quiet is a lovely way to start the day!

Tags: @arcielee @babyblue711 @elizarbell @chilling-in-my-head @skikikikiikhhjuuh @fan-goddess @sylas-the-grim @theoneeyedprince @ewanmitchellcrumbs @targaryenrealnessdarling @doomwhathouwilt @gemini-mama @myfandomprompts @bcon24 @humanpurposes @wise-owl @bookwyrmsblog @yentroucnagol @allthefandomtherapy @hightowhxre @elizarbell

#ewan mitchell #osferth #osferth x oc #osferth x reader #the last kingdom #tlk #aethelflaed #uhtred #finan #sihtric #alfred the great #we have this hope #ewan mitchell x reader

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moris-auri · 7 months

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Still the memory of you (marks everything I do)

taglist: @arcielee @sylasthegrim @orcaunionleader @aemondx @lexwolfhale @barbieaemond @helaelaemond

Osferth x reader (she/her)

A/n: changed my mind on making it a series, but I hope you guys like it all the same!! 💕💕 line divider by @saradika and MDNI by @cafekitsune

Warnings; NSFW 18+, angst, death, smut

Summary: They were never meant to cross paths, yet fate worked in strange ways.

The hunk of bread in her mouth fell to the ground as she let out a yelp, eyes widening when something fisted the back of her tunic. A wave of panic crashed over her, the urge to flee growing when the weight vanished for a second before falling on her shoulder, spinning her around hard enough to make her stumble and bite the inside of her cheek when the not so blunted edge of one of the alehouse tables dug painfully into her spine.

“Well, well, well,” a voice rumbled above her gruffly, “Aren’t you quite the little thief?”

Narrowed eyes were focused on her intently, roving from the top of her head down over her threadbare tunic and the breeches underneath it.

A warrior, she noted, judging by the sword at his side and his leather armor. Unamused, she tucked her chin inward as she glowered at him. “So?”

His chuckle deepened as he grinned down at her, not missing the way her eyes flicked towards the door frame. “So?” he repeated, crow’s feet forming in the corners of his eyes. “Stealing from the Lady Æthelflæd is a crime, you know.”

She prayed he didn’t notice the flash of nervousness in her eyes at the mention of the Lady of Mercia. His mouth twitched at the sound of her stomach starting to grumble, the noise loud enough to make him chuckle and gesture at her stomach unhurriedly. “You’re hungry. Come.”

She didn’t move, keeping her feet planted on the floor as she grimaced. “Either come with me or pay the fine.” With that he shrugged, turning around to go back the way he’d come, “Your choice, little thief.”

She scrambled after him, the bread forgotten in her haste to catch up to his loping strides.

That had been months ago.

Possibly a year, even.

She didn't remember; couldn’t remember from all the time they spent traveling from one town to another, more often than not sleeping on blankets beneath the open sky, the quiet of the land broken by bursts of laughter from Sihtric or Uthred or Finan.

They’d been in the same place longer than she expected, though a part of her, bone weary and tired, was glad for it. She turned her head, glancing at him from the corner of her eye, watching the way the torchlight sent his profile into stark relief. “You’re staring,” he teased, keeping his gaze straight ahead, “Again.”

Her mouth twitched as she grinned amusedly, “Can I not admire you, Osferth?”

He choked, spluttering on the mouthful of ale before turning wide blue eyes on her, a flush rising over the curve of his cheeks. “You-”

She glanced back at the others again, huffing a breath out in relief as they were otherwise occupied with something. The corner of her mouth lifted as she turned back, grinning at him slyly.

His breathing deepened, nostrils flaring as his eyes darkened, pupils dilating with desire. "Come with me." His fingers wrapped around her hand as he pulled her away from Uthred, Finan and Sihtric, his steps sure-footed and determined as he led her outside.

“They took stones from the ruins in Wroxeter to build this place,” he murmured quietly when he'd finally stopped by a lone corner of the watchtower. His breath fanned over the top of her head as he stood over her, making the strands that had fallen from her braid flutter softly.

Awed, she listed her hand, tracing her fingers over the old rough hewn stones. "It's beautiful."

"Isn't it?" Her head lifted, catching the strained undertone of his voice, lips parted at the look on his face when she turned her face up to his. His eyes were dark, darker than she’d ever seen them, the clear placid blue turned into a shade like the sky before a storm.

No man had ever looked at her like he was. Her eyes widened, heartbeat roaring loudly in her ears as she breathed his name under her breath. He had not yet let go of her, and for a brief, fleeting moment, she hoped he didn’t, warmth shooting down her spine at the sensation of the callused skin of his palms scraping lightly over her knuckles.

"I want you," he exhaled hoarsely, his chest heaving with each ragged breath he took, “More than I’ve wanted anything.”

Her lips parted, palms itching with the overwhelming urge to twist her fingers into his hair and tug roughly on the short strands growing as she shivered at his words, heat pooling in her stomach at the thought of being so wholly desired by him.

“Then what’s stopping you?” she breathed, instead tugging her hand from his hold and pressing it directly over his heart, feeling the steady thump of it under her splayed fingers as she let out a breath, not pulling her gaze from his. How could anyone be so beautiful?

His grin broadened as he bowed his head to catch her mouth in a kiss that was messy and inexperienced, yet still heated enough to make her toes curl in her boots. She responded to it eagerly nonetheless, digging her fingertips into his shoulders as she stretched up on her toes, suddenly ravenous to taste him.

She grunted, knocked breathless for a brief second when her back hit the stones behind her. She gripped at his shoulders, biting her cheek to keep the low whine at bay as his lips slid from hers, skirting over her cheek and down her jaw.

But it came anyway when he retreated yet again, panting and wide eyed as his breath puffed between them, white and opaque. “I cannot marry you. No matter how I wish to.”

She knew what he meant. What he refused to elaborate on, having been witness to his almost nonexistent relationship with the man who had sired him. She remembered their first conversation like it was yesterday, stilted as it had been, the mention of Alfred doing little but make it more awkward.

It was one thing she’d never forget, the way his demeanor had shifted so rapidly, going from shy and subdued to something harsher and more severe. She had flinched when his cup had thumped harshly on the table, jarring and loud as it sent the wooden utensils into the air.

Would never forget what Finan had said to her after, one hand loosely gripping her shoulder. I would not say that name in his presence again if I were you, little thief.

She had listened, and never uttered Alfred’s name again.

She smiled anyway, nothing more than a brief twitch of her lips. “I see,” she murmured, swallowing back the lump in her throat. The expression on her face must have shown some of what she felt, the feeling akin to a knife twisting in her chest.

“It is not that-” He blustered, flushing as color rose high on his face when he noticed her eyes lingering on him. He pressed forward again, his frame all but bracketing her against the stones, a barrier between the wall behind her and the structure in the distance.

“You do not have to say it if you do not want to, Osferth-” her voice came out weak as his eyes darted over her face, searching for something. Whatever he was looking for, or if he found it, she didn’t know, content to savor the here and now with his thin frame pressed flush against her like this.

He swallowed, his mouth twisted as that same anger he had then returned. “I am a bastard.” The word hovered between them like a weight, the bitterness in his voice making rage swell in her chest.

She had never known the dead King, nor did she wish to now.

“That was a choice he made, Osferth, to lay with your mother,” she bit out, raising her head to meet his eyes. “His sin, not yours. Our God knows you did not choose this.” She soothed as she pulled her hand away, fingers moving up to curl against the back of his neck, nails scraping lightly across his skin. His mouth twitched, a rueful smile appearing and disappearing just as fast. “I cannot help but-” she cut him off, digging her fingertips into his skin as she pulled him down to kiss him again, smiling against his lips when he responded instantly, fingers digging into her hips as he groaned against her mouth.

A greediness had awoken in him after that, something that had him turning to her and touching her every chance he could. And when they were alone after the sun fell, he would be on her, hands finding the curve of her waist beneath the stiff leather of her armor.

It was always something different each night he spent with her. Pressing his face between her thighs. Licking at her until she was keening and oversensitive. Rutting against her until they were both sweat slickened and panting.

If there was one thing the siege of Winchester had proven, it was how fleeting life truly was.

It was no different now.

The seasons change, one after another as they follow Uhtred, settling into Coccham easily. Yet a part of her hates the peace, an after effect of the expanse of time she had spent with a sword in her hand.

Yet the one thing she would never regret was the constant of waking with him at her side, the memory of the previous night still fresh in her mind.

The tangle of limbs and teeth and tongue. The feeling of his fingers dipping between her thighs as he gathered her slick on the pads of his fingers. The cacophony of noises he had made against her skin. The sharp, near brutal snap of his hips against her backside before he collapsed against her, head pressed against the back of her neck.

"If this is heaven," he had grunted, long fingers gripping her sides hard enough to leave bruises, "Then I do not want to leave it."

“Where is Osferth, Finan?”

Her brow furrowed as her eyes darted between them, dread pooling in the pit of her stomach. She could practically taste the unease in Uthred’s voice, like sour ale.

His face flashed in her mind as she had seen him only days before, with color bleeding over his cheekbones and his blue eyes soft as he looked down at her, his fingers clasping hers loosely, stood a distance away from the others, hidden by the tree’s low hanging branches.

Before they had separated.

She had been loath to leave him, his reassurances the night before and the next morning doing little to dispel the uneasy feeling building in her gut.

They'd been seated at the same table for hours, listening silently as Finan spoke, recounting everything that had happened. She stared down at her folded hands as she listened, knowing that she would never step foot in Rumcofa again.

Her grief was a blade buried hilt deep in her chest, twisting as it turned, slicing her open from her chest to her navel, the agony of it burning underneath her skin, white hot and blistering.

"He asked of you, you know."

He head shot up, startled again by the sound of Finan's voice. He had not moved, staring blankly at the mug of ale situated in front of him, barely touching a drop of the liquid. "He was dying, and the only thing on his mind was you."

"Finan-" Uthred warned, mouth tight, “Enough.”

The stool toppled over behind her as she stood up rapidly, the growing tightness in her chest becoming a stranglehold. She stumbled, the words playing over and over and over in her head.

The only thing on his mind was you.

The stifling atmosphere inside the tavern faded slightly as she stumbled past the door on unsteady legs, sucking in lung full after lung full of air. A quiet creak of boots on old wood sounding from behind her. She didn’t bother turning around, knowing exactly who had followed her. “What do you want, Sihtric?”

She could feel the weight of his gaze on the back of her head, “To talk.”

She kept her back to him. “What if I don't want to talk? Hmm?”

“You’ll find another,” Sihtric interrupted quietly, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Someone who will make you happy like he did.”

She shifted away from him at that, rounding on him with glassy eyes, seeing half of the agony she felt mirrored in his mismatched eyes. "This world takes and takes and takes and now-" a sob welled in her throat, tears stinging her eyes. “Finan can’t even look at me-”

“Because he thinks he’s failed you. He looks at you and sees him.”

She ignored him, choking on the words that tumbled out in a rush as her hands shook at her sides. "What is this life without him? I can't-" for how could she, when the very thought of being happy with someone who wasn't him left her ill, and feeling like a knife twisting in her stomach?

“You can,” he insisted as she shook her head, “He would not want you to mourn him forever.”

“As if it were that easy,” her voice rang hollowly in her ears. Osferth, who at the beginning had flushed whenever he saw her, ducking his head to hide the splotches of red covering his cheeks.

Osferth, who for seven years had been so wholly hers. Osferth, who should’ve been here with her now, not buried in some distant grave in Wessex, leaving her with nothing but memories and the knowledge that now she would forever be haunted by the ghost of him.

By the memories that she had had all of him, and now none of him.

They were never meant to cross paths, a royal bastard and a thief, yet fate worked in strange ways, but they had. Two vastly different fates woven together, and now she would be haunted by what could've been.

By what should have been.

#my fics #osferth #tlk fanfic #the last kingdom #ewan mitchell #osferth x reader #osferth x oc

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aegonx · 8 days

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A commission I requested of Osferth and Brynja from As It Was that I got from the incredibly lovely and talented @lonelymagpies THANK YOU ❤️❤️❤️

#Osferth x Brynja #allaboutocs #As it Was fic #tlk fic #the last kingdom #Osferth x oc #Osferth

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happilyhertale · 9 months

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Osferth

Destiny is all - Osferth x female!reader

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

#osferth smut #osferth x y/n #osferth x you #osferth x reader #osferth #osferth tlk #osferth fanfic #osferth the last kingdom #the last kingdom #osferth x oc #tlk fanfic #seven kings must die #baby monk #ewan mitchell

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humanpurposes · 11 months

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From Eden

Chapter 1: Little Novice

Danes attack Wincombe Abbey and a young novice crosses paths with a group of mercenaries and their Baby Monk // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Osferth x Original Female Character

Warnings: bit of violence and death, suggestive themes if you squint, there will eventually be smut

Words: 4000

A/n: not me starting another series oops but i can't resist the baby monk

Today saw the first snowfall of the year. A few flakes landed on Bridget’s sleeves as she sauntered past the hard and frosted soil of the vegetable garden, past the pigsty and towards the stream that circled Wincombe Abbey. She swung an empty pitcher back and forth as she hummed the least melancholy hymn she could think of.

They had guests currently. Lady Aethelflaed of Mercia had arrived two days ago, bringing with her a group of guards who were camping at outside the Abbey. Bridget had been tempted to walk past the men on her errand, but the Abbess was already in a foul mood and she didn’t fancy testing her temper. Not unless it was for something interesting.

She had spent her morning as she always did. Prayers first. Her knees were never not bruised by the flagstone floor of the chapel, but with winter settling in they were numb too. Then she saw to the goats and the pigs. Then she helped in the kitchen. Finally, she got to eat in the hall with her Sisters. Bread with some winter preserves and slices of cured ham.

When she got to the stream, she placed the pitcher by her feet. With a final glance over her shoulder to the solitary stone building of the Abbey, she hopped across the water on a sparse path of rocks and made for the line of trees ahead of her.

The woods were the only place she felt like a living person and not simply a novice in a habit.

Bridget couldn’t stand how quiet life the Abbey could be. The Abbess, a stern but fair woman, told her it was because she was restless and unappreciative, but perhaps she was simply not well suited to mindfulness and prayer. Sometimes she could find things to laugh about with the younger girls, but then the Abbess would scold her for her “impiety”.

Once she was amongst the trees she tugged at her habit. In the summer she might take it off, but it offered some extra warmth in the colder months.

Her preferred weapon was where she left it, leaning against the trunk of a young oak tree. A broken bit of a branch, small enough for her to wield and heavy enough to hit against the trees.

She twirled it through her hands, just as her brother used to show her. From the few memories she had, she remembered he could do all sorts of impressive tricks with his sword. He could spin it and slice it through the air in controlled and precise movements.

It had been a decade since she had seen her brother, but she tried to keep his teachings with her, swinging branches at tree trunks, imagining she was a great warrior, like David slaying Goliath. Technically David had slayed Goliath with a rock and a sling, a detail the Abbess insisted was important. Bridget could invent a thousand reasons why, but she didn’t care to.

Especially when she was younger, she liked to imagine herself as a warrior when she was tasked with cutting wood or slaughtering and butchering the pigs. They were both hard work, but she was always willing to do it, if only to have an excuse to be destructive for once. She found it could be quite cathartic.

After a particularly harsh blow against a tree that cracked the branch almost in two, she froze. She heard horses. She hoped they would move on, but she made out a few figures in the distance, figures who appeared to have spotted her and were moving closer.

She dropped the branch and fixed her habit, to find a lock of her hair hovering over her forehead. She tucked it back in as the faces of the riders came into view.

There were five who rode at the front, four men and a woman with pale, blonde hair and strange markings on her face. A larger group, no more than twenty, hung back a little.

“A nun,” one of the men called. He rode in front of the group, their leader, she supposed.

“There we are then, you’ll feel right at home, Baby Monk,” another said. He had a gruff voice and an Irish accent. One of the other men laughed. The woman didn’t react at all.

“Is the Abbey nearby?” The leader asked.

Bridget frowned. He had an accent she could not place. “You are Danish?” She looked amongst the rest of their group, and they each seemed to find her accusation amusing.

“What is my religion to you, girl?”

“I would like to know if you would seek to do us harm.”

He raised a brow. “And you believe the best measure of a man to be the gods he follows?”

“I believe the best measure of a man is his intentions,” she said, meeting his eye and determined to keep her expression stoic.

But apparently he was pleased with her response. “You and I are similar in this respect,” he said, loosening the grip of his reins. “We seek the Lady Aethelflaed.”

“Would you seek to do her harm?”

“Only the good kind,” the Irishman mumbled with a smirk.

The leader rolled his eyes. “She and I are friends. I have come to offer her my protection.”

Bridget looked into the eyes of each of their group, the leader, the Irishman, the one who from his hair also looked to be a Dane, and the younger man riding at the back of the group. The woman had an unsettling gaze, she was the only one Bridget felt she felt compelled to look away from. The Abbess would call the markings on her face the markings of a heathen.

“There is a bridge over the stream,” she said, pointing through the trees. “Cross there. There will be room for your horses in the stables.”

She watched the men move away, each of them offering thankful smiles. She concealed her own, and headed back the way she came, across the stream and to the abbey with the empty pitcher.

Lady Aethelflaed welcomed them warmly and named their leader as Lord Uhtred. After it was agreed that they were decidedly not Danes (not the kind who would attack an Abbey anyhow), they settled in the hall, where Bridget and the nuns brought them bowls of stew and bread.

She expected them to eat like the Mercian guards, wolfing down bread and stew like they hadn’t seen food in days, but Lord Uhtred and his men thanked her graciously as she placed bowls on the table and went round to ladle out more stew for them.

Until she came to the man sitting at the end of the table, beside Lady Aethelflaed. He was the youngest of the group, with wide blue eyes and a sharp jaw. He kept to himself, slightly hunched over his stew.

She was rather fascinated by his robes and the small silver cross around his neck. If he had a slightly worse haircut he would look like a monk. But that was ridiculous, why would a monk be travelling with a group of mercenaries?

She approached him and waited for him to notice her. He looked up at her a smiled vaguely.

She indicated to the pot she was carrying.

“Please,” he muttered, holding out his bowl.

She dished a few spoonfuls for him and he smiled again, a little wider this time. She smiled back.

She wondered where he might be from, why he served a Dane if he wore a cross, how far their group had travelled and how many tales they might have.

“May I ask your name?” He asked.

She had been so distracted trying to think of something to say that his question took her by surprise.

“Oh… Bridget,” she said. “And you?”

“I am Osferth,” he said. He was very softly spoken, she thought. There was something so gentle and subdued about him.

“Are you a monk, Osferth?” She asked.

He glanced down at the cross hanging from his neck. “I was, I left my order to serve Lord Uhtred.”

“And now you are, what, a mercenary?”

Osferth chuckled to himself and shook his head lightly. “I am not much of a fighter just yet.”

“But you have a sword, and your friends are warriors.”

“I am still learning. In the meantime I can only practice and pray to God for courage and strength.”

She felt a light feeling in her chest she was sure she hadn’t felt in years. That’s what she prayed for too, even when the nuns told her she should be praying for patience and forgiveness.

“How did you—”

“Bridget.” The Abbess called, glaring at her from across the table.

Bridget nodded her head to Osferth, a farewell, she supposed, and headed back to the kitchen. One of the girls followed behind her, with a now empty pitcher of ale.

“The Irishman is handsome,” Bridget whispered into her ear once they were through the doors.

The other girl’s mouth fell open.

“What? Surely it is not a sin to look?”

The next morning, the Abbess ensured Bridget stayed in the kitchen. “So you might not be so easily distracted,” she warned, leaving her to peel and slice an endless amount of vegetables.

The Abbess seemed rather distressed at hosting Lord Uhtred and his men. “Ravenous permanently,” she grumbled, marching in through the kitchen with the remains of their breakfast. “They are eating into our winter stores.”

“So why let them stay?” Bridget muttered, dragging the edge of her knife over the skin of a few carrots.

“Because it is our place to show kindness,” the Abbess insisted through her teeth. She emptied the plate into a bucket by Bridget’s feet. “Take that out to the pigs.”

Bridget made no verbal protest. She placed the knife down and left through a small door that led out to the side of the Abbey, just as she had done the previous day. The skin of her cheeks stung when it met the icy morning air. The snow was heavier today. She blinked a few flakes out of her eyes and marched quickly towards the pigsty.

She made sure to scratch them behind the ears, poor things, left out in the cold.

She made her way around the building, to the front doors of the Abbey, and blinked.

And blinked again.

No, there was defineately an army of Danes lined up on the other side of the bridge.

“Good morning, nun!” One cried from atop a grey horse.

“Who are you?” Bridget demanded, but her voice came out a little more broken than intended.

The man chuckled and nodded to the bridge.

They had three hostages, each with a knife being held to their throats.

But with the order from their leader, the first hostage’s throat was sliced open, his body carelessly left to fall to the floor.

Bridget couldn’t bring herself to scream and choked out a broken sort of gasp.

They made no demands, made no moves towards her, and there was no indication they intended to kill the other two hostages. Not yet.

She slowly stalked towards the doors, unable to keep her eyes away from the danger.

“We will wait!” The man on the horse called, “for Aethelflaed!”

She ran to the kitchen first.

“To the hall!” She cried, moving to shut the windows.

The others all stared at her for a moment.

“Now!”

“What is the meaning of this?” The Abbess asked, bolting the door to the gardens as the others fled the kitchen.

“Danes,” Bridget breathed. She hadn’t realised her lack of breath or the restless feeling creeping under her skin.

The Abbess’s skin turned pale. She placed her hand on Bridget’s shoulder and ushered her towards the hall.

The nuns and novices had raised alarm amongst the men. Half of them were already reaching for their weapons.

Bridget and the Abbess slammed the doors of the hall with an ominous thud.

“What is it?” Lord Uhtred demanded.

“Danes. Outside.”

Every man was on his feet in an instant, and the sound of unsheathed swords rang through the hall.

“How many Danes?” The Irishman asked.

Bridget faltered. She hadn’t thought to count them. “More than twenty. Less than fifty.”

A few men moved towards the doors and the windows, but Lord Uhtred ordered them to hold for the time being.

He turned to Bridget. “Do you know what they want?”

“He asked for Lady Aethelflaed.”

“But they may not know we are here,” he said to his men.

“They know someone is here,” Osferth’s voice came. He was still sat at the table and had not drawn his sword.

“But they have hostages,” Bridget said. “They killed one man and they have two more.”

“We remain inside, and we remain silent,” Uhtred ordered, coming towards Bridget and the Abbess. “They must believe you are unprotected,” he said.

He looked between them for a moment, and turned back to Bridget. “Would you speak with them?”

Her heart must have stopped for a moment. “What?”

“We cannot save the hostages, but you can save the lives of the men and women here.”

“And Aethelflaed,” Osferth added.

“You must deny she is here; convince them you have nothing to offer.”

Her restlessness was starting to feel like fear, but she understood Lord Uhtred’s plan, and she could not say why, but she was inclined to trust him.

Until the Abbess interjected. “No!”

Bridget’s heart sank a little. “Abbess, I can do it—”

“No, child, this is my house. This will be my responsibility.” She turned to Lord Uhtred. “I will do it.”

Bridget followed Uhtred and some of the other men into the entrance hall. She stood by one of the windows, out of sight of the Danes, occasionally stealing glances of the Abbess as she stepped out to attempt a negotiation.

“We know him,” a voice muttered beside her. She looked up to see Osferth’s jaw hovering over her. “His name is Haesten.”

The Abbess made her plea for mercy.

In turn, a second man had his throat slit.

“Deny her presence again and a third man dies. And I will burn down your nunnery, and everyone in it.”

Bridget placed her hand on her throat. She could feel her heart pulsing.

A hand gently came onto her shoulder, but Osferth said nothing. His hands were larger than she realised. It wasn’t exactly calming, but she liked it.

True to the words of the Dane, the third man was slain, and when the Abbess reached for an axe she was met with a spear to her chest.

Bridget flinched into Osferth’s chest, keeping her hands over her eyes.

“Aethelflaed!” Haesten cried. “How many more men and women must die to save your bony arse?”

“To the hall,” Osferth said, taking one of her hands in his.

When she glanced once more out the window, Haesten and his men were moving past the bodies of the hostages and the Abbess, towards the doors.

Bridget, Osferth and Aethelflaed gathered the nuns and novices to the back of the hall, while Uhtred and his men lined up behind the doors with shields, spears and swords.

“Will you not fight?” Bridget asked Osferth.

“I told you, I am not much of a warrior,” he said solemnly, as he and Lady Aethelflaed positioned themselves before the others.

Bridget frowned, but tried to distract herself by whispering assurances to some of the younger girls.

When the doors finally burst open she felt utterly helpless. The fighting was kept by the doors and the entrance hall, while Osferth and Lady Aethelflaed watched with their swords drawn.

And when two of the Danes broke through the line protecting the door, they moved together. Lady Aethelflaed fought better than the monk, she thought.

She watched as a third man fought through, overwhelming Osferth while Aethelflaed was still preoccupied.

Bridget couldn’t stop herself. She darted towards the table and grabbed a knife. She supposed the man could have easily turned to her and lodged his axe in her chest, but he didn’t get a chance to even look at her before she rammed the knife into his neck, sending a spray of blood through the air.

The rest of the room was a haze. Something warm and wet landed on and dripped down her cheek.

Suddenly she felt two hands against her shoulders. She blinked.

Osferth’s blue eyes were glaring at her. “That was foolish,” he said.

Three men lay dead on the floor. Swords continued to clash in the entrance hall but Haesten and his men were retreating.

Osferth and Aethelflaed moved out to join Uhtred, while some of the nuns came to wipe the blood from Bridget’s face.

She told them of the Danes and the Abbess’ death. Some of the girls cried, some prayed. She came to clutch her own cross around her neck. But her hands would not stop shaking and her heart would not rest.

She killed a man. Really, it hadn’t been much harder than slaughtering a pig, but at least it felt a little more justified.

If the Abbess were not dead, she would have screamed at her, told her she was ungodly, no better than a cold-blooded murderer, or any of the Danes who ravaged villages and stole from innocent Mercians.

They stayed huddled in the hall until dusk, when Lord Uhtred seemed to finally come to a resolution.

The woman with the markings on her face, Skade, was a seer, and Haesten agreed to take her in Aethelflaed’s place.

Bridget watched the exchange from the doors to the main hall, and a shiver slipped down her spine when Skade turned to Uhtred with a dark look in her eyes.

“You are cursed once more, Uhtred of Bebbanburg.”

Bridget had hardly slept that night. She lay eyes closed, still in her robes and the white headscarf she wore under her habit, listening to the gentle snores of the girls in the beds around her and aware of the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.

The moment she heard the first whistle of birdsong at dawn, she was up. She pulled on a pair of boots and looked around her bed. But it occurred to her she owned nothing, save for her little silver cross.

She hurried through the abbey, past the open doors of the hall, now empty.

The men were outside, securing their saddles and mounting their horses.

She spotted Lord Uhtred as he was helping Lady Aethelflaed pack her own mount.

Osferth was by his horse, talking to the Irishman.

“Lord Uhtred!” Bridget called over the noise of the horses.

He turned to her with a small smile. “Fear not, we have not emptied your food stores—”

“I want to come with you,” she said.

She had the attention of the others now.

Uhtred chuckled to himself. “I already have a stray monk, I have no need for a little novice.”

Bridget’s skin still felt strange where it had been stained with blood. “I fought better than him.”

“Not a particularly high standard,” the Irishman joked. Osferth’s head sunk, but he was smirking too.

“So you killed one man and now you offer yourself as a warrior?” Uhtred asked.

Her breath caught in her throat as she finally realised the ridiculousness of her proposition. She could swing a branch, cut firewood and bury a knife into an unsuspecting man, but that would hardly help her in a true battle.

“With practice, perhaps?” She said, pressing her nails into her palm. “But I have some skills as a healer also. I’ve assisted the Abbess with all sorts of ailments, no doubt you encounter your fair share of injuries?”

“She’s got spirit, Uhtred, at least give her that,” Aethelflaed said.

“Please,” Bridget said, “give me the chance and I will prove myself to you.”

They each shared a few pointed glances.

“I admire your determination, but I cannot bring a girl onto the battlefield against armies of Danes. I cannot guarantee your protection and I cannot even offer you a horse.”

“Lord? She can ride with me,” Osferth said quietly. “With your permission of course. I can look out her.”

Uhtred raised his eyebrows. “Very well.”

Bridget felt herself smile, wide and showing off her top row of teeth. It felt uncomfortable but she didn’t try to stop herself.

The others were already starting to move off as she approached Osferth as he stroked the nose of his horse.

“Have you ridden before?” He asked.

“No.”

“You’ll sit behind me; I’ll help you up.”

Bridget nodded.

She watched as he placed his left foot in the stirrup and swung his leg over to the other side. “Easy,” he insisted, holding out his hand to her. “Don’t be afraid to use your strength.”

She followed his movements as best she could, but her skirt wouldn’t allow her to bring her leg to the other side of the saddle. She fell back onto her feet with a disgruntled huff.

“Other foot then, and slot both legs onto one side of the saddle.” He held out his hand again. “Ready?”

“Wait.” Bridget looked back to the space around her. The stream, the woods, the doors to the place that had never really felt like home. She reached for her headscarf and pulled it off her head, letting it fall to the ground. She didn’t suppose she would have any use for it now. Her hair fell down her back in a messy braid.

She looked back up at Osferth, between his hand, his eyes, and briefly to the curve of his upper lip. She held his hand tightly and hauled herself up onto the horse, her arms and legs trembling slightly at the effort.

Once the horse was settled Osferth gave it a gentle kick and they began to move. Bridget latched onto his shoulders as they began to sway with the movement.

“What if I fall off?” She asked, suddenly horrified at the prospect.

“You won’t fall off,” Osferth said, “use your thighs.”

“What?”

“Grip with your thighs,” he said.

She did so instinctively. Something about it felt… strange.

They cantered to catch up with the group and Bridget gripped Osferth’s shoulders a little tighter. Until he took one of her hands and placed it on his waist, so she wouldn’t impede on his arms. She muttered an apology and unsurely placed her other hand around him.

A few days ago she hadn’t so much as spoken to a man in years, except an incident where a nearby farmer had broken his leg, and even then she only wordlessly assisted the Abbess to bandage his limb.

Now she had her arms around a man’s torso, close enough to feel his warmth from under his winter cloak as her body rocked against his back.

“You’re frozen,” Osferth said, briefly brushing his thumb over her hand.

“It’s winter.”

“Did you not have anything warmer to wear?”

“We don’t attach ourselves to material items,” she said in a mockingly wistful voice.

He huffed a small laugh and pulled the horse to a stop before swinging his leg around the its head, landing on the ground in one smooth movement.

He undid the clasp on his cloak and held it up to her.

“Thank you,” she said, wrapping it around her shoulders, “but I don’t want you to get cold.”

He mounted again, a little awkwardly with Bridget already in the saddle. “Hold it around me. We can keep each other warm.”

She shuffled closer into him. Osferth brought one hand off the reins and pulled the corner of the cloak around his arm as Bridget settled against his back, resting her head at the base of his neck.

Thank God he couldn’t see her as her cheeks started to burn against the cold and the snow.

#my fics #osferth x reader #osferth fanfiction #osferth fanfic #osferth smut #the last kingdom #tlk #seven kings must die #baby monk #osferth x oc #osferth x y/n #osferth x ofc #ewan mitchell

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itbmojojoejo · 4 months

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River of Sins / Finan x OFC x Osferth

Pairing: Finan x Fem!OC x Osferth

Summary: Osferth had been mustering the courage to confess his growing feelings for Elowen, a maiden from Cornwallum who settled in Coccham, but stumbles across her meeting with Finan.

Warnings: MDNI18+ NSFW. Voyeurism. Oral (F Receiving) UnprotectedPinV(I will not write medieval contraceptive methods.)

Wordcount: 1.08k | Other Works.

Authors Note: Thank you @persephones-journey for the lovely prompt request, it haunted me from the moment I received it. You devil, you.

Osferth stirred gently from his slumber, his lips curving into a small smile. He had dreamed of her again, of Elowen.

The young woman with sleek sandy-coloured hair always worn in different small braids pulling it away from her round face that was constantly sun-kissed, and golden, even in the colder weather when everyone else paled.

He would never forget her arrival in Coccham, her sing-song tones spinning tales of a life in Cornwallum and why she chose to travel, the deep hues of her green eyes sparkling inside the candlelit inn.

Today’s the day, he thought. Today he was going to finally confess that after all these months of quiet observation and exchanging kind words only to blush at the bright beam she would gift him that he had grown an almost unbearable amount of adoration for her.

As he walked through the burr towards the river where he knew she would likely be laundering clothing he tried to make a mental note of what to say. You are captivating and when away I want nothing more than to return to you, hold you, and be the reason you smile… No. Elowen, I dream of you. All I do is dream of you.

As Osferth approached the clearing trees his stomach sank, brows furrowed in confusion as he tried to understand the sight not far from him.

There on the grassy bank of the river, the woman who held his affection was nude, but not alone. She straddled the lap of a man he would be able to pick out of any crowd, even if it was only the back of him he could see, Finan.

Elowen’s head fell backwards with Finan’s lips and teeth ravaging the column of her neck, soft sighs coming from them both as her hips rolled against his, clearly lost in their salacious act.

Osferth’s head bowed as his cheeks grew crimson with heat, a twinge of jealousy and hurt hitting his chest. You fool, of course it was destined to be unrequited.

The will to walk away and be rid of his emotions was broken by Elowen’s breathy gasp hitting his ears. Osferth’s curious eyes flickered up to see her laid on her back, breasts rising and falling quickly with Finan's head dipped between her supple thighs spread wide, her hands buried in the Irishman’s thick hair.

Osferth couldn’t make out where Finan’s hands were, or what they were doing but it was quite obvious from the moan Elowen broke off by biting down on her lip that she was enjoying it.

He only just noticed the fabric of his trousers becoming taut against his groin, and even more to his surprise how his mouth was watering at the sight of her being defiled so openly, where anyone could stumble across her and Finan’s entanglement.

“Finan…” she whined tugging his mouth away from her core, his beard glistening with her juices.

Finan bit at her hips, stomach and chest making his way to her lips with a devilish grin, his words coming huskily, “I’m going to ruin you.”

Elowen’s lewd laughter cut off with a sudden sharp whimper as Finan’s cock sunk into her cunt with quick force.

Look away, return home, this isn’t for you to see, Osferth's mind rattled off but his feet refused to move. He was entranced, his near-silent breaths quickening.

Elowen’s hand fell away from the bicep she held to the ground, her fingernails digging into the dry earth disrupting the blades of grass and mud. The slapping of skin on skin from Finan’s brutal thrusts almost reached the same volumes as her helpless cries.

Finan growled as he roughly took Elowen’s legs and crossed them at the ankles, positioning them over his shoulder and sank his weight onto the back of the blonde woman’s thighs against her chest. A satisfied moan from her filled the otherwise quiet sky.

Osferth’s hardening erection pulsed causing him to harshly palm at it for a moment before rearranging his cock to sit more comfortably in his trousers beneath his albe.

His gaze trailed from Finan’s hand gripping Elowen’s thigh to her crossed feet resting on the Irishman's shoulder, her toes pointing and curling with a curse tumbling from her swollen lips. The thought that maybe he could be the one to elicit such a reaction one day had his cock throbbing.

The idea of leaving now to release his building arousal was tempting, but he wanted to see her fall apart and lock it away in his memories. If I cannot have you, at least I will have that.

Elowen’s unrestrained mewlings began to come breathier, faster and louder as Finan mercilessly snapped his hips against her soft body over, and over and over again. Eventually, he placed his rough hand over her mouth muffling her pleading noises.

No, let her pleasure be heard! Osferth internally begged, his fingers twitching against the bark of the tree he remained behind.

“I know darlin’. You’re so fucking tight, let it go.” Finan rasped, a sheen of sweat glistening across his brow.

He removed his hand from her mouth and knotted his fingers through the hair at the crown of her head, her hands scrambling to clutch at his back as her body tensed under him. Broken gasps with muttered curses fell from Elowen’s mouth, her eyes fluttering closed.

Osferth bit his bottom lip, focusing on how her grip eased as Finan’s pounding stuttered with a pained groan before letting himself all but collapse on the smaller frame of Elowen.

After a few moments of the pair catching their breath, Elowen’s musical laughter rang in Osferth’s ears,

“Get off.” She smiled playfully pushing the Irishman away, and he rolled over onto the grass beside her with his own laugh, his fingers reaching out to stroke along her stomach.

Osferth found her flushed nakedness was a thing of beauty to witness, the droplets of sweat budding across her brow as she hummed with satisfaction, her thighs trembling underneath the morning sun.

The pangs of jealousy returned as Finan stood, hauled Elowen up by her hands, and slung her over his shoulder. She giggled as he slapped her arse when he walked into the water, squealing loudly before he sank them both beneath the water's surface, washing away their sins.

Osferth finally turned away to return home, his head swimming with conflicted emotions of desire and guilt, but he knew one thing was certain, that he would still dream of the maiden from Cornwallum.

#the last kingdom fanfic #osferth x oc #finan x oc #osferth fanfic #finan fanfic #tlk fanfiction #tlk fanfic

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vampire-exgirlfriend · 5 days

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Osferth and Brynja from As It Was by @moris-auri - for Miranda, whose stories deserve to be told.

#osferth x original character #osferth x oc #the last kingdom fic #the last kingdom #osferth fic #osferth edit #the last kingdom edit #miranda tag #my edit #usermiranda

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lya-dustin · 2 months

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Grab your knives and togas and join me on this Tumblr Holiday where we celebrate the murder of Julius Caeser.

a multifandom event since this is a multifandom blog*

OCs are welcome, encouraged even.

🥖send a prompt for a fic or moodboard where the only requirements are: must have a murder, a knife, and/or a party

🍷 write a fic or make a moodboard with the same requirements from the list above

🫒 let's play Caption This! Send a gif or picture of a character(ocs welcome if you have a face claim or drawing of them) And I'll supply the caption. You can also send the caption and i will find the gif or picture

🗡 the Gladiator Arena: send me a poll and the participants and let's see who wins the fight

*(fandoms allowed into the party:asoiaf/got/hotd, magnificent century, the ewanverse and the last kingdom, will make an exception for Tolkien)

#aemma velaryon #aemond targaryen x velaryon!oc #ewan mitchell #ewanverse #osferth x oc #osferth x reader #michael gavey #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd fanfiction #magnificent century au fanfics #tom bennett x ofc #tom bennett x reader #juli's ides of march party

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the-common-cowgirl · 8 months

Note

Hey you ICON!!! I wanted to make a request if possible... I was thinking on some Osferth with fem!reader or OC if you prefer. Some cute scene with a high born reader having a moment with Osferth where they comfort each other or something like that. And you know, a first kiss, or they realise they like each other or something, you choose, I trust you. I love The Lost Children, and I hope you are doing fine 🩷🩷🩷

Ask, and you shall receive (eventually lol). I did put a little bit of my own spin on it because I like to make everything dramatic. Hope you like it! I really enjoyed writing this!

She’s An Angel- Request

Osferth x Fem!(Unnamed)OC

Rating: Teen

Warnings: FLUFF!!!! Heavy religious mentioning a and such (it’s Osferth we are talking about), allusions to wanting to commit sexual acts.

Word Count: 1.5K

***

“I am a pious man. I am a pious man. I am a pious man.”

He resorted to saying it out loud, instead of his prior attempt at only repeating that line in his head, but as his lady - no, the noble daughter of the High Lord’s home that he current sits in, at his table, eating his food - walks about the great hall, Osferth can barely contain himself. Repeating those words over and over to himself quietly.

Well - not too quietly. Finan beside him overhears his mumblings. “What are you on about, baby monk?” Finan laughs and nudges his shoulder when Osferth visibly bristles.

Usually, Osferth wouldn’t have issue with that name. But here, in her presence, it rattles him. The last thing he’d want is for this pure Angel to show her hidden horns and laugh at him as well.

Osferth notices her turn away from her conversation, looking at the table erupting in laughter, trying to make sense of what Uhtred of Bebbanburg and his men were laughing about. Her face ever so scrunches in confusion and a playful smile transforms her lips into something akin to Heaven itself.

Osferth can’t take it any longer. The laughing, the harsh patting his back urging him to laugh along, and of course, the Angel across the room who just made eye contact with him. And she smiles at him.

He’s had enough.

Pushing harshly from the table, Osferth strides toward the two large doors keeping him inside this personal hell scape that he ever-so-willingly walked into; thinking he’d find shelter with an ally of Edward, not to be mocked and ridiculed by his own friends and God himself.

From the table behind him came disappointed hollers for him to come back but he just pushed the doors open and was quickly embraced by Spring’s brisk night air. He remembered there was a shallow creek just outside the city walls and right now, solitude alone with the sounds of only a creek’s babble sounded like a nice way to sit down and talk to God about his troubles. Maybe ask Him why he taunted Osferth so with her presence and why her presence bothered him so much.

The city gates were open as there was no current threat to the city, and he was able to pass unburdened with questions from the guards watching the wall.

He found the creek a short distance from the city and slumped down against a large tree that made its home near the water. The moonlight danced across the babbling creek as it meandered its way further south, toward Wessex. It was peaceful. Here was the perfect place to talk to God. Osferth closed his eyes and rested his hands on his head, elbows on his bent knees.

“Why must you taunt me?”

No answer.

“I am a pious man. Why must you send an Angel to tempt me?”

No answer.

“I’ll never be enough for her, yet, she’s everything I want.”

No answer.

“Give me that, please, give me enough.”

Osferth remembered the first time he met her. They were only seven. Her father had brought her to the monastery as he and his men brought goods to the men of God. Her father didn’t remember Osferth, a wee boy then, but she did. She must have. The way she looked at him when he entered her father’s hall just earlier today. She remembered the hours they spent down by the creek after she asked her father if she could go play with her new friend. That’s what she called Osferth then, “friend.” He wondered if she’d call him that still.

He never saw her again, at least, not in the flesh. But oh, how he dreamed of her. She visited him in his dreams every now and then. He wondered if she’d grown into a beautiful young woman as he had grown into a warrior, not a baby monk.

He had not expected her to be an Angel in the flesh, here to remind him he was nothing but a bastard, warrior monk with nothing to offer her but his undying love. That, would never be enough for her, nor her father. He would only be able to offer his heart; a whole, beating heart would always fall short to money or lands.

A crunch startled him from his off-course prayer. He looked behind him to the source and saw the answer to his prayers and his sentence to eternal damnation.

“Osferth,” she smiled warmly, oh so warmly, as she lowered the hood of her cloak. “I was hoping we would have a chance to talk after the feast my father held.”

She remembered him, she did. She sought him out. His heart beat so fast. He began to stand.

“No, no,” she halted him and moved the cloak so that she sat down on it, not to dirty her pretty dress. She sank onto the ground next to Osferth, too close for modesty between an unwed lady and a man. Osferth sat up straighter, more proper, and moved slightly away from her. He didn’t want to put distance between them, but he had to, for the sake of modesty and temptation.

A small, breathy chuckle escaped her lips and Osferth froze, thinking he had died right then. “I don’t bite,” she said playfully, drawing her attention to his not-so-subtle action.

He blushed, “I don’t believe you do, however,” he chuckled nervously, “I’d hate to be caught and accused of something we had not done.”

She laughed again, this time heartily. Osferth couldn’t find it in him to laugh alongside with her, his statement held truth and worry in his mind. She raised her hand and pointed back toward the city walls, “I am often alone here and no one can ever find me. You don’t have to worry about accusations for no one will see us.”

Osferth looked back to the city and blushed, “What an odd thing to say.” He wondered what her intentions were in seeking him out. “Did you follow me here?”

She smiled at him and shook her head, “No, I had just remembered our day by the creek and figured that you were here.”

He cocked his head in confusion and looked away, toward the water.

“-since you were thinking of me,” she added. Osferth blushed again, if he had to guess, he was scarlet by now.

“I-“ he stammered,” I wasn’t-“

She brought a single delicate finger to his lips, shushing him and delightfully shocking him. The heat from her skin could warm him on the coldest days. “Shush, dear Os,” the nickname made him blush yet again but he’d be damned if he pulled his lips away from her finger, “We’d both be lying if either of us said the other wasn’t on our minds.”

Her finger dropped, to his hand resting in the grass between them, covering it gently. He realized now she was leaning in, toward him. It was a strange, it was unexpected…she was quizzically different than he had thought she’d be now, alone with him. A bashful smile played at his pointed lips as he looked down to her delicate hand covering his rugged one, he turned his palm to her and she laced her fingers in his own. He felt heat bloom, radiating from where their skin met.

“I’ve missed you,” she breathed gentle-like, almost like the soft, cool breeze that surrounded them. Osferth’s eyes met her own, and he knew the Lord above answered his questions when the moonlight danced off her big hazel eyes.

“I’ve- I’ve missed you too,” he confessed. “I think about you often. I often wonder where life had brought you.” His voice was soft with trepidation. Worried he’d overstep in his honestly.

She only smiled softer, “I think about that boy, at the monastery. Dream about him.” Osferth wanted to look away, bashfully, but kept his blue eyes on her. “And sometimes,” she soft softly now, like a whisper, like she didn’t want God to hear, “sometimes I’d pray…pray that boy left that order behind. And he’d find me. Steal me away. And we’d live happily ever after. Like in the fairytales.”

He chuckled, hoping she wasn’t jesting but believing there was no way a high born daughter of a powerful Lord would leave her life of comfort behind to live with him, a bastard warrior monk with no lands of titles.

Her smile dropped, her eyes were serious. “Osferth, I’m pleading with you. Don’t deny me of this.”

Osferth didn’t respond. His gaze dropped to her lips, her ever-so-plump lips that she held slightly open, pleading for him to make her his. He leaned in first, she followed.

I’m not taunting you.

An answer.

I’m not tempting you.

An answer.

Your heart is enough.

The answer.

In a heartbeat, their lips met. An his words crashed around him.

I’m a pious man.

So I love an Angel.

I’m a man of God.

And I will defile an Angel.

I’m a bastard, sinner, warrior, monk.

And she’s an Angel.

#fanfic #the last kingdom #osferth fluff #osferth fic #osferth #osferth x oc #ewan mitchell

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helaelaemond · 8 months

Text

Lost Absolution Pt3 - Osferth x reader

Pairing: Osferth x reader

Word count: 3.4k

Fic summary: Osferth thinks of you during morning prayer, and sneaks into your room to find your scent while you're gone. He chases his pleasure, guilty though it makes him, and you watch him find his pleasure. Can be read as standalone piece. Masturbation, mutual masturbation, solo dry humping, mentions of oral and fingering.

Content warning(s): Religious guilt, historically inaccurate representation of Saxon Christianity and Roman Catholic traditions, angst

Rating: Explicit

Part 1 / Part 2

Tag list: @sylasthegrim / @myfandomprompts / @arcielee / @babyblue711 / @troublesomesnitch

Masterlist

You walk with Osferth to morning prayer. You prefer to pray later, but he likes to start his day with it in the little chapel on the estate. There is ice on the ground, and you insist on holding his arm to keep him steady.

"You're still healing, lean on me," you tell him with a quiet laugh. In the courtyards, your fellow servants bustle about their business and pay you no mind. In your concentration, keeping focus on the pathway, you miss how Osferth looks down at you with longing.

"I am well, lady," he replies softly.

You smile up at him. He's so tall. "And you shall stay that way, so long as you do not fall. Careful-"

He puts the weight on his foot wrong on a little patch of ice, and it throws off his balance. With a strangled noise of surprise, he clutches onto your arm and shoulder. It's impossible to stop him from falling, but you greatly reduce the speed with which it happens - your feet are firmly planted on solid ground, and you manage to ease him, more than drop him, to the ground.

"Osferth!" you laugh. You lean over him as you grasp his arm and waist, doing your best to keep him safe. "Are you alright?"

His cheeks flush from the cold, from the embarrassment. "I'm sorry."

"There is nothing to forgive," you assure him warmly. "Are you in pain?"

He shakes his head and bites his lip. Casting his eyes down, he tries to get up, but winces.

"Let me help."

For a heartbeat, it looks like he is going to protest. But when you squeeze the hand you hold, and you smile so kindly, he nods. With your help, he gets back on his feet. The light is gone from his eyes, though, and he won't look at you. When you try to take his hand again, he clasps them both behind his back.

"Your wound, is it-?" Without thinking, your hand goes to his stomach to feel his dressings. The touch makes him flinch. Osferth's sudden change in demeanour makes you swallow. "Forgive me."

His expression is pained. "There is nothing to forgive, lady."

During the weeks that he has grown healthier and stronger, you have repeatedly asked him to use your name and not a title to which you have no claim. Usually, you are both laughing when the topic is raised, but you don't feel like laughing now. Quietly, you ask, "won't you use my name?"

He bites his pretty lip and looks down. His brows furrow like he's concentrating, and unreadable expressions flicker across his face. How difficult he can be to read sometimes, you lament. He won't let you in, not really. There is something holding him back.

"Not today, lady."

"Alright." Tentatively, you take his arm again. The expression he wears would make any passer-by think you were marching him to the gates of Hell, so uncomfortable is he now. He is all stiff and icy, but perhaps it is the pain. You'll have to examine him later.

At the door of the chapel, you let go of his arm and turn to him. "I'll return for you when the bell rings."

"You are very kind," he murmurs, expression fixed on the ground. "I do not thank you enough for all that you do."

You give him a smile that he does not see. "It is why I am here, Osferth. I am here to help."

"But still. I do not thank you enough."

He gives you a pained smile without meeting your gaze before ducking into the chapel. You watch him go inside, and as the door closes, you turn back to your work with an ache in your chest.

There is no one else in the chapel this morning. That is not unusual - many different worshippers come in at different times, and most of the estate is made up of servants who are busy at this hour. So Osferth has the little hall to himself. He approaches the altar, and makes the sign of the cross.

"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen."

There is a small wooden statue of the Mother to the left of the altar, and Osferth fixes his eyes upon it as he clasps his hands in prayer, and sinks to his knees in front of the pew.

"Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum."

The words roll off his tongue without thinking. Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.

His forehead drops onto his clasped hands and he groans softly. The feeling of your hand on his waist will not go away. It had been a soft pressure to hold him safe, yet it had felt like... like... like you were holding him for something else. When you had bent over him, your hair had tickled his face and he caught the smell of rosemary in it. Yes, that's what you use to oil it sometimes, rosemary. That scent haunts his nights.

How good it would feel to bless your womb with his child, to bury himself in you and find his completion with his nose buried in your fresh-smelling hair-

"Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus-"

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now.

Osferth swallows and fixes his eyes on the statue again. "Nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen."

You wore a green dress today, green like moss in spring. Osferth loves that colour on you. It makes him think of warmer days. The collar is high and there are laces across your neck against the winter chill, and he stares at the Mother until she resembles you. At her throat, he sees those laces, and he can feel himself untying them to touch the skin underneath. How warm you must be compared to December.

Just the thought of the skin at your throat makes the blood rush between his thighs. The breath he takes in is shaky. "Ave Maria, gratia plena. Dominus..."

Three more Hail Marys are spoken softly by the time he is hard, and his mind is foggy. Rosemary. Spring. Moss. Hail Mary, full of grace. Rosemary, spring, moss. The Lord is with you. The slope of your neck, the shadows of your collarbones. Blessed are you among women.

Blessed are you among women.

When he had been sick, you had worked over his bare torso and touched his flaming skin with a soothing hand. Most memories of that time have faded with the healing of his body, but fragments remain. Your fingers ghosting over his heart, carefully applying pressure. Your strong grip at his hip to turn him slightly and fit bandages around his back and stomach.

Pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death.

From the precipice of death you had pulled him, yet closer to it he now returns. For this is purgatory, surely, to desire you like this. To need you.

"Forgive me, Lord," he sighs quietly. "Help me, please. I'm... w-weak. Please."

Even as tears begin to spill down his cheeks, the vision of you returns to his mind. In his mind, you take him into your arms and stroke his hair. You hold him close and comfort him. He grips his hands tighter together and closes his eyes as if this will help. Breaths quicken, but whether that is from anguish or arousal, he doesn't know.

The vision of you slips your dress off and you cradle him in your lap. He weeps, and you run your fingers through his hair as you soothe him. Osferth is allowed to weep, and he is comforted with a hand behind his head, and a nipple in his mouth. He suckles on you in his mind and whimpers.

His knees begin to hurt. The floor of the chapel is cold stone, and he gasps as reality comes crashing around him. "Forgive me, Lord, please. I do not mean to have these thoughts, I-"

This place is not for him right now. He cannot be in the house of God whilst his mind is plagued with such unholy thoughts of you. Ice be damned. He hurries out of the sanctuary, and back to the hall he has been afforded for his healing. It's still early and there are few people around, but still, he wraps his cloak tightly around him. No one needs to see him in such a state.

As expected, you are not here when he returns. He approaches the little antechamber you are using during your time as his helper, and he peeks in. It's only to make sure you're not here, of course, but...

It's wrong, what he does, he knows this. But he doesn't care enough to stop. Your bed is unmade, and the blankets are crumpled towards the bottom of it. At the top, the single soft pillow is folded in half, and the shift you wear to sleep is thrown across it.

Don't do it. Don't come any closer.

Osferth swallows. There are butterflies in his stomach as the visions of being in your lap come rushing back. Rosemary. Spring. Moss.

He glances around, but no one will come. The hall is private, for his use only, and yours. Finan often strides in like he owns it, but it is too early in the morning for him. You are not due back at the chapel until the bell is rung and that is another half hour away at least. You won't be back.

Osferth is in your room, and he is alone.

His feet slowly carry him across the room to your bed. The butterflies make him float, and before he can stop himself, he has reached out and taken your night shift into his hands. Bringing it up to his nose, he inhales deeply. Eyes closing, he lets the smell of you wash over him. God, it's better than he thought.

It takes the strength from him. He sits down on the edge of your bed. Against the linen, his mouth opens, and he runs his tongue along it as if to catch a taste. All it does is dry out his mouth. But it's something. It's something tangible about you. If he doesn't think about it, then he doesn't need to register what's happening.

He can just live in the moment, and forget about it later. As if it never happened.

Hands turn into fists in the fabric as he presses it to his face. There are different smells at different places of the garment. Along the neckline is that rosemary. It must have dripped down your scalp and neck and onto the linen. His eyes roll back into his head as he thinks of the journey it got to take. He envies the oil.

It has anointed you in places he will never touch.

Control is ebbing away from the once pious man. Further down your night shift he goes, below where it would cover your waist. With new vigour, he runs it under his nose until he catches a sweetly sour scent that makes his mouth water. Inhaling deeply, he feels his mouth pool with saliva. That smell, that fucking smell. He wants to taste it on you so desperately-

"Oh, Lord."

Osferth squeezes his hand around the fabric where your smell clings faintly, and pulling it away again, he licks his fingers for the ghost of your taste. Nothing. Perhaps he will find your undergarments and suck them in his mouth until your taste is as familiar as bread and ale.

He fumbles with his leather harness that has a cross embossed onto it, and he casts it aside. With it goes the cross around his neck. There is nothing holy left here.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now,"

It is to your pillow that he now turns. On it, the smell of rosemary is much stronger, and he moans into it. In the privacy of his solitude, Osferth moans your name. Tears of absolute need leak from his pretty eyes.

"My sweet lady, lady, lady."

Using the strength you have nurtured back into him, Osferth climbs atop your bed and presses the pillow into his face. He inhales as desperately as a drowning man until you are in his veins and he will never get you out. Rosemary fills his mind, moss and spring, laces at your throat. The vision of himself in your lap morphs into something else now. He lies on his stomach with his face buried into your pillow, and he cannot stop his hips from grinding down against the mattress.

In his mind, you are below him. You're on your stomach, too, and he fills you from behind. You mewl softly as his cock fills you perfectly, like he was made for you.

Blessed are you amongst women.

With you, Osferth is most blessed. In reality, his clothes are rough and grinding against the bed hurts, but he is not in reality now. He moans into your pillow that he imagines is your hair. You moan back so sweetly it almost feels true.

Into your pillow he whimpers your name. The movement of his desperate hips still only so he can push his breeches down. His hard cock springs free and it's flushed and leaking. He can't bring himself to look at it. Instead, he covers it with your pillow. Onto his stomach he returns, this time with it between him and the bed. How easy it is to think of this dry softness as you.

There is an ache in his stomach and back as he fucks your pillow desperately. He grinds against it as he would grind against you. His chest tightens as he thinks of you. How fucking wet you would be for him if he treated you right. He bites his lip as he thinks about spreading your legs and pressing his tongue there, sliding it up and down and letting it slip inside you, if that's what you liked.

He's never even kissed a woman. But he's seen the act, although it never much interested him. He never wanted it until he met you. Now, it's all he can think about. What do you look like between your legs? Pink like a summer rose, perhaps? Or dark like fine wine, rich and generous? He doesn't care. He wants every version of you.

His thrusts get more desperate as his thoughts carry him away. Once he's made you come on his tongue and long fingers, he'll push you onto your stomach and fill you from behind like this, like he's fucking your pillow. He'll ask you to turn your head towards him so he can kiss you and see your expression, and whisper in your ear how beautiful you are. Surely you'd say something sweet in return.

You're so good to him. You take care of him.

Let Osferth take care of you. He wants to be so good to you. So good.

He cries out your name again. All reason has left him, all sensibility.

So when the door creaks open behind him, he barely has the sense to glance over his shoulder and look at who it is. When he sees it's you, he's sure it's just his imagination. Moss green. Laces at your throat.

You see him on his stomach atop your bed, your pillow under his hips. You watch as he grinds against it, eyes half closed, forehead sweaty. It sends bolts of heat between your legs. You're lost for words, and lost to need.

"Osferth?"

When you call his name, he whimpers again. His hips keep moving. "My lady!"

You're frozen in the doorway. Even if you had wanted to, you can't make yourself move forward, lest it break the spell over you both.

When you pull up your skirts and expose yourself to him, he is sure he has died and gone to heaven. When you bury your fingers into your folds, he whines your name. It's the first time you've heard him use it.

"Yes, Osferth."

He is utterly lost. He's never been aroused like this, never been driven so mad with need, so plagued with visions. Straining his head to watch you makes his neck begin to ache, but it doesn't matter because you are rubbing circles between your thighs and grinding down against your hand and your face is split with frustration and delight and he knows how you feel and-

"Oh! Oh, Lord, my God-!" Osferth moans. Tears leak down his cheeks.

"Yes, yes! Fuck, Osferth, I-"

"Oh, oh! Yes, oh-!"

He comes with a guttural noise that sends you spiralling, too. He jerks against your pillow again and again as he rides his high with green in his eyes and rosemary in his nose. Spring, he has hopes for spring. Pleasure washes over you both in powerful waves. For Osferth, this means curling up on the bed and panting, eyes closed at the intensity of it.

For you, it means leaning against the doorway and letting your knees give out. Your skirts fall back into place as you slide down to sit on the floor, breathless.

Osferth is turned away from you. A few minutes pass, and your heart begins to return to a steady pace along with your breathing. From the sounds of it, he is coming back down, too. "Osferth?"

If he hears you, he ignores you. You watch as he sits up - still facing away from you - and sorts out his clothes. You didn't get to see his nakedness, and you still haven't. God, you want to. You've dreamed about sliding his cock into you hand and mouth, and how good it would be to see what you so long for. But no, he hides himself, turns himself away.

"Osferth, please look at me."

He turns to you as he walks around the bed to pick up his cross and harness, but he doesn't meet your eye, let alone speak. You're in the doorway, though, and he'll have to acknowledge you at some point. Slowly, he puts the leather garment back on, and there is a certain solemnity in the way he puts his cross necklace around his neck. With it in place, he finally looks in your direction. There is a spot over your shoulder that he fixes his gaze upon.

"Forgive me, lady."

"You said my name for the first time."

He licks his lips and looks down as he clasps his dirty hands behind his back. Perhaps in another life, he'd let you lick them clean. "I did. For that, I am sorry."

"For that?" you echo.

"And for... for everything else."

You push yourself to your feet and walk over to him. He side-steps to prevent you from grasping him with your outstretched hands. It makes you want to cry. "Please don't apologise for anything. Just... let me hold you. Hold me. Please."

"I can't."

"Please."

Osferth's eyes are red. "I can't. Please, forgive me."

"Do you love me?"

The directness of your question catches him, and finally, with round, shining eyes, he meets your gaze. He looks wounded. "I... I don't know if that is of consequence."

Before you can even think about what you're doing, you touch his cheek with the hand you found completion with. He turns his head slightly and catches your damp fingers on his lips. His eyes close as a moan almost too quiet to hear escapes him. You move closer to him. "It's of consequence to me."

"I'm sorry," he breathes. "You deserve a man better than me."

"I want no man but you."

He hangs his head. "I will not damn you."

There is no chance to argue before he has left your room. You sit on the bed he has left rumpled. You press your night shift to your nose, and smell rosemary there. No matter how hard you try, you cannot catch his scent. He's not here. It's like he never was.

#osferth x reader #osferth x you #osferth x y/n #osferth x oc #tlk fanfic #mine #osferth #ewan mitchell #pining osferth

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assortedseaglass · 8 months

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We Have This Hope

Osferth x Lady-in-Waiting OFC

Aefry heard much talk around Wintancaester of the young monk who had joined Uhtred's ranks. When he rescues her lady, the King's own daughter, and appears at her door, Aefry finds her interest far from quelled. Instead, it is piqued tenfold.

Years of hasty meetings and stolen glances follow as Uhtred and his men pass through town, and Aefry determines to discover all she can about this mysterious warrior-monk.

Story Tags: Fluff, Slow-Burn, Mentions of Violence, Religious Guilt, Strong Language

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four ✍

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Tags: @arcielee @babyblue711 @elizarbell @chilling-in-my-head @skikikikiikhhjuuh @fan-goddess @sylas-the-grim @theoneeyedprince @ewanmitchellcrumbs

#ewan mitchell #osferth #osferth x oc #osferth x reader #ewan mitchell x reader #the last kingdom

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moris-auri · 4 months

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As It Was

Pairing: Osferth x Brynja

Word count: 3.1k

Summary: The battle of Wintanceaster is over, and Brynja, a handmaiden in service to Lady Æthelflæd eagerly awaits his return.

warnings: MDNI 18+, NSFW, P in V sex, mild angst.

A/N: just a little thank you to @ewanmitchellcrumbs for my Old Norse questions 💗💗

taglist: @artyoms @black-dread @helaelaemond @orcaunionleader @arcielee @sylasthegrim @bottlesandbarricades @barbieaemond

She had barely raised the cup to her mouth when the rumble of horse hooves came suddenly, shattering the midday silence like shards of glass. Brynja shifted, wincing as the hard flat surface of the bench dug unpleasantly into the skin on the underside of her thighs, as her eyes, a rich shade of brown, locked with those of Leofflæd. She doesn’t say a word to the other girl, doesn’t have to - not when they both know it can only mean one thing - that the siege of Wintanceaster was over and the King had come to some agreement with the Danes.

The thought fills her with relief, feeling the threads of worry and anxiousness that lingered in the line of her shoulders and her spine dissipate. She, like every other person in Æglesburgh, had heard from the people fleeing the plague, of the taking of the palace and the Queen, Lady Aelswith and the King's sons.

She had never been more than a little thankful lady Æðelflæd had gone, riding north to quell the uprising in the north when the word came.

She bowed her head, her lips moving soundlessly as she muttered a prayer to Týr for protection under her breath as it went silent again, the noise lessening to the point where it was as silent as a tomb, before the soft tones of Lady Æðelflæd and the voices of the King and Lord Uthred came, growing in volume with each second.

Her head tilted to the side as she listened, the low sound of her breathing and the pop of the flames in the hearth the only noise. Whatever they were speaking of was enough to warrant shouting - if their raised voices emanating from beyond the doors were anything to go by.

She swiftly rose to her feet, making her way towards the entryway, only to be greeted almost immediately by blinding sunlight. Harsh and unforgiving, it glared down over the bustle of men and horses in the courtyard.

It was bright enough to make her pause, stopping in her tracks with a hand raised to shield her eyes in an attempt to blink back the stars that dotted the edge of her vision. Her gaze shifted the second her sight returned to normal, eyes flitting over the others before landing on the all too familiar head of sandy hair that stood out like a beacon amidst his darker haired companions.

The sight of him - though he had not noticed her yet - made her breath hitch, the air stilling in her lungs, and she could feel her heart begin to beat faster, an almost girlish eagerness unfurling like a flower behind her ribcage as his name beat like a mantra in her mind, over and over and over.

Osferth. Osferth. Osferth.

Ever since she laid eyes on him that first time, the still green boy on the cusp of becoming a man - she had been enthralled, and not just by the vivid blue of his eyes or the color that dusted across the curve of his cheekbones or by his flaxen hair that turned to burnished gold by the slowly lowering sun - but by his very demeanor. He was humble in a way many of the men she had come into contact with were not, as different as the others like night to day. But like anyone, the sight of blood and battle had hardened him, peeling the naivety from him bit by bit like the skin of an onion.

As the years passed, one after the other, she had grown to treasure his company the few and far between times he, Sihtric, Finan and Uthred came to Æðelflæd's estate before going again.

Though no matter how well she tried to hide it, the sight of his back to her atop a horse, growing smaller and smaller the further he went, never failed to make her heart twist painfully, fingers lifting almost unconsciously to press against her lips, worry sitting heavy like a stone in her stomach.

It was only when he and the others had returned to Beamfleot after that battle against the Danes did the realization just how much she cared for him slam into her like a hammer striking an anvil. It had felt like her heart had stopped beating the instant her eyes landed on him in the back of that cart, bloodied and weakened and pale.

The knowing stares from Leofflæd and Lady Æðelflæd herself had followed her near every step, watching her find some excuse to be near to him in the time he had been in the keep, capable of doing little as he healed from his wounds.

She reached out, touching his elbow hesitantly, feeling the coarseness of the roughspun tunic under her fingers. "Osferth."

He turned around at the sound of his name, blue eyes widening at the sight of her. "My lady."

"Brynja," he amended quickly, seeing the look on her face. She cleared her throat weakly, feeling a lump build in her throat. No matter how many times she heard him say it, she doubted she would ever want him to stop. He looked like he wanted to say more, only for his cheeks to turn red as Finan came up behind him, one hand falling to his shoulder.

"You grow prettier every time I see you, my lady," the Irishman jested in lieu of a greeting, eyes settling on her.

"Finan." She rolled her eyes. He barked a laugh at the falsely unamused note to her voice, a broad grin on his face. "It is good to see you though."

"You as well, lady."

Lord Uthred barged past them suddenly without a word, Sihtric on his heels, and she caught a brief glance of the anger still clinging to his expression. She returned her gaze to Osferth, a question burning in her eyes. He hesitated, sharing a look with Finan before answering. "The Dane took a captive. Stiorra."

"Oh."

"Forgive us, lady," he uttered half under his breath, tugging at the neck of his robe, pulling it away from his skin with a disgruntled look. It was then did she notice the dirt and dried blood clinging to him and Finan both.

"Yes, of course," she said as she took a step back, already scanning the crowd for Lady Æðelflæd and Leofflæd. She turned to say something, only to see the sight of their backs as they entered the hall.

The atmosphere of the feasting hall was warm, bordering on stifling, the space, normally almost empty, filled with bodies and the low hum of voices chattering mindlessly as evening fell, the sun giving way to night as the sky outside darkened to indigo. The feasting had been going for some time, bowls and platters of food covering the table's surface. Ale and dishes piled high with meats, deer and venison and rabbit served at the expense of Lady Æðelflæd passing from hand to hand.

Yet despite the joyousness of it, the only thing she could focus on was the heat coming off of Osferth's lean frame from where he sat beside her. His arm brushed hers as he reached for something in front of her and she startled, fingers tightening around the base of the cup.

"I've missed you."

The words come out before she can even consider them, soft and so faint, and she flushes, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks, uttering a wordless curse in her head. Osferth froze, arm still extended towards whatever he had been reaching for.

"I- I am sorry," she exhaled, turning her gaze the other way, feeling half a fool. His hand closed over hers before she could say another word. She startled, turning back to meet his gaze, watching his throat bob as he swallowed. Suddenly everything else around her faded, the din of the voices turning into a faint hum, the only thing she can think of is how close he is to her.

Sitting like this, with his leg pressed against hers, nearly nose to nose with him, she can count every individual eyelash and the specks of darker blue in his irises, the sparse bits of growth on the sharp cut of his jaw and the desire darkening his pupils to a shade of blue that was not unlike the waves along the coast.

The echoes of the feast faded, growing fainter and fainter the further they went. Guided by nothing but the torchlight flickering over the walls, they weaved through hall after hall until the familiar door to her chamber came into view, and her grip tightened around his fingers as she pulled him inside, the door shutting behind him quietly.

Brynja turned, almost immediately feeling the loss of his warmth as she let go. She bit her lip, unable to tear her eyes from his face. He was so very pretty in this light, the flickering light coming from the hearth casting shadows over his face.

"I want you," she breathed, curling one hand around his jaw, emboldened by the ale she had consumed over the course of the night. He caught her mouth in a kiss that was little more than a messy tangle of teeth and tongue, his fingers skirting further upwards, weaving into her hair, ruining Leofflæd's carefully done work without a care in the world. She nipped at his lip, tasting the ale on his lips, mingled with some other note that was not entirely unpleasant.

"We cannot," he panted, tugging back to stare at her. His eyes were blown wide in the dim, the pretty blue eclipsed by the dark of his pupil. "I am a bastard-"

"I find I do not care for that word." Brynja interrupted sharply, her voice low and adamant. She pressed her fingers to his mouth to silence him, her brows furrowing as she stared up at him, daring him to argue with her. "It is Alfred's sin, Osferth," she breathed barely half a second later before pulling her fingers away. "Not yours. Never yours, when you are twice the man he could ever dream to be."

She pressed closer, shifting her hand from his jaw to his neck, the pressure of her fingers digging into the skin drawing a half startled noise from deep within his chest. The sound rocked through her body, drawing a whine and a wave of gooseflesh in its wake. Her heart began to beat faster, thumping harshly against her ribs.

He seemed to flush more, if it were possible, great splotches of pink spreading over the curve of his cheekbones and down his neck. His hands, roughened and callused and battle worn, flexed against her hips, heat bleeding through the thin cotton to warm the skin beneath.

"My lady-"

She teasingly raised a hand, trailing one finger over the line of his jaw, staring up at him from under her lashes. "I am not quite a lady though, am I?"

"No," he croaked in agreement, staring down at her with a soft look in his eyes. "You are more than that." Her fingers returned to his hair at that, pulling him to her as she tugged on the sandy hued strands, pressing her lips to his. He whimpered in response, arm twisting around her waist as he choked out a ragged noise against her mouth.

She reared backward at the sound, heart thudding in her chest as she stared wide eyed at him. "I'll stop-"

Osferth shook his head rapidly, strands of mussed hair falling into his eyes with the movement. The urge to brush his hair back rose, and it was with no small amount of effort that she stifled it. "Don't," he murmured, and she could hear the not quite whine in his voice, the near silent plea for more, his expression a heady mix of steadily growing desperation and lust.

Suddenly shy, the ale fueled bravery fading to a faint thrumming in her veins, she dropped her gaze, focusing blindly on something past his shoulder. He slid one of his fingers underneath her chin, lifting her head as she had done to him earlier. "No."

His voice was firm, the sight of the desire in his eyes catching her off guard, her legs pressing together in response. "I would see you, Brynja. As you are."

"How beautiful you are." He all but sighed the words when the last layer dropped in a puddle at her feet, his exhale as soft as a bird's feather.

"As are you," she cannot help but add, cheeks heating at his words. Brynja dropped one hand between them, the other weaving into his hair. She brushed her fingers over the outline of his cock straining behind his breeches, and he made that sound again, that choked whimper as his eyes squeezed shut, and she knew then and there that there was never another sound she wanted to hear.

She crooned his name softly, sliding her palm up the length of his body, brushing the tips of her fingers across almost every inch of his face. He turned his head then, eyes opening before batting her hand away. His thumb brushed over her cheek, the look in his eyes soft, murmuring her name, once, twice, three times, uttering it like it was a prayer to his God.

A breath passed, the hold he had on her hip tightening as they moved blindly. A wave of pain shot up her leg when her knee connected with the low baseboard of her bed, a startled yelp tumbling from her lips as they fell in a tangle of limbs atop the thin mattress. It was all too easy to ignore the pain pulsing sluggishly in her knee with him beneath her like this, the length of him hard against her thigh.

She gripped the bed linens with one hand as she arched upwards to kiss him, tangling her fingers into his hair, moaning against his lips as she pulled at the strands, the rasping sound of his groan vibrating down the length of her body, and she shudders against him, his name a low whine on her tongue as she twines her arms across the width of his back, legs wrapping around his waist to hold him to her. "Please-"

Her plea works, almost too easily as the silk thin strings of his resolve snap. The sweaty ends of his hair tickle her skin as he ducked his head, forehead pressing against the hollow of her throat, his breathing ragged. It was almost divine to hear him so unwound, watching all the tension that lingered in his muscles fade till there was nothing but the pleasure turning the sharp planes of his face slack.

He let out a strangled noise, pulling out of her, painting her lower stomach with his seed as the sounds of their breathing fill the otherwise quiet room. She half lifted herself up on her elbows to watch him as he stood, the dim light of the hearth shining on the thin film of sweat still clinging to his skin. He crossed the room to the basin on a table by the door before turning back, falling on his back beside her, the chill of the cloth against her skin making her shiver.

She inched closer to him once he had tossed the rag to the side, resting her ear against his chest, half lulled by the steady thud of his heart under his skin, mapping a path over the ridges and scars dotting his flesh with her fingertips. He pressed his lips to her forehead, arm curving over her side as his fingers tapped out a mindless rhythm on the jut of her hip beneath the furs. "Will you come with me? To Coccham?"

Dumbfounded, Brynja stared at him, head tilted back, prepared to immediately voice her refusal. But the sight of his face, the hope that glimmered so brightly in his eyes made her stall and pause, the words dying in her throat. The force of her teeth clacking together rattled in her head as she swallowed, mouth suddenly gone dry, feeling the syllables of his name linger on the tip of her tongue. "Osferth…"

"I wo… would like it very much if you did," he stammered, cheeks turning red, but even as he said it, she could see the hope in his eyes dim. She licked her lip, shifting closer to him, kissing beneath his jaw. "I will ask my Lady tomorrow," she said finally, carding her fingers through his damp hair, and he grins down at her, a smile lighting up his face at her response, his eyes crinkling in the corners.

She barely had a chance to react before he curled a hand around her thigh, his pupils dilating, the blue of his eyes dark before he tugged her closer to the edge of the bed, the low thump of his knees hitting the floor, the warmth of his breath fanning over her skin. "Good."

Brynja moved through the halls of Æglesburgh the next morning, her steps muffled by the hem of her dress. Osferth's words and the echo of his touch from the previous night lingering in her mind, her worry growing with each step she took.

"My Lady."

Æðelflæd's head lifted at the title, the early morning sunlight glinting off her chestnut hair and the pale blonde of Aelfwynn beside her. "Brynja. You look rested."

Brynja said nothing as she twisted her fingers behind her, pulling her lip between her teeth, and Æðelflæd's brows furrowed at the sight of the tell. "Something troubles you," she noted.

"Yes, my lady." She breathed quietly, keeping her eyes downcast. "Tis Osferth. He wi-"

"He wants you to go with him." Æðelflæd finished knowingly, the line between her brows smoothing.

"Yes."

Æðelflæd sighed, beckoning her closer. "I knew this would come one day. That you would leave. I dreaded it, but I knew." Her clear blue eyes lifted to settle on Brynja's face. "You have asked for little and less in the time you've served me." Æðelflæd stretched out her arm, wrapping her fingers around Brynja's own. "Do you wish to go, though? I will not stop you if you do."

She could practically picture it as soon as the words left her mouth, could easily see Osferth in a bed, their bed, his pale skin lit aglow from the morning light, blue eyes still carrying traces of sleep as he smiled. The thought of spending every day with him, every sunrise and sunset by his side….

Her answer came easily, flowing off her tongue like silk, "I do."

#my fics #osferth #osferth smut #osferth fic #osferth x oc #osferth fanfic #the last kingdom #my ocs #oc character #ocappreciation

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arcielee · 11 months

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Farewell Wanderlust

Warnings: SA mentioned in passing/implied, abuse implied, death mentioned in graphic detailing (because it was deserved) and overall sexism because it is the 9th century. As always, MDNI, 18+ Pairing: Osferth x OFC Word Count: 4857 Summary: Torn from her home country, Keavy finds herself trying to survive across the Irish sea. She happens across Uhtred and his motley crew, and finds herself befriending a monk who is determined to become a warrior. Author’s Note: This chapter is definitely a hybrid of the show vs the books, with me adding flare to what happened to fit the narrative for this story as it is the fanfiction way. Anyway, enjoy. 💜 Thank you to my darling beta reader @aspen-carter for helping me with this chapter. 💜 Please let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist! Dividers are by @saradika Taglist (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @aemondx @fan-goddess @babygirlyofthevale @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @triscy @assortedseaglass @whoknows333 @shesjustanothergeek @heavenly1927 @greenowlfactif @larlarle @babyblue711 @fangirlninja67 @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauftivy @tssf-imagines (bold means I was unable to tag you!)

Chapter 4

Coccham thrummed with the return of their lord, and his stride brimmed with an almost arrogance as Uhtred entered the great hall. Keavy thought it endearing to see how he greeted Gisela, how she glowed when his arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her in for a kiss.

“I have the monk you sent me,” she said, pulling back with her brow raised, her lips curled upwards.��

Uhtred had his own roguish grin. “He has left that life behind and wishes to serve me instead.”

Now both her brows raised, with a hum to acknowledge what he said, and then Gisela beckoned to Keavy to follow behind as they moved back towards the small side room. With their entrance, Osferth pushed to sit upright, his dirty blonde hair mussed, and he smothered a groan. He looked expectantly around before his gaze settled on Gisela.

“I understand you left the monastery,” her tone held no judgment, and her smile remained on her lips. “You truly wish to serve a heathen, Osferth?”

Keavy peered at Uhtred and saw his brow quirked, his expression amused by his wife’s blunt tongue, but Osferth remained focused, his lips pursed in a thin line. “My uncle Leofric told me your husband is a good man, lady,” and he then looked up to meet her eyes. “A great man.”

“He said that?” Uhtred of Bebbanburg had a presence preceded by reputation; he was fearsome, tall and built solid, but with Osferth’s words, he seemed to soften at the mention of Leofric.

“Yes, he did, lord.”

Gisela ignored her husband, her eyes still focused on Osferth. “And yet, this good man will let you join him for one reason only,” and then she looked to her husband. “To embarrass Alfred.”

His gaze fell back to Uhtred and he nodded. “It’s true.”

Osferth brought his legs to the side, pushing himself to stand; though Uhtred was tall, he just peeked just past his height. “That may be the reason you allow me to join you, lord,” and there was a determination that burned, complementing the blue of his eyes. “But I will give you a reason to let me stay.”

Amusement flickered over his features again, and then Uhtred called for them both to be brought to rooms of their own, back at the barracks that housed his men; there were vacant rooms at the end, with Osferth’s next to her own.

And Keavy began to find a sense of comfort within Coccham’s walls, beginning with the friendships of Gisela and the abbess.

As a grown woman, Keavy had a newer appreciation for the wit and the conversation of Lady Gisela, and she adored Keavy in return, as well as the extra set of hands to help her with the homestead. The children were taken with the Irishwoman: Stiorra was fearless with her affections, whereas Oswald was more reserved, but still offered shy smiles and would always come when she called.

The friendship that blossomed with the abbess felt forced at first; Keavy eventually understood that Gisela must have confided in Hild and was relieved to know the abbess’ disposition never changed. Instead, she seemed to exude a warmth with her understanding, her blue eyes watchful and kind as Keavy began to share, little by little, what truly happened in Lunden. In return, Hild shared the horrors that Uhtred rescued her from, and she gifted Keavy the chainmail she wore for her years when she fought at his side.

Keavy felt choked from the gesture, from finally admitting out loud, “I feel broken, Hild.”

The abbess’ hands still held calluses, though they started to soften with prayer, and her touch was warm, like a balm to the ache that Keavy carried still. “I did as well, for a long time, and I burned through that anger I carried as I fought alongside Uhtred,” she began, and Keavy felt lighter with her confession. Hild smiled. “But it clouded my mind, kept me from the true purpose of my life and the plan that God–”

Keavy could not smother her groan and Gisela’s laughter was light above them, calling to the abbess. “Hild, remember we sit in a pagan hall,” she teased, a gold glitter that danced in her hazel eyes. “Keep your God within the four walls that my husband allows you and allow us our own beliefs.”

Hild held up her hands, her own good-natured smile worn, and Keavy looked to Gisela. “I believe in the true gods, Keavy, and I see that you have been brought here by fate,” she finished, her smile as though she was aware of more than she gave on.

Fate, how it echoed in her mind with uncertainty, something she pushed aside with crimson cheeks that accompanied her daily routine.

Which included her instruction to tend to Osferth.

Keavy would wake him with a soft tap on his door, bringing fresh bandages and a plate to share their morning meal. She enjoyed his company, how he was not shy to share about himself and she listened with rapt attention, with a rose color dusting her cheeks.

Osferth shared his origins, how he was King Alfred’s bastard, though the weight he put behind the word meant nothing to Keavy as she viewed that his blood still held royalty all the same. When she said this, she watched how his dimples lined his cheeks with his pursed smile, “It is not the same, my lady.”

And Keavy was lost in her thought of how handsome Osferth was, dimples and all. “I am not a lady,” she reminded him, her complexion almost crimson.

As time healed him, she saw how his skin mended together, the bold pink stripe of new skin across his chest, and how the bruising faded into muted shades of green, peeking beneath his chest hair. Osferth was lean, but without his shirt or his albe, she was able to admire the tone to his lithe figure and the pale planes of his chest; she was so lost in her thoughts, her fingers were soft to trace his scar, from his shoulder until the middle of his chest before she realized the intimacy of her touch.

Osferth was watching her, the brilliant blue of his eyes wide.

Her hand dropped to her side. “You are healed enough,” she announced, her voice too loud, moving to gather the clean cloths she brought with her. “You have no need for these…”

She burned, too focused to notice how he reached for her, her name fell from his lips, “Keavy…”

And she recoiled from his voice, her mortification boiling under her skin. “Excuse me,” she rasped, leaving his room and fleeing back to the hall where she found Gisela and Hild at the large table. They were startled with her abrupt entrance, their attention focused on the red that bloomed on her pale features.

While Hild tilted her head, her brows knitted above, Gisela wore her same knowing smile. “How is Osferth fairing today, Keavy?” her tone teasing, as always.

She was grateful that Osferth was a gentleman, not breathing a word about earlier and accompanying her when she took the children out from under Gisela’s step. He lifted Oswald to his shoulders, with a slight grimace still, and Stiorra rested on her hip and a quilt on the other, and they walked out to a knoll in a nearby meadow.

It was one of the last sunny days of the season and Keavy laid the quilt on top of the grass, a place to sit as she braided daisies into Stiorra’s curls. The boys found sticks and Oswald preened for the praise as Osferth corrected his stance, while the girls’ cheeks were rosy from cheering them on.

The evening was her own, as always; after supper was had and the children were tucked into bed, Keavy was able to wander through the village. Often, Osferth would join her, his long legs easily keeping with her pace, his eyes watchful as she explored what she considered to be her newfound sanctuary.

As the autumn months crept, an evening frost accompanied it, and a large bonfire was often made. They seated themselves on a log, talking under the night sky by the crackling fire, long after Coccham was lulled to sleep. Osferth stood, reaching for her hand, a habit that remained and she was always glad to take it still, and he walked her back to their rooms.

Her cheeks burned within his peaceful proximity, and she shyly admired his sharp features. In the daytime, she was able to speak freely, unabashedly, and enjoyed when she could cause cracks in his stoic demeanor, to see the upwards curl of his lips.

But in the quiet of the night, underneath the stars that sparkled against the navy velvet sky, she felt her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth, an inability to string two words together before they arrived to her door.

“I never thanked you,” she almost whispered and she peered up. His face was shadowed with dark, an offset amber hue from a lone torch still perched in the sconce outside; her cheeks grew warm, her gaze falling down. “For saving me that night in the woods.”

Osferth hummed, a finger curled under her chin and brought her eyes to meet with his. “You saved me first,” he reminded her, a soft curl to his lips. “Sleep well, Keavy.”

She slipped into her room, the door closed quick and quiet, her backside pressed against and she covered her face. She could feel the heat of her blush against her palms and her fingers flitted to her jawbone, to her marment; it was a reminder of her lot in life, of her place and purpose supposedly ordained by the Christian God, if she wished to entertain the words spoken by holy men and women.

She was a shadow of a nursemaid, serving an unpayable debt, and possibly cursed, if she chose to believe the slavers. And Osferth had the blood of a king that she knew thrummed underneath; he was honorable, and held no resentment with his disposition, just an understanding of his place in this world.

“I am cursed by God because of my birth, the sins of my father have already doomed me,” he once shared the night they watched Æthelflæd arrive with her new husband. Keavy could see the similarities between his sister, how they shared the severity that Osferth carried in his features.

“I am cursed as well,” was all she said in response, and she did not dare look to him.

His words embedded into her mind, pushing aside the so-called fate of the gods, and she saw his drive, his determination to create from nothing. There was a flicker of disappointment when Untred denied him to join the men to retake Lunden, how Uhtred pressed his fist into his shoulder and Osferth flinched, subtle, but enough to be decided that he would remain in Coccham still, to continue to gather his strength.

Silly girl, she chided herself, pulling from the door and undressing for bed. She knew soon enough that Osferth would be well to go and fight alongside Uhtred, and she would remain in Coccham, braiding daisies into a crown for Stiorra to wear.

And she laid down with the heavy acceptance of this fate that Gisela spoke of, though her last thought was his touch: how right it felt when he held her hand, how gentle his touch was when he tilted her chin upwards to meet with his gaze…

+ + + +

The first four years of his life was spent in the shadow of the family his father had, separate from the mother he never knew and who died bringing him into the world. His brother was too young, but his sister Æthelflæd always regarded him with a curiosity, a kindness that he did not receive anywhere else in the court.

Osferth only had one memory of his father, remembering how large his hands felt holding his own, and the hereditary severity that lined his features. Dusk was settling over Wintanceaster and the king walked brisk strides across the cobblestone, pulling Osferth to keep with his pace.

He recalled when they passed the queen, how her dark eyes glared at him in an unsettling way, in a way that pierced into his chest. Her gaze never faltered, holding his siblings tight at her side; Edward seemed sleepy, and Æthelflæd seemed confused with what was happening.

The queen’s heated gaze followed him, as he looked over his shoulder to see her, leaving Wintanceaster for what he thought would be forever.

Osferth was quick to understand that this haunted look would follow him throughout his life, something that would accompany the title bastard. Sometimes it did not hold the heat, the hatred of the queen’s eyes, but cruelty all the same with smirks and scoffs, always some visceral reaction.

This was, of course, until he met Keavy.

His first morning in Coccham, he laid in his bed and listened for the soft tap on his door; he groaned quietly as he sat up, the wound across his chest felt as if it was tearing open with his movement, with a bruising that bore down into his bones.

Despite the early hours, her smile was bright and she held a tray with fresh bread, cold cuts, cheese and some sliced fruit. He chewed quietly as she then fretted over his injury, unabashed with his shirtless state, her fingers flitting over the gash and a soft hum or tsk that rolled off her tongue.

He enjoyed how Keavy was open and honest with him, how easy it was to speak with her. There was no judgment that clouded her green eyes when he finally admitted that he was a bastard, how she did not even flinch at the word. “So, you have the blood of a king in your veins,” she stated, as if it was the simplest thing.

Until then, the taste of the word was bitter, something he had to learn to not react when it was spoken with venom. Though he was grateful that Uhtred housed both him and Keavy, there was the fluttered anxiety that rippled in his chest when his lady wife admitted to the real reason her husband allowed him to stay.

The short time with Leofric had him imposing the thought that a man’s worth was carried in his sword and Osferth was determined to be just that; he wished to create a name outside that bastard smog that followed his steps.

But for now, he did not mind the reprieve for his recovery, nor the company of Keavy.

His chest healed without infection, thank God or the gods–he was no longer certain. When Keavy came that morning, he watched how her pink lips pursed as she looked him over; the rose color that bloomed on her cheeks was lovely and his skin prickled from her soft touch as her fingers trailed his scar.

Osferth was silent, unmoving. He watched the sudden crimson to her cheeks when she realized, but he had been too slow to catch her hand as she pulled away, all by sprinting to leave his room.

It left him flustered, his mind cluttered from her touch, something that felt so intimate in the moment. But her reaction left his stomach curdling with a misplaced feeling. Guilt? His anxiety returned?

He dressed quickly with the intention to follow, instead running into the Irishman and the Dane. They saw the shades of red that plumed on his features. “What’s going on, lover boy?” Finan spoke up, his voice loud as always.

Osferth was aware that they did not consider Keavy the conventional beauty that they would lust over; any time alone with them involved them crowing about his crush, saying it would dissipate the moment his cock was wet. He ignored their words; Keavy was a kind of beauty that resonated from within, something so uniquely her own, with her fine figure, her fair skin, her eyes as green as the meadows that lead to Coccham…

He disregarded their unsolicited advice–”Go and just kiss her already!”–instead he sought her out, shadowing her task to watch the children that day. He knew that the evening would be their own, and that they would be able to speak freely, boldly, without prying ears.

This was when she opened about the horrors of Lunden, before they had arrived, and it awoke something within him that he had not felt before.

A bloodlust, a want for vengeance, and the need to gut the one-armed Dane, Sigefrid Thurgilson.

Uhtred denied him joining to go to Lunden, but took to heart his words spoken–to gather his strength. He found Finan and Sihtric, and they agreed to show him pell stances, ways to train and prepare to be a swordsman.

Osferth felt weak at first, a soreness that touched every muscle within his body, but it soon dissipated as he pushed through. Then the men returned and he saw a darkness that accompanied them, along with the news that his sister had been taken by the Danes.

It was a white heat of anger that flitted across his brow before his stoic nature settled again.

He had only regained his sister, remembering how he watched with Keavy from the shore as Æthelflæd climbed onto the docks, walking the shadow of her husband, her mouth a tight line.

Osferth saw her again later that night when she left the church the nun Hild brought up, hearing her soft steps and seeing her cheeks were wet with tears. He had been making his way towards the barracks, but held still at the sight and she stopped, spotting him, her hands wiping her face.

“Lady,” he was quick with a formal greeting, bowing his head.

“Osferth,” her voice was sad and he met with her eyes, glassy from her tears. “I… I have not expected to ever see you again,” and a soft smile came to her lips. “Did you come to Coccham to spite our father?”

Her words warmed his chest with how she openly admitted to the relationship that so many skirted around, or would openly jest–other than Keavy, of course. Osferth watched her for a moment, seeing how their father reflected in her posture, with the same severity of her gentle features.

“Yes I did,” and his own lips curled upwards in response.

He offered to escort her back to the great hall, where they would expect her husband. But with the mention of Lord Æthelred, he saw how his sister darkened, in the same way Keavy flinched with the mention of Dane Sigefrid. And he knew that he was not a good man.

It curdled in his stomach that night, the news of her capture rekindling that burning vengeance and he felt its grip on his heart.

“Lord,” he called when he saw Uhtred. “I will come with you.”

Uhtred noticed how his jaw ticked with his words. “You will come when we have reason to go,” he placed a hand on his shoulder. “When Sihtric and Rypere come back with news.”

Rypere returned and soon enough they were called by the king for negotiations, the similar echo to the time in Lunden–all ego, and without a satisfying conclusion. As they returned homeward, Osferth saw the worry that lined Uhtred’s face, though he did not learn its cause until a private moment with Finan, when Uhtred shared the truth of his sister, and what she was asking of them.

“She loves him,” Finan almost laughed at the idea, his tone incredulous. “Did we just not attend her wedding to another man?”

“He is not a good man,” Osferth cut through, and he did not expand. Instead, he looked to Uhtred. “What must we do?”

They returned to Coccham, to rest, to plan, to wait until Sihtric came; Osferth felt the anxiety knitting into his lower abdomen again, and his steps brought him to Keavy’s door, rapping his knuckles against the wood.

She opened it, pulling a shawl over her simple cotton dress, its burgundy tones bringing out the emerald of her eyes. “Osferth?” Her tone was a mixture of her pleasure, of her surprise. Keavy stepped aside, opening the door to allow him inside. “What is the matter?” And he was a dam broken, reliving the prior days and its events: from the debt of Wessex to his sister’s true-heart desire. Keavy held a quiet contemplation, allowing the spate of his words that broke down the concern he felt for his kin. “You only want the best for your sister,” and her simple words were a balm, a warmth that soothed the knot in his chest. “What do you need from me?”

He had not thought of that when he knocked, balking a moment before he said, “...I thought I would come for that promised haircut.”

The returned rose color that flushed her cheeks, her smile that tugged at his heart in a way he could not describe. “Very well, allow me to get the scissors from Gisela and we can do that later this evening, once Stiorra and Oswald are asleep.” Her eyes met with his own and he swallowed thickly when she added, “I will come to your room.”

Ofserth was waiting for her when she came that evening, the same soft tap to his door. Inside, he moved to seat himself on a stool, his legs long and his knees jutted up with his feet on the floor. He closed his eyes as she combed through his hair, humming when she replaced it with her fingers.

Keavy was methodical and he listened to the clipping sounds of the silver edges, his dirty blonde locks falling to the floor around him as she trimmed away the last remnants of his days at the monastery.

It was quiet and she set the scissors down; he felt her hands rubbing over his scalp, brushing away the stray hairs and it tickled his ears as it fell to the growing pile. She stopped, her hands paused to cradle his cheeks and he opened his eyes to see the green of her eyes watching him.

He reached to cup one of her hands against his cheek and her eyes met with his, with the slight quirk of her brow. Osferth took a breath, turning his face and pressing his lips against her palm, before releasing his hold and letting her hand fall back to her side.

Keavy watched him still, her pink lips parted and wet from her tongue, and he pushed to stand, daring to close the space between them, his large palms settling on the small of her waist. “Keavy,” his timbre low and he saw the flush of color deepen on her features. “May I kiss you?”

She nodded mutely and his palms knitted behind, cradling her lower back and pulling her against his chest; Keavy pressed to her toes, the sweetest sigh that spilled from her lips–

“Baby monk,” the unwelcome bark of the Irishman jolted them apart, accompanied with the hammered sound against the door. Finan pushed it open, his dark brows lifted at the sight of Keavy, a crinkle to the corners of his eyes as he looked Osferth over with a wry smile that spread across his jaw. “I see you have a new era about ya,” he teased, his hand running over his own low cut. “Looks good on ya.”

“Thank you, Finan,” Osferth was flushed, his eyes glancing at Keavy before returning to the Irishman and his smug expression.

“Sihtric arrived,” he finished. “It’s time to go.”

He then dipped through the door, leaving them behind with their broken moment. Osferth moved to grab his scabbard, though he wished to grab Keavy, to pull her close once more; instead he knotted the leather around his slender waist.

When he finished, he paused for a moment, his hands balled then his fingers flexed before he looked up to see Keavy. She was standing still, her hands folded in front, her eyes still watchful. Osferth nodded his head and as he left, something caught his sleeve and he looked back to see her fingers pinching the fabric of his albe.

“Return to me, Osferth,” she whispered, her eyes wide.

There was the subtle curl of his lips and he reached for her hold, bringing the back of her hand to lips for a kiss, savoring her smell of lavender and thyme. “I will, Keavy. I swear it.”

That moment replayed in his mind as he met with the men, the hurried relay of the note Sihtric brought and a quick departure from Coccham. They rowed eastward, easing the boat to dock a ways up and away the main docks of Beamfleot. The followed the shadows of the woods that lead towards the fort; Osferth felt the flutter of his nerves, as well as the gaze of Uhtred. “Are you afraid?”

“Am I even allowed to admit that?” Osferth asked back.

Uhtred shrugged. “Osferth, at times we’re all afraid. Courage is just finding the will to overcome that fear. Nothing more,” he reached and placed his palm on his shoulder. “But you must find that courage.”

Ahead, they spotted the Danes that lined the dock, more than was initially thought and a hazard to their escape; with Uhtred’s command, there was a frenzied onslaught and they left the bodies to litter the Temes.

They pressed until they reached the walls that surrounded the burh, a ruction echoing the stones. Osferth was offered to be hoisted upwards, and even with his lean length there was still a struggle to climb over the battlement, but he managed to land on the cobblestone curtain wall.

He followed this pathway, finding it unguarded, but remained low, unseen; once he understood he was truly alone, he dared look over at the clamor of Danes that drank and bellowed below in the fortress. From his spot, he also saw the smoke that began to pour from the Great Hall, accompanied with yells.

He was quick to return and called down. “Lord,” his chest heaving. “Fire!”

“Jump down, baby monk,” Finan called back. The gates creaked open and Danes poured through, spilling and coughing through the mouth of Beamfleot.

Osferth instead returned, ignoring the yell of the Irishman; he moved quickly, his eyes burning in the smoke that rose, but did not stop until he spotted Æthelflæd, the stream of her dark hair as she followed behind a blonde Dane; he pulled her with urgency, and the roar of his name echoed over the chaos.

“Erik.”

And Osferth saw him, the same Dane from Lunden, his eyes black and his knifed hand glinted from the growing flames. He moved, peering over the stone wall at the gate’s top, watching how the Dane escort paused, how Æthelflæd now pulled at him, begging him to run.

“You dare betray me, brother?” Sigefrid roared.

“I will pay your share of the ransom,” Erik pulled away from her, both covered in soot and she was stanced with the desperation to run still. But instead, Æthelflæd watched.

There was the disarray of Danes that fled the fire, paying no mind to the ruined fortress or the ruined kinship. Sigefrid laughed, dark and boisterous. “And how will you pay?” His voice was cruel. “In what? Piss?”

“I will pay the ransom,” he insisted, almost pleading.

Sigefrid moved towards him, swelled with fury, and only then did Erik unsheathe his own blade, both hands curled around the grip. “You couldn’t pay a goat to lick the sweat off your balls,” and with those words, Sigefrid lunged at his brother.

There was a clash of steel that rang out and Osferth saw the astonishment that played on his face as his brother parried, gutting him with the knife embedded on his arm. Æthelflæd screamed her heartbreak, watching the blood pour from this man she swore she loved, and she screamed again when Sigefrid turned his attention to her, pulling back his bloodied hand and stalking towards her.

“Æthelflæd!” Uhtred ran to the outside of the wall, Finan and men in tow. The distraction halted Sigefrid at the entrance and without a thought, Osferth drew his sword and leapt over, crushing down on top of Sigefrid, his sword piercing through his chest and lungs.

The Dane did not cry out, only the wet hissing sound of his life leaving his body as they both crumpled to the ground. His shins burned, but Osferth stood upright, looking to his sister, then to Uhtred.

He saw how his eyes shone with a new admiration of the bold behavior of the bastard; Uhtred then looked to Æthelflæd, taking her hand and he called for his men to follow.

Osferth pulled his sword from the dead man and then cut through his forearm, then reaching to grab the blade, the blood nub thumping to the dirt. He then slipped it around his waist and followed after, leaving Beamfleot to burn.

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#the last kingdom fanfic #the last kingdom fanfiction #tlk fanfic #tlk fanfiction #osferth fanfic #osferth fanfiction #osferth x oc #osferth x ofc #osferth x keavy #we need more osferth fanfic #slow burn #farewell wanderlust

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idksmtms · 3 months

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Osferth Masterlist

Series

Under construction...

Oneshots

Gentle First, Everything Else Second - (Osferth x Virgin!reader - coming soon)

By the time you met Osferth he had come far from his days of chastity and monkhood. Though he still looked like a virgin, he was far more experienced than you. So you trusted him to guide you through this...

Father Wouldn't Approve - (Osferth x Uhtred's Daughter!reader - coming soon)

Osferth was honest, Osferth was committed, Osferth was loyal. These were all reasons why you were in love with him. These were all reasons which meant he could not have you.

AUs

Coming soon...

#osferth #baby monk #the last kingdom #osferth x reader #osferth fanfic #osferth x you #osferth x y/n #osferth smut #osferth x oc #ewan mitchell #ewan nation #ewanverse #ewan mitchell fanfic

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humanpurposes · 8 months

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From Eden

Chapter 2: Some part of me came alive

Danes attack Wincombe Abbey and a young novice crosses paths with a group of mercenaries and their Baby Monk // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Osferth x Original Female Character

Warnings: 18+, suggestive themes, religious guilt, pathetic yearning

Words: 3400

A/n: I did not spellcheck the names. Also available to read on AO3.

Since joining Lord Uhtred, Osferth had seen enough of the back of his horse’s head to make him sick. They moved constantly, never settling anywhere for long. So he savoured each stop, and every night he spent in a bed rather than a forest floor or a field, he made sure to express his gratitude in his prayers.

Only the ride from Wincombe was anything but dull. The girl from the abbey, Bridget, was rather impossible to ignore, pressed tightly against his back and shrouding his cloak around his shoulders to keep them both warm.

He slowed the horse once they had caught up with the rest of the group. She settled then, holding her hands on his shoulders, turning her head and resting her temple at the base of his neck through the thick material of his tunic. A thrill ran down his spine, one he hardly allowed himself to feel.

The snow was starting to settle now, crunching under the hooves of the horses. The sky was overcast with grey clouds, yet the world seemed so bright. Bridget marvelled at the sight of the land beyond the abbey, letting out breathless little gasps at hills and woodlands.

“When was the last time you were this far from the abbey?” Osferth asked, turning over his shoulder a little.

Her wide eyes glanced up at him before she lifted her head. He suddenly felt cold with the absence.

“I haven’t been beyond the woods in over a decade,” she said, her voice was light, finding its place between wonder and sadness.

He had much been the same, hardly venturing from the walls of the minster in Winchester, until he decided to seek out Lord Uhtred.

“Is that how long you have been at the abbey?” he asked.

“Yes,” is all she said. He had half expected a tale of her life, of her mother and father, but she simply sighed and looked ahead, peering over his shoulder to the others riding in front of them.

He told her of their company, of Lord Uhtred, a man born to a Northumbrian Lord and raised by Danes, hoping to reclaim his home. He told her how he had found himself tied to other matters. He was a warrior, a loyal servant and friend of King Alfred, but most recently he had become intent on his pursuit of the seer, Skade.

“What is his interest in her?” Bridget asked.

Osferth tutted to himself. Uhtred’s obsession with Skade had brought them nothing but misfortune and death thus far. “He believes himself to be cursed.”

“And do you believe that?”

“She is of the devil,” he said, “sent to tempt the hearts of men. That is all I care to know of it.”

And yet Uhtred remained intent on finding her.

As they rode on, he told her of the other men, Finan, the Irishman, and Shitric, the Dane, the greatest and the bravest warriors he had ever known– save for his Lord, of course.

“And what of you?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

She nodded ahead. “Uhtred of Bebbanburg, Finan the Irishman and Shitric the Dane. Where do you come from?”

He frowned and suddenly his cross felt heavier around his neck. He had been left to the monastery with no name, no title, just the weight of his father’s sins. “I am simply Osferth,” he said.

“That can’t be true,” Bridget said. “What was it Finan called you? Baby Monk?”

His body went rigid. God, he hated that name, even more so now that she had said it.

She chuckled softly. “That makes you something,” she said.

He doubted she would soon forget the topic. “I was born in Winchester,” he said with a reluctant sigh.

“And how did you come to serve Lord Uhtred?”

“My uncle said he was a great man. I sought him out, to join him.”

“So you do have a family?”

Hardly. He had few memories of Leofric, even less of his mother.

One of Bridget’s hands slipped from his shoulder, resting against his arm. “I can stay silent if you’d prefer, seeing as you’re so intent on remaining mysterious,” she said.

“No– no,” he insisted as he cleared the tight feeling in his throat. “My life is anything but mysterious, I assure you.”

“A simple man, formerly of the cloth,” she mused.

He sounded painfully dull with the way she put it, but what was the alternative? Bastard… coward… boy.

“I suppose so,” he muttered.

As the sun slipped below the hills and night crept into the sky, Lady Aethelflaed at last decided they would make camp for the night, despite Uhtred’s determination to press on to Saltwic.

They found cover under a grove of trees where they could tie the horses, gather firewood and seek some shelter from the snow.

Osferth dismounted first, swinging his leg over the horse’s head before he turned back to Bridget. She braced herself on his shoulders as he put his hands on her waist and guided her down. Perhaps the fall was further than she anticipated; her hands tightened their grip on his shoulders and she took a sharp breath before her feet touched the ground.

“Are you alright?” Osferth asked.

“Yes, of course,” she mumbled. Her eyes flittered between his face and the ground. He had an awful feeling he had done something wrong and quickly released his hands from her.

He made quick work of unloading the canvas, bedroll and furs from his horse before he went about his usual duties, building the fire, beginning on the broth to feed the men. Bridget stood restlessly, fiddling with her hands in front of her skirts, reaching for her hair to fix a habit she no longer wore. He watched her in the corner of his eye as he worked, and gestured for her to join him by the fire once the flames came alive.

She still had his cloak on her and when she moved to take it off he stopped her. She smiled in thanks and pulled it back over her shoulders.

Even then she was unsettled. Her head turned everywhere, watching Uhtred setting up a tent for himself and Lady Aethelflaed, Finan and Shitric as they sharpened their swords and poured themselves cups of ale.

“Your first night away from the abbey,” Osferth said and bit his tongue immediately after. It was a rather obvious thing to point out.

She cautiously eyed the other men around them, setting up their own beds and fires.

“You needn’t fear them,” Osferth said. “They will not harm you.”

As she turned towards him, her eyes and skin caught the light of the fire. In that moment she was golden and radiant, the very image of the angels he praised in his prayers. Suddenly his mouth felt dry– perhaps he needed a drink of ale.

She smiled softly. “I am not afraid, Osferth.”

His eyes were drawn to her lips and her teeth as she said it. He had never known his own name to sound so pleasant.

Lord Uhtred appeared from the tent to fetch a bowl of broth for Lady Aethelflaed, before he, Finan and Shitric joined them by the fire to eat and drink.

Finan handed Bridget a cup of ale. “The more you drink the easier it is to fall asleep,” he said, “you’ll need it with the cold.”

She winced at the first sip but laughed it off with the others. “Stronger than I’m used to,” she said.

“Does she have a bed?” said Uhtred.

“She’ll have mine,” Osferth said without hesitation.

Finan and Shitric shared an amused look. Bridget tilted her head at him. There was that strange feeling in his stomach again, like he’d done something wrong.

“I’ll just sleep on the ground,” he clarified.

The fire kept them warm enough for an hour or so, but as the night grew darker it brought heavier snow and wind, nipping at the bare bits of Osferth’s skin, his face and fingertips. Without his cloak he felt the cold seeping through to his very bones.

He was as quiet as usual, while Finan and Sihtric reminisced back on battles and nights spent in alehouses. Bridget watched them with wide eyes and wonder.

He hardly noticed Lord Uhtred’s departure and subsequent return with a bedroll, dropping it at his feet.

“Lord?”

“You’ll sleep better with it,” Uhtred said. “Now retire, all of you, we leave at first light.”

Osferth pointed Bridget towards the tent he had set up and told her to use as many furs as she needed.

Once he had taken the broth pot from the fire and gathered Lord Uhtred’s bedroll, he made towards the tent. Until a firm hand stopped him by his shoulder.

“You’re a better man than I, Baby Monk,” Finan muttered into his ear with an audible grin. “I’d have her sharing my bed.”

He brushed Finan’s hand away and clenched his jaw to stop himself smiling.

Was he truly being that obvious? He wanted to think that he wasn’t, but with every step he took towards the tent, the more he thought of her, lying on his bedroll, wrapped in his cloak and his furs to keep out the cold, the more he began to doubt himself.

She only caught his attention back at Wincombe when she approached him in the hall– the girl from the woods who had directed them towards the abbey. She seemed curious, fascinated at the prospect of him having left his order in Winchester, and when Haesten had attacked, she had acted courageously in spite of her fear. Heaven above, she had killed one of the men, which was one more than he could claim from his first battle.

He was acting by the guidance of the Lord, he told himself, in offering her his care and protection. He intended to honour his word.

He was glad to be out of the snowfall and under the canvas. His cloak had been left on the branch of a tree, hanging within the tent, and Bridget had settled on the bedroll, huddling in a single layer of fur. He could see her shivering.

He laid out Lord Uhtred’s bedroll, in what small space he had. He fastened the cloak around himself, leaving his boots and his gloves on as he settled. It was too cold for anything less.

Bridget was on her side and facing him, fur pulled up to her chin, eyes squeezed shut, teeth chattering and lips trembling as she let out shaky, icy breaths.

Even as the snores of the other men sounded from the other tents, she was still shivering.

He whispered her name, and she responded with a short “hmm.”

“You’re cold,” he said.

She opened her eyes. “Finan’s trick with the ale didn’t work,” she grumbled.

He smiled. “Don’t trust everything Finan tells you.”

She angled her brows in a helpless expression and smiled back.

An idea crossed his mind, one that would have Finan grinning like a devil, but he couldn’t just leave her to the cold. He adjusted the fur around him and held it out.

“May I?” he asked at the questioning frown on Bridget’s face.

She shuffled closer to him, dragging the fur with her as she settled herself under his arm and against his chest.

Osferth brought the fur around her, pulling her in a little closer, her head fitting perfectly under his chin. He felt the gentle force of her breath against the collar of his cloak, leaving his skin feeling deprived of her.

She fell asleep quickly. A subtle feeling of pride swelled in his chest, but sleep did not come as easily to him. He could hardly rest, he had to make sure the furs were wrapped around her, that his arm wasn’t pressing in too harshly to her body, but that his hold was firm enough to keep her warm.

And then there were her little hums and heavy breaths. They were soft sounds, unobtrusive, soothing in a way, and his heart leapt at each one.

He tried to think of the last time he had been this close to someone. He and Finan and Shitric had found themselves in uncomfortably close proximity, finding sleep where they could on their travels. Having Bridget by his side, nestled against him, her face delicately fallen and a picture of peace in his embrace, was entirely different.

He let his hand trace over the curve of her waist and settle against her back. He liked the feel of her under his touch, their breaths moving together, her body pressed against his.

But what was it the holy book preached? The mind governed by the flesh is death, but the mind governed by the Spirit is life and peace.

He clenched his jaw and tucked the edge of the fur under his hand so his palm would not touch her, not directly at least.

Bridget insisted she was used to rising early, especially after she had slept so well– a detail which had earnt Osferth a smug look from Finan, which he met with another frown.

The mind governed by the flesh is death.

He recited those words in his head over and over again, as he helped Bridget into the saddle, as she put her hands around his waist, as her hips gently rocked against him with the movement of the horse, but he kept his head high and his hands tight on the reins.

It took a matter of hours to reach Saltwic. The men were all glad to be under a roof with some more substantial food in their bellies; spit-roasted meat, bread and more than a few mouthfuls of ale.

Though before long, Osferth found himself being dragged out of the hall by his shoulders and Finan’s insistence that they should make use of their time to train.

Bridget was already waiting for them in the courtyard. She had shed her nun’s robes now, dressed in garments she must have been given by Lady Aethelflaed; a shirt, tunic and breeches. Modest, but he doubted her sisters at the abbey would approve. She wore them well.

By her side she held a sword, shorter and slimmer compared to the blades wielded by Lord Uhtred and his men. Osferth looked down at his own weapon, long and slight, made to match his body.

“Which would win in a fight, a Baby Monk or a Little Novice?” Finan said cherrily, striding between them.

Osferth and Bridget shared a look of confusion.

Finan held his arms out as though he were expecting an answer. “Let's find out, shall we?” Then he withdrew, leaving nothing but empty space and a few settled snowflakes between them.

Surely he did not mean for them to attack each other without even showing Bridget how to properly wield a sword. Not that Osferth was a well seasoned fighter himself. He had seen battle, but he often let himself fall into the background unless it was necessary.

Bridget had a fighter’s instincts at least. She had hardly hesitated to slay one of the attackers at Wincombe. He might have been dead if she hadn’t. With that he felt a little less guilt about taking a single step forward as he adjusted the grip on his sword.

She reacted sharply, like an animal to a hunter. In a heartbeat her posture had completely changed. She was poised, her eyes wide and alert, her feet in a fighting stance and her sword at her side.

It was easy to pick up on her movements, the little signs of instinct in every reaction. Finan had often told him this was a weak point of his, the inability to read his opponent, but with her, he was acutely aware of where she was putting her weight, where her eyes were looking, each little intake of breath as they stalked around each other.

When she moved first, he raised his blade to block her, then matched her again when she took a swing at his middle.

Their swords met with a ringing clash. The metal hissed as he drew his blade along hers until they fell apart.

His heart was racing and his breaths shallow. He was becoming impossibly warm under the weight of his robes and chainmail.

Bridget was poised again, a gleam in her eyes and a small smile playing in the corner of her mouth.

“The girl’s a natural,” Finan called, “she’s picking this up faster than you did, Baby Monk!”

Osferth meant to shoot his friend a glum glare until he saw a flash of movement, her hair and the wave of her sword. He looked back to Bridget in time to parry her strike, but not before she moved around him and delicately placed her blade on his shoulder, over his chainmail, close enough to his neck to affirm her victory.

She was close enough that he could feel her breath on his skin.

She smiled, proud of herself but without cruelty. It made his chest ache, not unpleasantly.

“Where did you learn to fight?” Finan asked.

A small part of Osferth died as she turned her eyes away from him. She lowered her sword and stepped away.

“I learnt a little from my brother,” she said.

“Good man himself,” Finan said, drawing his own blade and nodding for them to follow his lead as he brought them through a few stances.

“Yes,” she said softly, “yes he was.”

Osferth hardly let himself look upon her as they trained, unless Finan asked them to spar. They became less evenly matched each time they did so. He found himself slipping further and further into his own mind. Each time she smiled at him it awakened something bright and unnerving within him. He clasped at the memory of having her waist in his hand, her breath against his neck, her body pressed into his.

He excused himself once Finan decided they were done and decided to forgo the suggestion that they replenish themselves in the hall with more meat and ale.

He went to the chapel, tucked away in the corner of the estate within Lady Aethelflaed’s private apartments. It was far from the noise of the stables, the rowdiness of the hall, the heat creeping under his skin every time his eyes met Bridget’s.

The chapel was small, cold and dark, lit only by a collection of candles at the altar. He came to his knees on the stone floor before it, clutching his cross in his hands.

He asked for peace of mind, for clarity, for an answer.

Why her? Why had the Lord seen fit to guide them to Wincombe and urge her to join them? Why had his mind become so utterly consumed by her, not some lewd temptress of cruel intention or evil spirit, but a woman of beauty, warmth and courage? Perhaps it was a tempting of faith, a lure to sin and depravity.

“The mind governed by the flesh is death,” he whispered to himself, “but the mind governed by the Spirit is life and peace.”

A breeze blew through the chapel, ceasing when the door was quietly closed.

Osferth froze, stroking his thumb over his cross.

Soft footsteps moved against the flagstones until a figure stood at the altar. She was still in her training clothes, her hair flowing freely down her back. Most of her face was obscured in shadow, save for the edges of her cheek and her nose. He watched her hands as she lit a taper and brought it to the wick of a new candle.

She bowed her head in a silent prayer, the flames lighting the curve of her lips. She whispered something to herself but the words eluded him. He wondered what she might be praying for, if she felt the same turmoil as he did.

The room remained silent, save for the hum of the flames. Ordinarily he found peace in silence, but now it felt unbearable.

Bridget turned around, still bathed in darkness, an intangible vision, like a ghost, untouchable. The colour of her eyes were lost to darkness but he felt them boring into his.

She took a step closer to where he knelt. He held his cross a little tighter as traced the shape of her slightly parted lips, and felt a restless urge rising in his gut.

“What are you praying for, Osferth,” she said.

Without thinking he flexed his hand to regain some feeling in it. He might as well have been a lifeless entity otherwise.

The mind governed by the flesh is death.

“Strength,” he uttered, desperately keeping his eyes on her face, not the curves of her body and the belt cinching in her waist. “And courage also.”

Bridget suddenly retreated into herself. She kept her hands clasped in front of her and smiled. “I pray for that too.”

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