#tlk osferth x oc

[writervaul-t]

The Ruined and its Damned

Summary: The mysterious death of certain individuals causes a Rose and her family's safety on the line. Desperate for answers, Rose must work with a group of warriors within Rumcofa to prevent her family from meeting an early death. The only problem: their presence was never made known to the settlement so now they must not only understand the reasoning behind the deaths but to also gain the trust of the suspicious settlers, specifically the newly placed Uhtred and his group of warriors sent to protect Rumcofa from any oncoming threats.

Pairing: Osferth x OC

Warning: Non-canon, spoilers if you're not caught up to s5, blood and wounds, lots of fighting

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Chapter One: Amber

- ROSE -

The air was cold, but not cold enough to keep Rose from wishing to go back in the confines of her home. If she had the option, she was sure she’d like to stay outside, basking in the silence from nature in turn for the constant ruckus her brothers and father made back in their humble cabin.

Rose closed her eyes, breathing in the crisp morning air as she let her horse trot against the horribly beaten trail she was accustomed to. Only the gentle crunch of snow and muted calls from animals greeted her. Yes, she would definitely trade days like this with her noisy family if it meant she was able to savor more of this silence, even for just a moment.

Though, she knew that would not be an option in a very long time. She was needed at home, taking care of the younger half of her brothers when she is not where she is now. Like her brothers, Rose had a duty to uphold for her family and, to some extent, even those who would ever come by the areas she always crossed through.

“Rose.” The voice, annoyingly familiar, called out to her from ahead. Rose continued to close her eyes, ignoring the familiar voice as she took in the smell of the snow and the sound of her horse trotting. “Rose—”

“Jehan if you speak once more, I will certainly make sure you come home with no game and a split lip if you continue to disrupt me.” The girl said sharply, giving her twin brother a scathing look for ruining what little time she had with the outside world. Her irritation subsided, however, when her brother cast her a look that indicated anything but jesting—eyes wide, jaw tense—that she was not most favorable to: a threat was nearby.

Quickly, Rose’s fingers thumbed at the daggers attached to her back before checking for the ones hidden in her arms and boots before pulling her hood over her eyes. “Where.” Was all she asked, head whipping around until she finally spotted the billowing smoke rising from below a cliff just several feet away.

“Sounds like there's many. Almost fifteen…” Jehan whispered in his usual low, steady voice. He halted his own horse, effectively stopping Rose’s own from moving as well. “We can’t take that many if they really are a threat…”

“Definitely not.” Rose mutters back. “How do you know it’s a threat, though?”

“I don’t.” Her brother replied honestly, his jet black hair brushing against her own set of curls as she drew closer. “But the sound of swords being sharpened is enough of a warning.”

Rose nodded, scarily impressed by Jehan’s sharp hearing. If she were alone, Rose was sure she would hear the crunching of the snow beneath her horse’s hooves instead of blades being sharpened. “Do you need me to look?” She asked, though she had already been off her horse and throwing the rope to her twin in smooth succession.

Jehan nodded. “Just get a glimpse of them, see who they are: Dane or Saxon.”

Rose rolled her eyes. “Both are threats to us no matter which one they are…”

Her brother only urged her forward with a warning look, Rose taking note that he hadn’t corrected her behavior statement. She was right, is all Rose could conclude from the silence, fingers dropping to the cross on her neck before brushing her fingers at the Yggdrasil hair beads woven into strands of her hair.

Dane or Saxon, they were surely in need to run away if they ever were to ever catch sight of Rose and Jehan’s appearance. The very thought made Rose tuck away the cross and pull her cloak’s hood further over her head as she carefully made her way over the cliff, not a sound being made by her as she glanced over the cliff.

Jehan had been almost correct; there was a camp full of men under the cliff, sixteen or seventeen to count from what Rose could spot, fingers signaling a succession of numbers behind her back for her brother to understand what was happening. They all looked worn out, tired from marching around in the freezing cold, she could only presume.

Her eyes narrowed in on six men sitting around the middle of a fire—well, four men and two boys, from the looks of things. Rose made sure to signal that to her brother as well. They were all unique in look and Rose’s eyes narrowed in confusion as she finally took notice of the group.

A mix of Danes and Saxons, she concluded, frowning as she spotted two of the six to be wearing Mjolnir around their necks and another two bearing Christian crosses. Curiously, her eyes drifted to one of the Christians; the tallest of the six, a blonde wearing garbs she only sees on monks.

It was modified, the sides ripped so he could possibly sit easier instead of being restricted by the long fabric, a sword hanging off his hips and a chestplate over the drabby beige clothing. Rose wasn’t sure what to signal, but she did her best to tell her brother what she saw with her hands.

"A… Warrior monk?” Jehan asked, voice echoing in their empty space. “The hell does that mean...”

Rose whipped her head, finger pressing against her lips harshly, heart pounding. She had yet to determine if they actually were trouble or not for them. She was too caught up in the group’s strangeness to notice the amount of weapons all of them had attached to themselves. Jehan’s eyes widened, shocked at his own loudness as well, slapping a hand over his lips.

Though that was too late.

“Whoever’s there, come out. Now.” A sharp voice, annoyingly familiar as well, ordered from below.

Sounds like Father. Rose would have mused to her brother if she hadn’t been on edge about watching these men. Her eyes glared at Jehan, who moved forward toward the cliff. Rose stayed as still as possible, body closely wrapped against the large boulders she had been laying her stomach against. Surely, she couldn’t be spotted—

“The same goes to your companion as well. Come out now.”

Rose let out an aggravated groan.

I just wanted to go outside…

- OSFERTH -

“How did he know someone else was with him?” Aethelstan asked, staring at Uhtred in wonder before turning his gaze back to the pair standing over them.

“Intuition.” Was all Osferth could offer, hand ghosting the hilt of his sword as the second figure maneuvered their way to their horse. The man already on his horse offered a stiff smile to Uhtred and Finan’s suspicious gazes.

“A fine morning to hunt, don’t you think?” The man tried to offer, the hooded figure beside him turning their head to them. Seems that even they found his ice breaker strange. From the corner of his eye, he could spot Sihtric move backward a bit, as if ready to melt into the shadows and come closer to them.

Looking back, Osferth could see the hooded figure trot their horse backward as well, as if sensing Sihtric’s movement. Osferth held a hand out to his friend, shaking his head. “The hooded one is watching you. Stay cautious.” He advised. Sihtric only nodded, keeping himself still instead.

Uhtred, always so blunt and brute, was quick to stay on the topic. “Who are you? What are you doing on this trail?”

“I could ask you the same thing, but we’re clearly all here for one thing: hunting, correct?” The man said. His dark hair, long and straight, blew with the wind as he motioned at the bow and arrow attached to him under his cloak. “What else can you do around here besides trade at Rumcofa? Besides, Blood Month is coming soon and we all know the pressures of that celebration as men, do we not?”

Cynlaef and Aethelstan nodded, making Osferth shake his head. Clearly, the man was trying to convince them of something else but he made a good argument; around this time men did go out hunting to practice. Finan was the next to speak up.

“You know of Rumcofa, yet we’ve never seen you.” Finan said, eyes glancing at the hooded figure. “And it seems like we have yet to see your friend as well.”

“She is hardly a friend. Torturer would be a better word.” The man states, earning a harsh slap in the arm by the figure. Finan snorted at the action. “She is my sister; wanted to accompany me and possibly hunt something as well.”

The man motioned for his sister to pull down the hood and Osferth was in no need to convince himself the pair were siblings. Their hair was jet black, both of their tan skin showing under the sunlight. Osferth was more focused on the girl, however, noticing the curls that were hardly contained when it gathered at the nape of her neck.

Still, Osferth can detect the discomfort on her face despite keeping it so still since she had removed her hood, unlike her brother, who seemed to be smooth at every motion he made as they continued their standoff. They were like day and night, despite their appearance clearly indicating they were possibly twins.

Finally, she spoke, eyes trained on Uhtred. “I apologize for my brother’s long winded explanations but he is not wrong; we are meant to hunt. We follow this trail often but it is a bit of a ways away and we never see anyone. Forgive us for not being too friendly at the beginning, lords. We like to remain cautious, especially in times like this.”

Uhtred nodded in understanding. Living in a village was troublesome enough; only those who have lived on their own outside of promised protection knew how much more dangerous it was to willingly trust random strangers on the road.

“I hope we didn’t scare any of the game you are seeking then. A few of our men hunted and managed to hunt quite a few animals.” An amused chuckle escaped from Cynleaf’s lips. Years of accompanying Uhtred let Osferth know it was a boast masked under a jesting. He watched as the siblings gazes settled on the dead animals stacked next to the fire.

The girl was seamless with her reaction, only offering an unreadable expression to Uhtred before saying, “I’m sure we’ll find something.”

Her voice was soft but Osferth could sense a bit of rigidness behind it, almost like the snowflakes gently coming off from the trees above and landing on warm skin; similarly, it sent shivers down his back when her voice came out. His mind wandered for a moment, questions arising left and right from his mind until he finally asked a question as the siblings pulled off from the cliffside.

“You didn’t answer the question.” He suddenly pronounces, catching everyone’s attention. His eyes locked on the girl’s own, widening as he noticed they were almost glowing from the rays of light. He was sure they were almost like gold, the color seemingly paling against the stone at the pommel of Uhtred’s sword. Gold. It looked like molten gold.

“You know of Rumcofa, yet we have never seen you there.”

A few men nodded, others looking expectantly at the set of siblings, knowing Osferth wasn’t wrong. It had been years since Rumcofa was built, Aethelstan being only a boy when they settled in the trading village. Now he was accompanying hunts, carrying steel weapons instead of practicing with wooden ones within the safety of the village walls. Throughout all those years, Osferth was sure he’d remember eyes that seemed to shine under sunlight.

He watched as the girl’s lips twitched, to a smile or a frown, he wasn’t so sure. Still, he garnered a reaction out of her and some sense of satisfaction consumed him. “We have lived here since before Rumcofa’s construction. We just wished to stay outside the village borders since we are self serving ourselves.”

Osferth nodded, taking her words to value, seemingly knowing she wasn't lying. Still, he wondered one more thing.

“What are your names?” It was Uhtred who asked the question, seemingly reading the ex-monk’s mind.

The girl opened her mouth, then closed it. She turned to her brother, who shrugged before they responded, one after the other.

“My name is Jehan.”

“My name is Rosemonde. I go by Rose.”

Rose. Osferth thought, staring at the woman thoughtfully. Rose.

Somehow he couldn’t keep the name out of his head, even when her brother, Jehan decided to speak. “It is not safe to be out here too long, lords. Even in broad daylight, there are many dangers out there you should keep watch for. My sister and I must go now. Bountiful luck to you all during your hunt.”

With that, both siblings rode off, before anyone could ask any more questions.

"Strange people.” Finan mused, Osferth nodding

Silence returned on the group, though Osferth’s mind seemed to be somewhere else, Rose’s name still repeating in his head, not wishing to forget it.

- ROSE -

“Bountiful luck?”

“Shut up.”

A look of amusement crossed Rose’s face as she eyed her brother. “You sure love hearing your voice, brother.”

Jehan sent a glare her way. “As if you could do any better, sister. You talk sweetly but look as if you’re ready to go into battle. I hardly think I’d be ever able to believe you if I were those men out there.”

Rose shrugged. “If they detect a lie, they would have had us taken away. Clearly they believed us. Besides, it’s not as if we aren’t hunting.”

She dismounted from her horse as she said this, walking toward one of their hidden traps set up not far from the trail. She listened for the crunch of the snow, ignoring Jehan’s call from behind.

“That monk sounded like he didn’t believe you!”

A smile made its way to her lips again, the idea of the blonde man wishing to know them so much amusing her. He was peculiar, she remembered thinking, watching his expression intently when she had given her name. She could see his lips moving, though she wasn’t sure what she could make him out from saying.

Rose was ready to speak once more, before a muffled scream had brought her back, the memories of the crunching snow and the warrior monk pushed to the back of her mind. She narrowed her eyes, realizing the trap she set up the night before had worked. The muffled screams turned to a panicked one as Rose made herself visible to the man trapped by the spikes dug under the soft piles of snow that were carefully packed together as if to seem stronger.

“Nasty wound you have there.” Rose responded, eyes narrowing in on the man’s leg, which had the five wooden spikes jutting out from it at the start of his ankle to just below his knees. His hair was matted and frosted over, clearly having been there for several hours. “Would be a shame if we left you here.”

“Please,” the man begged. “Let me free.”

Rose ignored him, procuring a dagger hidden beneath her sleeve. “Since you said please, I will.” The man sighed in relief. “But not before you answer some questions.”

The men let out another wail, only to be silenced as Rose struck the back of his head with the hilt of her dagger. She didn’t waste time to take out a sack from the bag hanging off her, bringing it over the unconscious man’s head. A four toned whistle was heard from a distance and Rose was quick to send a two toned one back.

From a large pile of snow close by, another dark head popped up. “He’s been screaming all day. I had to come around and shut him up a few times before he could spot me.”

“It was a good thing you did.” Rose says to her younger brother, remembering the warrior monk and his warrior friends. “Help me out, won’t you Saewin? This man probably weighs like a horse.”

Saewin only nodded, making his way around the pile of snow so quickly, Rose felt like some sense of time disappeared on her when he made his way over. They lifted the man by his arms and legs, Saewin huffing out of anger after taking careful steps closer to the road. “This man weighs more than a horse; he’s probably the same weight as Jehan…”

“Hey!” Was all Jehan offered, running to help his siblings drag the man onto the large cloth he spread out and attached to his and Rose’s horse. All three of them heaved sighs, looking at one another before nodding to one another in understanding as they stared at the unconscious man in front of them.

“Let’s go home.” Jehan mused. “Looks like we’ll be having a busy night.”

Rose only nodded, her gaze lingering longer on the man while Saewin moved to mount her horse, an uneasy feeling settling in her stomach as she spotted a cross around his neck. Faintly, her fingers brushed against her own and a prayer was sent out silently, Rose praying that her way to Hell was as painless as possible before she finally made her way to her horse.

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[helaelaemond]

Hi there! What do you think of writing something of Reader overstimulating virgin Osferth? Could be short

Pairing: Osferth x reader

Word count: 1k

Summary: pure smut. Hand job (reader giving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms

Rating: E

Notes: thank you so much! This was the exact prompt I needed to get the writing out of my system!

"Does that feel good?"

Osferth whimpers and tries to get away from you, but you press a hand to his chest to keep him lying there. He shakes as he comes, seed spurting from his hard cock, and tears leak from his eyes.

"Does that feel good?" you repeat.

He shakes his head. "Please. Please, enough." His words are little more than hard breaths, his chest heaving with the effort.

The seed makes your hand slick. With smooth strokes, you keep your hand against him and cover his length again and again, dragging his orgasm out. When you dig your nail into his little slit, he whimpers again.

"Please, stop!"

But when you lean down to kiss him, he surges up to meet you. In a heartbeat, he parts his lips and sinks his tongue into your mouth, claiming you, begging you. Between you, his hand goes to your wrist, but he doesn't yank it away.

"You want to come again?" you ask quietly. He sucks your lower lip between his own before biting, nodding.

"Please."

Sweet Osferth doesn't even know what he's begging for anymore. After a moment, the strength goes from him and he whines softly, falling back onto the bed. He looks up at you with such pretty eyes, so wide and confused and adoring.

"Does it hurt?" you ask. His cock is red and swollen, his balls tense, and his entire groin is slick from release after release.

He nods, eyes red.

You kiss his forehead. "I think you can come again for me, can't you?"

Another whimper escapes him. He's got that glazed look on his face that tells you he's close to his limit. Close. Not there entirely. "Y... yes."

It makes you shiver. "Osferth..."

The way his eyes light up when you murmur his name is endearing, to say the least. You massage his balls, and he whines softly. His feet kick against the bed and suddenly his hips lift off it in a desperate attempt to get away. Again, you press him back down.

"Be good, sweet Osferth," you tell him.

The call of his name again draws him back. Wide-eyed and dazed, he looks at you. Quietly, he moans your name. You reward him with a gentler touch between his legs; the soft skin of his balls is warm and thin and sticky with sweat and come. With your other hand, you stroke up and down his stomach soothingly. There isn't a chance for his cock to get soft again by the time your firm grasp returns.

"You can do this for me, can't you?"

Again, Osferth moans your name. "Yes! Yes! For you, anything!"

You stroke his cock hard and firm, and kiss his mouth. It hangs open, desperate and needy, and each time you swipe your tongue over his, he groans. The noise sounds deep in his bare chest, sore in the back of his throat.

"Good," you murmur between obscene kisses. "Keep going, Osferth."

As he gets closer to his final peak, his thighs twitch, his hips lift, his head tosses. You keep your pace steady for a moment, but then you stroke him harder and faster than before. Harder, faster. You spit down on his cock head and he twitches at the new sensation.

"Please!" he whines. "Please, please, I can't-"

"You can, Osferth. I know you can."

Surely someone outside will hear. He is too loud not to hear. But he's too far gone to stop, and so are you. How long have you wanted this, to make him like this? All the stolen glances, all the casual touches, all the hours spent together in innocent bliss, they have been leading to something like this.

He kissed you first. But you crossed this line first. He thanked you for it as the sun set. Now the stars are crossing the sky, and his thanks have turned to begs.

"Help me, please, please-"

"Relax, Osferth."

You bury your face into his long neck and inhale his scent, familiar and strange. You bite his earlobe and tug and he cries out. Under your hand, his stomach tenses until his spine curls. From his lips spills your name again and again and again. Breaths come shorter and quicker, more ragged.

"Yes, just like that," you moan into his ear.

He echoes you. "Like that! Oh, yes, yes-!"

"Keep going."

He nods, eyes closed. "Yes, yes, oh Lord, yes-! Shit-! Shit, I'm-!"

His final orgasm is pulled violently from him. Osferth cries, eyes red and puffy, cheeks streaked, jaw locked open. You stroke him just as hard and fast as before and glance down to watch him spill. It leaks from his sore cock, milky and hot, and you catch it to make your hand slick again. Through his orgasm you stroke him until he squirms away from you again.

"No more!" he begs.

Carefully, you let him go, and drag your hand up his side. He curls up on the bed, thighs shaking, arms trembling. "I'll be back," you whisper against his ear. Quickly and quietly, you bring over to the bed a bowl of clean water and soft linen cloth. Tenderly, so as not to hurt him, you wipe his spend from your hands and his torso. When you try to clean between his legs, he whimpers and curls away.

"Alright, alright." You smile slightly, and set it aside. You climb onto his bed behind him and press your chest against his back, slot your legs behind his. He's so tall, so lithe and pliant, and he sinks back against you. As you sling one arm over his side, he sighs in contentment.

"Thank you," he murmurs after long moments of peace.

"Hmm?" You kiss his neck idly.

"For... for this."

"You needn't thank me, Osferth."

"But... I would like to anyway. If it pleases you."

Smiling, you run your nose through his soft, short hair. "You please me."

"Thank you."

"Would you like to do this again?"

He pulls your arm tighter around him and kisses your fingers gently. "Yes. But... if it pleases you... I should like to... please you. If you would show me?"

"I would like that, Osferth. I would like that very much."

[assortedseaglass]

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!

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[moris-auri]

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.

[aegonx]

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

[happilyhertale]

Osferth

Destiny is all - Osferth x female!reader

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

[humanpurposes]

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.

[itbmojojoejo]

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. 

[icarusignite]

Okok hear me out, this story has been festering in my head for a while.

King Alfred loses his beloved wife, Lady Aelswith, in childbirth of their only son, Edward. While he is still mourning, his eldormen pressure him to take a second wife to produce more heirs and spares, but really, they just hope to push forward their own daughters as candidates for the King to select. The most vocal amongst them is power hungry Lord Augustine, whose lands and wealth make him impossible to say no to, because even the king needs allies. So Alfred agrees to marry his daughter, Lady Joanna, but he vows never to touch her so that Augustine's dream of having his blood upon the throne will never be realized. Alfred knows that the moment he has children with Joanna, his children with Aelswith will meet fatal "accidents" and be removed.

Joanna is very different from what Alfred is used to in Aelswith and its part of why he hates her. While his previous queen was quiet and gentle, guiding his decisions with a non commanding suggestions, Joanna is bolder and more disagreeable. She isn't as careful as Aelswith was and Alfred hates that she isn't her.

He also hates her obviously cuz hes forced into the marriage and her father is always breathing down their necks waiting for them to have kids. Alfred thinks that Joanna is a spy for her father sent to torment him and his children.

But eventually he sees that Joanna hates her dad too cuz he's a prick and he actually has more in common with his new wife than he previously thought. He begins to find her candor and brashness refreshing, and she's always so gentle and good with Aelswiths kids, so he can't make himself continue hating her, but then he feels guilty for beginning to care for her cuz he still clings on to the memory of Aelswith.

Alfred is deeply religious but Joanna is lowkey abit of a secret agnostic cuz ✨️religious trauma ✨️ and they beef over that for abit too. Alfred feels even more religious guilt about falling for what he considers basically a Heathen in disguise

One day Alfred comes accross Joanna's father like being cruel to her and just yelling at her for not yet bearing the king's children and he barges in to their private conversation to defend her by being all "she is your queen, and you will respect her as you would respect me, your king." And Joanna is speechless cuz this is the first time he has stood up for her or said anything remotely polite or kind about her. But then Alfred ruins it by saying that he needed to atleast keep up the appearances or else the eldormen would shackle him to another useless bride of their choosing so he had to pretend to be somewhat content with Joanna. And obvi Joanna is hurt cuz she thought he was finally beginning to care for her.

Essentially a slow burn, arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, angsty King Alfred fic?

Would anyone be interested in that? Alfred is such an underrated character and I have barely seen any fics for him, so I thought I might try and remedy that lol.

Credit to @justasightseer for getting me into the Alfred squad lol, I can't stop thinking about him now.

[scorpionrising]

there is love that doesn't have a place to rest — ch. 3

pairing: finan x fem!oc word count: 3556 content warning: this fic deals explicitly with the trauma of sexual assault. while there are no drawn out, graphic scenes, it is made explicitly clear what is going on. for context: oc is uhtred's daughter and was captive in dunholm for all her childhood. proceed with caution. additionally, expect canon typical attitudes, behaviors, violence, etc.

read on ao3

“i wanna be the broken love song that feeds your misery and i can wish that all i want, but it won't bring us together plus, i know whatever happens to me, i know it's for the better" –phoebe bridgers, waiting room

A week had passed since her father left at the behest of King Alfred, and Ravna spent each day with Osferth in the woods, allowing him to teach her all about the Christian religion. She was not sure she believed any of it— a pregnant virgin was just a bit too absurd for her— but they made for good stories. She thought of the Romans, and the Greeks before them. How many different gods had they believed in? How many gods before them had been worshiped? For this reason alone, Ravna could not count anything out. Or could she believe in anything at all? 

“Monk! I had a thought,” Ravna said, finding Osferth in the alehouse. 

He was sitting with Finan, but she chose to ignore the other man. Osferth’s brows shot up upon seeing her. She did not make a habit of entering the alehouse, often finding it too loud and the men too abrasive. Osferth put down his mug and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“You say your god is good, yes?”

“Uh, yes. He is all good, just as He is all powerful.” 

“If He is both, then how can He allow evil to exist?”  

This was what Ravna did not understand. She had long since accepted that her father’s gods, if they did exist, cared little for her. Her father’s gods never claimed to be all good. But Osferth’s god did. Osferth’s god positioned himself as a father who loved his children. If she was this all-good and all-powerful god’s child, she could not fathom why he allowed for her to be abused as she was. 

“He did not create evil,” Osferth said.

She scrunched her face at him. “But you said evil and sin comes from Eve eating the apple because Satan told her to, and Satan was created by God, was he not?” 

“But God also created free will. He does not control us, Ravna.” 

“If God created free will and bestowed it upon people with the option and opportunity for evil, then He created evil!” 

A few eyes were looking their way, certainly whispering about her outburst. Finan glanced around the alehouse and leaned across the table. 

“Hey, just take a breath now, ceann bheag.”

She rounded on him, eyes narrowed. What gave him the right to tell her to do anything? 

“I believe I was talking to Osferth, not you,” she hissed, relishing in the fact that he actually leaned back in shock from her ire being turned on him. Sniffing, she looked back at Osferth. “I do not find myself satisfied with your response. Think on it some more and find me in the morning with better answers.” 

Osferth cracked a smile, despite the uncomfortable tension between her and Finan.

“Are you hoping to convert, Lady?” Osferth asked teasingly.

“Maybe if I find you convincing enough,” Ravna responded in the same tone. She stuck her tongue out briefly and smacked the tabletop. “Right, then. I’m getting myself a drink.” 

Both men looked shocked, which she took some pride in. Still, it was rather annoying. But, if it took her sitting in the alehouse for hours on end and drinking until her vision blurred for them to see her as the grown woman she was, she would do it. She would show her father and Finan both. She had no need for a nursemaid. 

Coin purse in hand, she sidled up to the counter and held her chin high. Men were crowded all around her, but she refused to waver. She had something to prove. 

“Lady Ravna.” 

Ceolmund, the second son to the alehouse and tavern owners, stood behind the counter. His older brother, Alewulf, was somewhat of a warrior and had gone north with her father. 

“Hello,” she said. “I would… like a pitcher of ale, please.” 

Ceolmund’s smile was a bit crooked. “You drink with your father’s men, lady?”

She pursed her lips. “And what of it?”

“I am surprised,” he said. 

Then, he looked around and leaned in, beckoning her closer. Confused, Ravna complied. Ceolmund’s lips brushed along her ear and she bit back a gasp in surprise. 

“Tonight is the full moon, Lady. When the moon is at its peak, come to the mouth of the river so you need not drink with your father’s men.” 

She pulled back and arched an eyebrow. “What happens tonight?” 

He grinned ear to freckly ear. It would be a bitter lie to say she was not intrigued. 

“Us young people get to live,” he said. 

“Very well,” Ravna said. “I will join you.”

“Good!” He smacked the counter for good measure. “I’ll go get your ale now, Lady.” 

When she returned, she must have been grinning as well. Osferth’s eyebrows shot up to his forehead and he turned to Finan, who was staring at Ravna with his mouth agape. 

“What?” she asked. 

“What did he say to you?” Osferth asked. 

“Nothing,” Ravna said simply, pouring herself a mug of ale. 

“No, he said something!” 

She rolled her eyes. “Osferth, I am allowed to have friends other than you, no?” 

He deflated a bit and took a deep sip from his mug. Smirking to herself, Ravna poured some ale from her pitcher into his now empty cup. With a grin, he knocked his mug against hers and they took large gulps in tandem. Finan looked decidedly put out. Good, she thought, not feeling guilty in the least. 

The ale was strong, but she knew it would be. Her father encouraged Ceolmund’s father to brew it the way Danes did, as Saxon ale was often so weak. Ravna’s head was spinning a bit, but she found she did not mind it. She quite liked the feeling, actually. With Osferth’s aid, she drank the entire contents of the pitcher rather quickly. Delighting in the way the whole world around her seemed to tilt as she stood up, Ravna placed her palms on the table to steady herself as she giggled shrilly. 

“I… am going to…” She trailed off, losing the thought. “Oh! Yes, I will get more ale.” 

Finan grabbed the now empty pitcher and pulled it out of her reach. “Perhaps not, Lady.”

Annoyed but less angry than before— thanks to the ale, in all likelihood— Ravna turned on Finan. Feeling her lips curling into a grin, she snorted and lunged for the pitcher, but he was too quick for her and pulled it further away. 

“Finan,” she said shortly, rolling her eyes, “I am grown. I am no child, and you are no nursemaid.” 

He reared back as though she had struck him, and it granted her the opportunity to steal back the pitcher. Clutching it to her chest, she swiveled around to go back to the counter, but Ceolmund was already a few paces away. 

“Lady Ravna,” he greeted, walking to meet her where she stood. “I’m off now. Would you like me to accompany you on your way?” 

Blood rushed to her face, pooling in her cheeks. A bit carelessly, she tossed the pitcher aside and nodded. 

“That would do,” she said. 

He grinned quite charmingly and offered her his arm. 

“Oi!” Finan interrupted. “What’s this about?” 

“Ceolmund is accompanying me on my way so I do not need to walk alone in the dark,” Ravna said, cocking her head to the side. “Do you find that unacceptable, Finan?” 

Osferth was hiding a grin behind his hands and very pointedly looking away from Finan. Finan, however, seemed downright perplexed and his face was turning a bit red; dark eyes obscured by the scrunch of his eyebrows. When he did not respond, Ravna turned back to Ceolmund, victorious, and took his arm. 

“So, will you tell me now what it is that you’re bringing me to?” 

“Revelry,” Ceolmund said simply. 

And revelry indeed it was. With a large fire going and bodies milling about, Ravna thought back to the many festivities held over the years at Dunholm in honor of the gods. While these were Christians around her, they were not so different. 

“We drink mead instead of ale here,” Ceolmund said. “Beatrice makes it with the honey from her father’s bees.” 

Ravna nodded, amazed by the sight before her. In her years of living in Coccham, how had she been so vastly unaware of this happening every month? Since she mostly kept to herself, there were a great many people she realized she did not know as unfamiliar faces swam past her. Even Beatrice, who Ceolmund was still talking about, Ravna did not know. She felt bad for it, as clearly everyone knew who she was. 

“Lady Ravna!” 

Sybil, the blacksmith’s daughter, ran over with a wild grin on her face, a crown of flowers askew on her head. Of the people in the village, Sybil was perhaps one of the only people outside of Ravna’s family that she would consider a friend. Even then, she was unsure. 

“Sybil, I’ve said many times, you need not call me Lady,” Ravna said. She glanced at Ceolmund and bowed her head. “Nor do you, friend.” 

Sybil reached out and grabbed both of Ravna’s hands. “Well, Ravna, you must come join me for a dance!” 

Ravna did not even have the chance to respond before Sybil pulled her away from Ceolmund. Though there was no music, aside from three men who were hardly more than boys drunkenly singing, those who were dancing around the large bonfire seemed to have a tune in their minds. Giggling, Ravna twirled around Sybil as the two of them created their own tune. 

“I’m quite pleased you’re here!” Sybil said, swiping a mug from a young man’s hand and taking a deep sip. “You must join us more often.”

She offered out the mug and Ravna took it. The mead was delightful, far superior to any ale she ever had. It tasted of honey and fruit and spices; it tasted of the gods. 

“I would like that,” Ravna said, now used to the buzzing feeling the drink gave her. “It might be hard once my father returns.” 

“It is the same for the rest of us,” Sybil said. “Many of our fathers joined yours, and we do this with our freedom!” 

Sybil flung her arms out and spun around freely. It amazed Ravna. The looseness, the recklessness, the carelessness. It was all she ever wanted to be. She drank until she was stumbling over her own feet, but Ravna was unsure if she could say she ever had such fun. 

Ceolmund found her some time later, just as drunk as she was. 

“Lady!” he said, all too loudly. “Would you like to take a walk with me?” 

On the very far depths of the horizon, Ravna could see the beginnings of sunrise, lightening the dark sky above. 

“Perhaps you could walk me back to town,” she said. 

“Of course, Lady.”

She rolled her eyes. “Ceolmund, please, I wish for you to only call me Ravna.” 

They walked hand-in-hand, tripping over one another, their own feet, and tree roots alike. The village center was deserted entirely by the time they finally found their way back. For some reason unknown to her, Ravna was giggling loudly and constantly. Ceolmund did not seem to mind, however, and instead grinned at her with that crooked smile of his. She stopped to stare at him, and perhaps count the freckles on his face. There were a great many, and she was fascinated by them. 

“Ravna,” he whispered, “may I kiss you?” 

It was perhaps because no one had ever asked her that question before that she did say yes. Ceolmund was not the most experienced or skilled of kissers, but him asking her permission made it the best kiss of her life. She curled a hand around the back of his neck and clutched him close, letting her bodily knowledge take over. 

They stumbled back against a tree, his hands roaming all over her body and lips trailing down her neck. This, she thought, was what being young was for. She clutched his curls in hand while his fingers fumbled for the strings on her breeches. She giggled some more, but this time it came out as half a moan. 

“Ceolmund,” she whispered, tugging at the root of his hair. “We’re too exposed.” 

The mere fact that he paused and pulled away from her to look around almost made her want to drop to her knees and push all fears of being caught aside. But to do so, would be to act like a child. She wanted to be treated like the woman she was, so even in her drunken haze she knew she could not. Not right now, at least. 

“Yes.” He sighed, chest heaving. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Anyone could stumble upon us,” she reasoned. 

But, then, she kissed him again. She kissed him over and over and over again until the sky turned orange with sunrise. Drunkenness abating and replacing itself with a throbbing head, Ravna began to pull her hands from Ceolmund’s hair. 

“I should return home,” she mumbled against his lips. 

“That would be for the best,” he agreed, still kissing her. 

She dragged her teeth along his bottom lip and forced herself away. She did not look back at him as she walked home. If she did, it was likely her self restraint would fall apart, and she really needed to be home before Gisela awoke to tend to Stiorra, who always rose with the sun. 

Another week passed, and Ceolmund, who was not so interesting or smart as he seemed that night of the full moon, proved himself to be a kind young man who was undoubtedly fond of her and never tried to touch her more than she liked him to. (It was the kindest a man had ever treated her, so it surely meant something.) Unable to deny the fact that she liked it when he kissed her, even when she was not mind numbingly intoxicated, she found herself sneaking around to press her lips to his at any given opportunity— which naturally led to her pressed up against the back of the alehouse with his hands creeping up underneath her tunic. And that was when and how Finan found them. 

“Oi!” 

The brogue was undeniable, forcing them to separate at the sound of his voice alone. Lips wet and swollen, Ravna cursed quietly. Ceolmund looked as though he were about to shit his breeches. 

“What do ya’ think yer doing?” Finan barked, marching over to them and grabbing Ceolmund by the collar of his tunic.  

“Nothing,” Ceolmund said loudly. “We were doing nothing!”

“That’s your lord’s daughter, boy,” Finan said.

“Y-yes, I— I know.” 

Ravna groaned. She was well aware of her father’s orders to Finan to keep her safe and make sure she was well, but this was absurd. 

“Finan,” she said, wrenching his hand away from Ceolmund, “let him go!” 

When his fingers released the fabric, Ceolmund stumbled backwards and then began to run. She rolled her eyes and rounded on Finan. 

“What is wrong with you?” she screamed, flinging her hands into the air. “He was doing nothing wrong!”

“Oh, he was doing plenty wrong, lady,” Finan said. 

“How is what he was doing any different from what you do to the women in the tavern?” 

He stared at her in shock, but she was not finished. 

“And how is what I was doing any different from what those women do to you? I am a woman, Finan, not a girl! I know very well what that was. I am not stupid, nor am I the naive child everyone believes me to be!” 

Seething, she stomped in the opposite direction Ceolmund ran. She needed to be far away from everyone, Finan especially. How dare he embarrass her like that? Who did he think he was? Her hands shook in her anger, vision blurring at the edges. She was unsure whether she wanted to scream or sob more, so she would go into the woods and do both. She would beat her knuckles bloody on the tree bark if she desired. 

Her fury remained. She stood at the riverside, throwing rocks as far as she could to force it to leave her. A twig snapped behind her and then there was the telltale rustle of leaves. She gritted her teeth and let out a groaning shout as she threw another rock. She would not acknowledge him. She refused. He would have to come to her and force himself into her line of sight. 

“I apologize, ceann bheag. I should not have grabbed the boy like that.”

How she hated that nickname now. Less than a month ago, she found it sweet. Little one. Now, she knew what it meant. She was a small child, and always would be. Tears of anger and resentment flooded her eyes, stinging in the wind as she tried to hold them back. She sniffed and sat down on the embankment, knees pulled to her chest. She closed her eyes as she heard Finan move closer and sit down beside her. 

“You’ve barely spoken to me since your father left, ya’ know,” Finan said. 

Ravna pursed her lips. 

“And I don’ know why,” he continued. “Seems like ya’ will talk to anyone an’ everyone but me.” 

Anger getting the best of her, she snapped, “I heard you, you idiot!” 

Her cheeks were wet, the tears finally having spilled out. A deep crease appeared between Finan’s eyebrows.

“The day before my father left, I heard what you said to him,” Ravna elaborated. “And you were right, Finan. I do not take kindly to it.” She swiped at her face and sniffled loudly. “I do apologize for being such a burden when I was foolish enough to believe we were friends.” 

He swore in a low voice, more a grumble than words, and ran a hand over his beard. She watched him from the corner of her eye, wanting to turn to him but wanting to be steadfast more.

“Ravna,” he said quietly, softly. “Ya’ never should’ve heard that.” 

“And yet,” she muttered, a bitter and sour taste in her mouth. 

“I do not think ya’ to be a burden.” His voice was gentle and slow, as though he were trying to find his footing. 

“What do you think of me, then?” she asked, finally turning to look at him fully with blazing eyes. “Because I do not think you see a woman.”

“Well, I don’ see a man!” 

She rolled her eyes, curbing the urge to kick him. 

“You know quite well that is not what I meant!” 

She shot up and moved to stomp away, but got up just as fast and grabbed her arm to stop her from walking away. His hand had a tight grip on her, just above the crook of her elbow. 

“What ya’ need to understand is, on the ship all your father talked about was his little girl who had been taken from him.” 

She was not proud of the manner in which she gasped— both at his touch and the subject of the slave ship being raised. Neither he nor her father ever spoke of their time enslaved, and she could not blame them. How often did she discuss her time at Dunholm, after all? 

“And that’s what ya’ were when I met ya’!” 

“But I am no longer a child!” she exclaimed. 

“No,” he agreed solemnly. “Yer a woman, to be sure, and ya’ have been since the time ya’ stepped foot in Coccham.” 

“Then why do you all continue to treat me as one?” She glared up at him, furious. “You likened yourself to a nursemaid and begged my father to change his mind. If you are so unhappy here, I grant you leave to join my father. Go! If you wish it, go, and I will hold no anger in my heart.”

“Lady,” he said, “I would not do that.”

“Why? Because my father asked you to?”

“Because I care about ya’!”

She watched as his eyes crinkled at the corners and his hand not holding her arm lifted, perhaps of its own accord judging by the shock in his eyes, to take hold of her face. The calluses on his palms, made from years of training with swords and pulling oars, were rough against her cheek, but she was too preoccupied by her surprise at the sudden touch to care. 

“You’re not just Uhtred’s daughter. You’re far more than that.” 

His hand slipped past her cheek to cradle the back of her head, and then he pulled her into a tight hug. Sniffling once more, she tucked her face into his chest and slipped her arms around his torso. After a moment, she pulled her arms away and took a large step backwards with a burning face. She really ought not to have allowed herself to step so close. It was inappropriate. 

“I am glad you see me as I am,” she said quietly. 

Above their heads, a cloud shifted and sent a bright beam of light directly upon Finan’s head. It illuminated him in a brilliant shade of gold, and she needed to look away from how bright he was, lest she do or say something absurd.    

[writervaul-t]

The Ruined and its Damned

Summary: The mysterious death of certain individuals causes a Rose and her family's safety on the line. Desperate for answers, Rose must work with a group of warriors within Rumcofa to prevent her family from meeting an early death. The only problem: their presence was never made known to the settlement so now they must not only understand the reasoning behind the deaths but to also gain the trust of the suspicious settlers, specifically the newly placed Uhtred and his group of warriors sent to protect Rumcofa from any oncoming threats.

Pairing: Osferth x OC

Warning: Non-canon, spoilers if you’re not caught up to s5, blood and wounds, lots of fighting

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Chapter Two: Godless Heathens

- OSFERTH -

Of all his years being part of Uhtred’s party, Osferth was quite used to being pulled out of slumber in the dead of night for whatever reason. He did his best to fight off sleep as he stood in the hall, eyes glazing over to his companions, who were also most likely pulled out of sleep from the way Sihtric leaned against a pillar and from Finan rubbing at his eyes.

Uhtred and Aethelstan, the latter of which had been the one in charge of manning the night’s watch, were the only ones wide awake, eyes alert. “A body has been found. Again.” Was all Uhtred announced. “Just outside the village entrance. His body was burned to the point of no return so no one knows who he is. Heavy cuts were all over his body, like he was tortured.”

“Just like last time.” Osferth muttered to no in particular, but it was heard nonetheless from the way Uhtred shot him a glance and offered a nod in confirmation.

“Just like last time.” Was all that was echoed. “He’s been buried already.”

Osferth only nodded at the notion, signing a cross silently out of respect but also in selfish relief. The last time he had seen a body similar to that condition, he nearly vomited out all the ale he had consumed that day. The day had been unfortunately etched into his memory. The snow hadn’t fallen, but the ground was cold. A day he expected to be no different than before had been interrupted when a child’s scream was heard past the borders.

Everyone, especially Uhtred and his men, ran immediately to the sound, only to find what seemed to be the remains of a man laying on the dirt, strewn about as if he had been tossed to the ground haphazardly. Osferth and Cynleaf had been the ones to bury the first man, but found it difficult to bury him in such conditions. As mentioned, the ground had been cold.

The dead man had put everyone on edge; mothers making sure their children never wandered far and when it was time to go to sleep, nearly everyone had been locked into their home. The only ones brave enough to stay up and out in the middle of the night were men who couldn’t sleep without ale or Uhtred’s men (though, Osferth could argue that it didn’t make much of a difference).

Uhtred ordered a select few of men to scout the areas, most of them finding nothing before he had decided to make a small party of men, saying larger groups should try and find something. All that was found was a pathetic excuse of a dirt trail that had not been seen by anyone, just far enough from Rumcofa for anyone to notice. They followed the trail for half the day, only going back to the village after Uhtred had said there was no use of wasting good men to hunt for something that might not even be there.

Days had since passed from their first party scouting and Osferth had a sense of innocent hope that nothing else was to come of this incident anymore. How naive that was of him to think, watching as the great hall in Rumcofa was near dead silent, despite it being consistent of the loudest men he has ever made an acquaintance with. 

“What do you want us to do?” Finan finally asked.

“Secure the area. See if anyone knows anything else.” Uhtred commands, grabbing his riding gear. A look of contemplation was evident on his face, clearly something else on his mind. “Come back here when the sun breaks; another search party. We can’t waste time.”

Everyone nodded, turning toward the door. The only ones who stayed were Finan, Sihtric, and Osferth, who seemed to have sensed something in the way Uhtred stared off into the distance. Once it felt as if the room was cleared, Uhtred turned to the three men, ready to speak his mind.

“That girl and her brother. They might be in on this.” Uhtred admits, holding his hand out to show a familiar bead in his hand. Osferth frowned, narrowing his eyes on the symbol, which had a tree inscribed on it. “This was found in the man’s beard. The same one I saw in the girl’s hair when we met them.”

The notion made Osferth frown even more, but didn’t question it. His mind drifted to that moment, when the girl pulled her hood down, to her long black hair. She did have beads in her hair and he hadn’t seen anything like them; encrusted in gold instead of the usual silver he sees and no doubt a valuable item to have. So why was it found on a dead man? An unsettling churn was finding itself in his stomach as he examined the bead between his fingers.

Passing it along to Finan and Sihtric, he looked at Uhtred. “What do you need us to do?” He asked, ready to follow whatever it was Uhtred had to say. 

“I need you and Finan to check the trails where we met the girl and her brother. See if there’s something from the trail that could possibly lead to the man. Stay hidden as best as possible..” Uhtred commands, pausing for a moment, lips set in a tight line before turning his attention on Osferth. “You spoke to the girl the longest, almost even got a reaction out of her. If you find her, do your best to keep a distance from her, baby monk.”

Osferth felt as if his mouth had been sewn shut at the warning, embarrassment flooding through him as he only offered a nod of understanding, the implication behind Uhtred’s words as clear as day. He was used to it by now, the jesting and teasing of his disposition around women from his companions after all these years. For some reason, he felt like the young monk that had just left the monastery once again as he watched Finan and Sihtric send him a teasing look.

He only let out an annoyed sigh, making sure to send a harmless punch at Finan’s shoulder, his eyes narrowing for him to not say anything anymore as they made their way to the stables.

- ROSE -

“Nice to see you here.” Rose calls, making the figure several feet ahead of her nearly jump from his spot. The man heaved a great sigh, giving the girl an irritated glance while she supplied an amused one as she trudged through the snow.

“Scared me half to death, Rosemonde.” The man said sternly as the girl stood beside him.

“Do you ever venture outside those walls nowadays, Father Ricard?” Rose asks. “You were never this afraid before the settlement was built. Rumcofa’s made you soft.”

“Rumcofa’s made me realise there's a lot more dangers to fear than what I initially thought.” The priest counters, lip stiffening as he glanced back at what was in front of them. “I still would like to come see my sister, however. That, I am more than willing to leave the settlement for.”

Rose offered a sullen smile, glancing at the tombstone in front of them. “I'm sure my mother enjoys your company.”

“Do you enjoy my presence, Rosemonde?”

“I do, uncle.”

“But not as much to visit me at Rumcofa.”

At those words, Rose bristles. She opts to stay silent, looking at the wooden cross staked into the ground, her eyes focused on the carvings she made last year; a mix of Christian symbols and Danish runes littered the cross, most for protection for her mother’s journey to Heaven and a few prayers that essentially begged God to allow such a woman in to the gates.

If she had to beg God to let her mother into Heaven, then what of Rose? Her mother didn't have to do what she did. Would there even be a place for her in Heaven? She would most definitely not find herself in Odin’s hall, either. At this point, the reminder of having a lack of possible salvation made her send her uncle a look of lost hope.

“I do not believe I will be happily accepted into your home.” She responds, matter-of-fact. “Last I remember, Friar Timult practically damned us to your Hell when I accidentally pushed over the offering candles.”

Ricard sighed. “You were eleven and Friar Timult is, and pardon my language, as tight as the devil’s arse about procedures done at the church.”

Rose smiled. “Nearly passed a decade and I still hear from Saewin that he warns townspeople about ‘godless heathens’ outside the gates.” She watched as her uncle’s lips set to a harder line. His eyes, so similar to her mother’s, become foggy at the mention of godless heathens.

She raised an eyebrow. “What news has come now?”

“Vragi. He was found dead just this morning.” Ricard says, staring at the wooden cross solemnly before casting a glance at Rose. “They're suspecting a couple of godless heathens had done it.”

The implication was as subtle as a knife to the throat. A sense of worry had her mind running all the possibilities of what could come over her. Worry laid over Rose, her stomach lurching as she processed the information. 

She had just seen Vragi, the old man, stopping by her family’s home almost a week ago, asking to be lent some gold to buy more feed for their shared cattle. Rose had given one of her hair beads to him, a joke about giving more feed for her family surfacing in the midst of drinks being passed around that night before he bid them goodnight.

She had only assumed he travelled far, not being able to return for the next few weeks due to the amount of feed he would have had to buy. The last thing she expected was for him to turn up dead. Her mind thought back to him, committing to memory his kindness and how beloved by their small community. His wife must still be waiting for him, she thinks to herself, letting out a sigh as she realized that she would be the one who has to break the news to her family to signal warnings to the others.

Rose shakes her head, unsure how to continue as she feels Ricard look at her expectantly.

“These godless heathens they’re mentioning…” Rose implies, Saewin crossing her mind. He had been the one always willing to venture into Rumcofa while her and Jehan stood near the settlement instead. If they had seen him then he would have to stay inside the home for a while.

“Mainly town gossip,” Father Ricard reassures. “Sounds like they’re just saying it to warn their children to not walk past settlement boundaries.”

“But they’re still talking about godless heathens…” Rose trails off, making her uncle nod. “That’s not good for us. Surely, some believe it?”

“A few months ago, a man was found the same way Vragi was. It left the town shaken and wanting answers. Talks around the town were saying they spotted someone dressed like a Dane just outside the walls; they were quick to settle on that suspicion and continue to believe it.” Ricard explained, looking at Rose’s wool and fur lined shawl peeking beneath her cloak.

Silence settled over them, the young girl finding her mother’s grave more interesting than whatever she just heard for a while, savouring the milliseconds of blissful ignorance before speaking once more. “My family is not safe.” She denounces, an alertness finding itself in her once more as she looks around, panicked.

“The warriors posted around the settlement are starting to believe it. They’ve been coming around the trail you and your brothers frequent. People have been restricted from leaving recently as well. I only managed to leave after the day's break.” He explains, confirming Rose’s concerns. “I cannot stay here for too long, but I just wished for you to know.”

Rose nodded. “Thank you, uncle. You must have travelled here against your own safety so I’ll make sure to let my brothers know.”

The man raised his hand to smooth out the unruly curls that escaped from her hood. “My niece, the diplomat.” He mentioned, laughing when Rose rolled her eyes as she whispered something about diplomats not hiding blades in their sleeves. “I must leave. I’ll make sure you have your alone time with Melissande.”

He walked away, leaving Rose and her mother alone, the wind carrying any sense of voice Rose had previously. She lifted a hand to brush off the piles of snow settled on the cross, a whisper of a prayer leaving her lips as she continued to clean the area around her, the snow being pushed aside until the ground beneath the sheet of white was finally revealed.

She sat down after a hushed Amen. Her mouth opened, words never finding itself settling on her lips as she examined her mother’s grave. Rose couldn't remember a time where she spoke to her mother; her voice was as lost as she is whenever she tried to conjure the will to speak.

Instead, she wiped her cross and grave so it can see the sky better and offered a prayer—Christian or pagan, whichever one suited the day—before trekking back home. Today was no different, though Rose made sure to add extra carefulness to her prayers as her uncle’s words repeated itself in her head.

“Saewin.” Rose calls out, the earth and snow almost silencing her already soft call. “Saewin, I know you are there.”

She spun around, glaring at the treeline her brother was most definitely hiding behind. Narrowing her eyes, she glared at the farther end of the trees, her vision failing to distinguish if the movement nearby was a person or a large branch.

Faintly, she was sure she saw brown cloth tugging against the trunk of a tree she was focused on. Taking a step forward, she leaned closer as she did her best to focus better on it.

“Are you just going to watch the trees all day?” Saewin’s voice cuts through from behind, making Rose jump. 

She hadn’t given herself a second to think as her hands automatically signalled for the blades hidden in her wrists to release itself, only stopping herself from pressing the knife against Saewin after recognizing a familiar set of gold-brown eyes.

“Idiot.” She snaps at him, retracting her blade and punching his bony shoulder. “I could have killed you, Saewin.”

“What were you looking at?” Her brother asks, ignoring Rose’s chastising glance over her shoulder. Rose turned back, looking back at the treeline, narrowing at the empty space. “Rose?”

She only shook her head in response, unsure if her eyes were playing tricks on her. “How much did you hear?” She asks him, watching him glaze his fingers over the cross in front of them.

“Everything.” He admits, offering a concerned glance back at her as he walks past her. “I’m assuming we should have our honoured guest released?”

“No. If Vragi is dead, then he really does know something and we need to pry that out of him.” Rose says, manoeuvring around the trees carefully as they try to make their way back to the beaten path back home. “Has he said anything about why he was near the borders?”

Saewin gave a disappointed grunt. “Only a few things. Said he was just out hunting for—”

“Blood Month, right.” Rose said with an eye roll, remembering Jehan’s words from a few weeks ago. The man had most definitely not been out hunting, Rose recalling the man hadn’t had any gloves—a small detail to note, but an important one nonetheless if someone was going to practise hunting for hours for an important event like Blood Month. “What else?”

“He said he’s one of the warriors at Rumcofa.” Saewin says, making Rose nearly whip her head around at him. They stared at one another, their uncle’s warning fresh in their minds.

The sudden crunch in the snow caught both siblings’ attention. Rose reached for her blades behind her. From the corner of her eyes, she spotted Saewin reaching for the axes strapped to his hips, though she kept her eyes forward, staring at the treeline she had looked at earlier.

“Rose—” Saewin started, ready to tug at her hands as she crept closer to the trees, squinting in the darkness ahead. Within moments, the snap of a twig caused both siblings to nearly jump out of their skin.

Without a second thought, Rose found herself shoving her brother forward, screaming, “Run. RUN!”

Rose felt like her heart had dropped to her chest as she darted around the trees, only keeping focus on Saewin’s back and the hurried steps just behind her. Faintly, she could hear someone calling for them to stop. Rose could only hear the blood rushing to her ears as the calls continued, adrenaline and fear overshadowing anything else she had to process.

Her body felt like it wasn’t her own. Weaving around the countless trees in the snowy woods was something she was familiar with, though the countless times she had been running this course, it was her laughing as her brothers chased after her. If she wasn’t attempting to save her own life, she would have found this situation more amusing that she was doing the same thing but for different purposes.

“Stop!” A voice called out, the sharpness to it unfamiliar to Rose as she darted around a mass of trees in an attempt to slow them down. Her ears perched as she heard the voice yell something to someone else and fading footsteps.

There’s more than one person, but how many? Rose thought as her eyes darted around where she could see, trying her best to spot any suspecting shadows or people manoeuvring around from beside them.

A grunt from Saewin made Rose pause completely, turning to see his foot catch onto a branch, flinching as his chin brushed harshly against a stone. Quickly, she grabbed his arm, giving him a once over (his chin had been completely red, though she was sure it was just a deep cut) before helping him on his feet to keep him running. A set of footsteps approached them and Rose found herself reaching behind for her daggers with one hand, the other grasping her brother’s arm tightly.

She pushed herself in front of Saewin, blade pressed against the side of her arm as she watched a growing shadow come forward in the clearing they were at. Rose grit her teeth as she felt Saewin press against her. “Do not approach.” Rose snapped, making the shadow pause at the sound of her voice.

“We just need to talk, lady.” The shadow calls out, this one familiar to her. “You mentioned the dead bodies—”

“We know nothing.” Rose counters. “We only heard about them.”

“You said one of the men’s names.” The voice says. “We hadn’t even known about his name. Not to mention, you apparently have one of our men.”

“Christ, how much did he hear?” Saewin whispers into Rose’s ear, who only shook her head as she backed them away when the man slowly exited from the shadows, a weathered brown tunic familiarising itself to her.

The warrior monk was much taller than Rose had anticipated, the man nearly towering over Rose and her brother as he held his hands up to her when he spied her blade. “I only need to ask questions.”

“Like hell.” Rose quips again, pointing her blade forward to the monk. “You’ll have us killed.”

“I promise I will not.” The man responds, keeping his hands up and motioning to his sheathed sword. “My sword is away, as you can see, yes? My hands are also up. Let us—”

Whatever words he had yet to say were quickly silenced by Saewin, who had been constantly whipping his head from side to side, as he swung his axe behind him, the metal of the blade offering a shrap clink! as it collided with another man’s blade. She recognized him as the one who stood beside the warrior monk all those weeks ago. She also remembered how ready he was to draw his sword if Jehan were to say something suspicious during their conversation.

Saewin’s actions alone made Rose move as well, pulling out her second dagger from behind to swing at the warrior monk, who dodged her swipes. From behind, the sharp smacking of swords could be heard, though it was faint to Rose as she kept a heavy gaze on the warrior monk, waiting for his next move as he withdrew his sword.

“I only wish to speak!” He repeats, bringing his sword up to block a dagger, quickly manoeuvring away when Rose brings her other one up to aim at an opening he left.

A curse nearly spits out of Rose as she motions toward the fighting men behind them. “Your friend didn’t seem to think the same way.” She responds before turning and throwing one of her daggers toward the short haired brunette still fighting Saewin. She watched as the edge of the knife caught against his sword, almost ready to strike down against Saewin if she waited any longer to throw her dagger at him.

“Christ—” The brunette curses, the sudden movement nearly causing him to tip over before dodging another one of Saewin’s swings.

“Wait!” The warrior monk starts, ready to grab her arm but was stopped when Rose ducked under his arms. The blade remaining on her other hand found its way to his throat, seemingly seizing the fight at the notion of someone’s life could be finished with just a swipe. Regardless if a blade is placed on him, the monk held Rose’s murderous gaze. Faintly, she could feel Saewin press his back against her’s, most likely having his axe pointed at the brunette.

“Lady, please—” The monk starts.

“No. You do not speak with my blade to your throat.” She snaps, not taking her eyes off him as she nudged her brother’s foot, her voice switching to their father’s Norwegian tongue. “Take my blade and go.”

Saewin snaps his head at her. “What—?”

“Take my blade and give it to Father.” Rose instructs again, using both men’s confusion to her advantage.

“Rose—” Saewin says, but stops when Rose shoves him away from the men, sending him a hardened glare as she swipes at Saewin’s opponent with the blade hidden under her sleeve.

“How many knives you got you?” The man snaps, hissing when the edge catches his arm.

“Run!” Rose snaps at Saewin, swiping her larger dagger at the monk, knicking him slightly on the neck and cheek when he hadn’t moved fast enough.

“Hold her down.” The brunette snaps, voice sharper now that she had struck both of them. There seemed to be an unspoken conversation going on between the two, much like how Rose had with her brothers, as there was a pause between the two of them when the shorter man gave the order. “Osferth, hold her down!”

What sounded like a groan mixed with a struggling sigh escaped the monk as he grasped Rose by her arms tightly. She was sure she felt her shoulder connect to his collarbone from the hiss of pain when tried to swing herself away from his grasp, trying to see if Saewin had managed to run off yet.

She was sure she saw a flit of his cloak brush past a tree, far away from where they are, making her feel better a little as she felt something hard hit the back of her head, sending her into a void of darkness.

previous chapter | next chapter | masterlist

tags:

@mischiefmanaged71

[helaelaemond]

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.

[assortedseaglass]

We Have This Hope - II

Osferth x Lady-in-Waiting

[Masterlist]

Summary: Aefry heard much talk about young monk who 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.

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

In the days that followed Aethelflaed’s return, the city was awash with chatter about the rag-tag troupe of warrior men. Many had only heard tales of the men, of their leader’s clashes with the King, and of the brash Gael and stoic Dane that accompanied him wherever he went. Of the young monk that appeared at Aethelflaed’s door, however, Aefry knew nothing more than when they had first met. 

Indeed, such was the relief that Aethelflaed had returned, talk of Uhtred’s newest recruit, and his status as the King’s bastard, had dwindled from a simmer to little more than a stir. It wasn’t until a trip to the market, a day or so later, that Aefry heard mention of his name.

Since her return, Aethelflaed had spent much time in the company of her mother, and so Aefry and the other ladies were needed only when the King, Lady Aelswith or Aethelred were otherwise engaged. Saeflaed used her free days to visit her family. Adburh, whose own family lived in the very south of Wessex, spent her time at the market searching for threads and fabric fresh from the monastery. Aefry, with no family of her own, more often than not spent it in the meadows surrounding the castle, or else in a cabinet that Aethelflaed assured her no-one would use. This day however, Adburh insisted she didn’t want to be alone and so Aefry followed her into the stalls of the market.

It was full of the usual traders. Women selling dried herbs and woollen shawls, men flogging simple woodwork and crops. Adburh was her usual serious self, though Aefry was content to spend the day with her.

Many misunderstood her friend. Though she was only a few years older than Aefry and Saeflaed, Adburh had seen much in those years. Her hometown succumbed to fire, not by raiders but by mistake; the drunken keeper of the inn neglected the hearth and his fire spread from home to home, killing himself and many other, including Adburh’s father who slept in a drunken stupor. Homeless, she and her mother were taken into the care of a local abbey. Appalled by men’s idleness, the innkeeper’s and her husband’s, Adburh’s mother took the veil and committed herself to a life of religious servitude. Adburh, though her attitude suited it, was not inclined to become a nun like her mother. No, she spent her time sneaking from the abbey grounds to speak to those of the town, learning all she could from everyone she could. Sensing her daughter’s desire for education and worried about her continuing escapades, Adburh’s mother spoke to the abbess. Soon, they were Wintancaester bound, answering Lady Aelswith’s request for young women to attend her daughter.

Aefry wouldn’t forget the dark stare the red-headed Adburh gave her when they each entered the hall in turn before the King and his lady wife. Nor would she forget the way Adburh gripped her hand tightly when their guardians left them in the charge of the royal household.

Whereas Aefry had spent her time in the convent’s care reading or exploring the land surrounding Wintancaester, in the south, Adburh had learnt to weave. She arrived at court with few possessions, her makeshift loom and best needlework her pride and joy. Aefry watched her friend inspect the fabric from the monastery, a great fondness keeping her warm on the crisp morning.

“You have something in mind, Adburh?” Aefry watched her run her hands along some sheep’s wool.

“A cowl, perhaps. Or some hose.”

Aefry made a gentle noise of understanding and raised her eyebrows. “A cowl? With this wool?” She picked up the dark grey material. “Has the one you made last year perished? Or is it in fact for a dashing Dane-”

Adburh whipped around and covered Aefry’s mouth. “You saw what he wears. Winter approaches and he wears leathers with no sleeves and no scarf, cloak of fur to speak of.”

Aefry took Adburh’s hand from her mouth and held it. “I shan’t tell.”

“And not Saeflaed,”

“Certainly not Saeflaed,”  

Though Aefry was the youngest of Aethelflaed’s ladies, you would be mistaken in thinking it was Saeflaed. A golden-haired child of spring, buxom and bonny, she was admired wherever she went. That she too admired the men adoring her was not a point spoken amongst the friends and their lady, but was the source of great enjoyment and furtive glances between each.

It was not only Saeflaed’s womanly figure that delighted all, but her bright manner. Any room was illuminated by her smile, her countenance was warm, and she spoke freely and gaily to all. Where Adburh was serious, Saeflaed was merry. Adburh was studious, Saeflaed was flighty. Aefry wondered for a moment where that left her. A middling mixture of neither here nor there. Plain, she supposed.

Adburh suddenly gripped her arm. “Not a word, Aefry!”

“I told you I wouldn’t, Adbu-”

A golden mass of hair appeared between the two of them. “What have you there, Adburh?”

Adburh froze, for behind Saeflaed were Uhtred’s two right-hand men. The Gael and the Dane. Aefry raised herself on tiptoe, looking around the pair to see if the youngest of their party had joined them. Seeing that the monk was absent, she stilled, shame flushing her cheeks.

Adburh hastily stashed the wool in her basket and held it behind her back. Thankful of a distraction, Aefry took a step closer to her and took the basket from her hands.

“Wool,” she stated simply. “My winter shawl is tattered beyond fixing, and our mistress’s mother would have many an unkind word if she saw its state. Adburh kindly offered to make me a new one. Her skills are far greater than mine,” she added with a smile to the two men.

“You could make something for our boy,” the Gael said to Adburh, slapping the Dane on the back. He said nothing, yet the corners of his mouth twitching a little as he looked at the women. “Lord knows this will not help come Winterfylleth.” Sihtric shoved him.

“Y-y-yes.” Adburh nodded, her eyes wide as the Dane stared down at her.

“Aefry, Adburh,” Saeflaed stepped forward. “This is Finan and Sihtric.” Adburh curtsied a little awkwardly and Aefry held out her hand. Both men took it, Finan the Gael kissing it, Sihtric covering it with his own.

“Your reputations precede you, my lords.” Aefry smile gently. As Finan laughed, Aefry shuffled closer to Saeflaed. “And how did you come by these men?”

Saeflaed batted her beautiful eyelashes at Aefry. “I may have passed the tavern on my way home from father’s.”

“What a blessing,” Aefry whispered and Saeflaed giggled. Adburh’s eyes still lingered on Sihtric, though it seemed the Dane was either used to this or had not noticed. The three women turned back to the two men and Aefry found her voice again.

“Where is your companion? The monk?”

At that, Sihtric’s bicoloured eyes fell upon her. So too, did Adburh and Saeflaed’s. She swallowed, unnerved by the slightest degree. “You know Osferth?” The Dane said.

“No,” Aefry’s voice fell quiet, thinking fast so as not to expose the monk’s, nor Aethelflaed’s, secret. So as not to expose the King’s shame. “As I said, your reputations precede you.”

“The monk has been with us for all of five minutes and he already has a reputation to match ours,” Finan muttered.

“It was our Lady, actually, who told me,” Aefry was overwhelmed with the urge to defend the monk. To tell everyone what he had done. “That he was the one who killed Sigefrid.”

Adburh and Saeflaed gasped. “’Tis true,” Finan said. “Flung himself on the bastard’s back, forgive me, and drove his sword through his spine.”

Adburh gasped once again. Saeflaed took a step closer to Finan and held onto his arm, feigning faintness. Aefry, however, stared between them.

“How awful,” she whispered. “And-and-and where is he?”

“The chapel,” Sihtric said. “Every day since, he prays.”

“Poor lamb,” murmured Saeflaed, still clinging on to Finan’s arm.

“I know Uhtred has us teaching the monk,” Finan whispered to Sihtric, looking at the three worried women before them. “But perhaps he could teach us something?” The pair guffawed.

For the rest of that day, and the next, Aefry looked in every chapel and church she could find.

Hurrying at first light to the keep’s chapel, she ducked her head past the great oak door to discover Father Beocca deep in conversation with the King. She curtsied, excused herself from the chapel and made her way to Lady Aelswith’s private sanctum. Aefry highly doubted she would find the monk there, but her curiosity still carried her feet to the private chapel. She was right.

Lady Aelswith was knelt at the small altar. She turned her head slowly as Aefry entered the dark room but said nothing.

“Forgive me, my Lady,” Aefry whispered, bowing her head. “I-I was looking for my mistress.”

“She is with her husband.” Aelswith said simply, turning back to the altar.

In the public chapel by the keep’s gates, only a few priests sat in prayer. Each old and greying, Aefry moved on. She even walked so far as Icene Abbey to discover Osferth’s whereabouts.

There, she searched every dark corner and pew. By the tabernacle and the apse. She even asked the abbot. At the mention of the monk’s name, the abbot’s face darkened.

“That young man abandoned his faith, and his benefactor’s wishes, to go galivanting with a heathen. You will not find him here.”

“I do not think he has abandoned his fai-”

“You will not find him here.” The abbot said again, and the conversation was at an end. Weary and defeated, Aefry trudged on tired feet back to Wintancaester, the sky turning from vein blue to flame orange. Uhtred, Finan and Sihtric were frequently seen about the city and the keep. If I wait, just a few more days, Aefry thought, perhaps he shall appear.  

Sunnandaeg. In the public chapel a few days later, members of the King’s household made a small congregation, seated by rank from the farthest pew to the first. Everyone from servants to council members gathered in the chapel, waiting for mass to begin as the King and his family processed towards the altar.

Aefry watched Aethelflaed, her arm draped over that of her husband, glide towards her seat. Ever the image of regal duty despite her tired eyes. The congregation bowed to her mistress, some with kindness, some with pity and, as Aefry watched the royal family pass her by, her eyes fell to the man stood at the back of the chapel, eyes downcast but still standing a head above everyone else.

A thrill shot up her spine and every hair stood to excited attention.

At first, she thought he was attempting to make himself smaller to avoid the King. It was when Father Beocca began the service by invoking the cross, however, that she saw he was already in prayer, for he was the first to kneel and the first to murmur under his breath. He was alone, the rest of Uhtred’s men notably absent, and Aefry forgot her own prayers to watch him a peaceful moment.

Saeflaed, beside her, glanced at Aefry. Usually so devout, she was staring at the back of the chapel, the mass entirely forgotten. She followed her friend’s gaze and saw the strange young monk she had been so interested in the few days previous. He killed Sigefrid? Well, each to their own, and Saeflaed did not begrudge Aefry a crush. Indeed, it thrilled her to have something to tease her over. She glanced around the monk. Finan was nowhere to be seen and, with slight sadness, Saeflaed faced the altar once more.

Something bumped Aefry’s shoulder. Saeflaed, a small smirk on her rosebud lips. Aefry turned back to Father Beocca. She tried to follow the service, bowing her head when Beocca instructed and kneeling when the others knelt, but her mind was not on the Lord. No, it was on the lonely warrior monk five pews behind.

“Mass has ended, go in peace.” Father Beocca had barely finished speaking before the King turned to leave the chapel. Naturally, his mood in the days following Aethelflaed’s return had been stony, and many an hour had been spent locked in discussion with his council, to which he was no doubt returning. The congregation waited for the family to leave, and Aefry looked over her shoulder once more to watch the monk.

He was gone.

She cast her eyes desperately around, but they fooled her; many holy men of the congregation sported that ridiculous hair, but not one was her monk. Her monk. She shook herself and, with Adburh and Saeflaed, followed her mistress from the chapel.

The day was bright yet the air was damp and dewy. Rain would come before nightfall. She bade farewell to her companions and mistress, curtsied before the King and Lady Aelswith, and stepped into the morning. Like a fish through water, she moved amongst the crowd.

Priests were gathered around Father Beocca, discussing his sermon. She had thought to find him there, but she was wrong.

“Aefry?” Beocca stepped through the crowd of men. “You have not been at chapel as often of late. Are you well?” He took in her knitted eyebrows and agitated manner. The gentlewoman before him huffed a smile.

“Quite well, thank you, Father. I thought I saw someone at mass, an old friend, and am eager to find them. Excuse me,”

Onwards she went, past gossiping noble ladies, haggling merchants, and even Uhtred’s bonny-faced right hand man. Fingal? Was that his name? Still, she could not see the warrior monk and all hope of finding him faded. Jostled by commonfolk going about their daily business, Aefry turned to make her solemn way to the keep but halted where she stood. There! Towards the town stables, hands raised to avoid bumping into the crowds, that was definitely him.

“Sir,” she called out, gathering her skirts in her hands. “Sir! Please wait!”  She hurried as fast as she could, for ladies-in-waiting did not run and it would not do for such gossip to reach Lady Aelswith. Whether he ignored her intentionally or could not hear her over the din of the crowd, she did not know but pressed on regardless, thanking the Lord for his height as she kept him in her sight. A few more strides and she could reach out and touch him…

“Sir!” Breathless with the effort of her hurried steps to catch up with his strides, she reached out and clasped the edge of his cowl. “Sir-”

The man jolted and looked to his sleeve, his gaze following the delicate hand there to the lady’s face. An emotion she didn’t recognise glazed his eyes, but all the same, with a blush he smiled timidly. She dropped his sleeve.

“I’m sorry, Sir. I did call,”

“I’m not a ‘Sir’, I am-”

“‘Just Osferth’, yes.” Aefry smiled, then realised he may not recognise her, covered as she was by her Sunnandaeg veil. “We met the a few days past, when you came to my lady’s chamber?”

“Yes, yes,” the monk rasped and cleared his throat. After all he has done, she thought, and he is still shy. “Should you not be with her?”

“No, on the Lord’s Day we are left to do as we please.” She was desperate to speak with him. “My lady spends it with her mother.”

“I am glad to see she is well. Lady Aethelflaed, I mean-”

“Yes.” Neither said anything, and Just Osferth watched, torn between amusement and embarrassment, as the noble lady stood before him and directed her smile at him alone.

“Forgive me,” he said, his lips curving in one corner. “Was there some service you require of me, my Lady?”

It was Aefry’s turn to blush, and Just Osferth liked the sight of it beneath her veil. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I, um, I just wanted to say that she told me who you are, my Lady, and what you did.” She paused as the monk’s face fell. “That- that was very brave,” she finished with a whisper. The monk’s eyes fell to the ground and one hand brushed the cross at his chest.

“It didn’t feel very brave,” His voice was small, and Aefry found she wanted to see his smile again. She carried on in forceful tone. 

“To leave your life at the monastery, join the service of a famed warrior, despite the ridicule it may bring you, and then slay the brute Sigefrid? To me, that is brave.”

If Just Osferth had been pink before, at her words of praise he turned crimson. “Thank you, my Lady.” Again, they watched each other, this time in an awkward but pleasant silence. Something about this lady’s curiosity of him made the monk feel that emotion he found most elusive; pride.

“How long do you plan to stay in Wintanaester?” Aefry said, eyes alive and hopeful.

“As long as Lord Uhtred pleases.”

“Then,” Aefry’s smile was gentle as she spoke. “I hope it pleases him to stay a while.” And without another word, she bowed to the monk and departed.

He watched her go, her veil billowing against her tunic in the passing breeze, and people parting with good-natured smiles as she passed. A hand slapped him on the back.

“What’s the matter?” Compared to the lady’s, the Irishman’s brogue was like a carnyx. “Never had a pretty girl talk to you before?”

The monk swallowed, his eyes still on the retreating form of his sister’s lady-in-waiting. “I’ve certainly never had one bow to me.”

Notes: I think there will be two more parts before this goes beyond the end of Steadfast & Forever. Thanks for the love recently and I’m sorry if I haven’t replied to anyone – it’s been a bit bonkers.

Cabinet = a small study

Winterfylleth = October

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

[arcielee]

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.

previous | Chapter 5 | masterlist

[asa-do-your-thing]

An Eye for an Eye - 01

“The Rescue” 

Osferth x F! OC - 18+ MINORS DNI

Word Count: 1,4k

Warnings: Blood, Injury, Unconsciousness, allusion to violence / rape / kidnapping, angst

Chapter Summary: Osferth's patrol around Uhtred's camp takes an unexpected turn when he discovers the injured and feverish Aemma in a roadside ditch. Concerned for her well-being, Osferth brings her back to camp, where Uhtred identifies her as the young daughter of Coccham's alehouse owner. Determined to help her recover, Osferth, Finan, Uhtred, and Sihtric rally together to provide care and support.

Osferth had seen a lot of things in his days but nothing could have prepared him for the sight that lay before him. Peering down into the cold, muddy ditch he saw a young woman, not older than eight and ten years, cowering in the corner clutching her knees to her chest, all muddy and bloody. He couldn’t make out her face in the darkness but he could barely hear her whimpering from where he stood.

He scrambled down into the ditch and crouched beside her. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he could make out more details about her appearance; she was wearing a filthy dress with tattered edges and her waist long hair was knotted up atop her head. She was trembling as if someone had just shook her awake from a deep sleep and it looked like she hadn’t eaten in days. Osferth had no idea who this woman was or how she ended up here but there was something about her that made him stay put despite all the dangers outside their little camp.

She was barely conscious, her face filthy and her clothes travel-stained and tattered. Her body was frail and her breathing labored, indicating that she must have been feverish for a longer while. Under her breath, he heard fragments of sentences, "I... water... who? What was I doing here? What are you doing here?"

He gently leaned forward and touched her arm cautiously as if trying not to startle her. The woman flinched away at first then slowly raised her head to look at Osferth with huge, fearful eyes that brimmed with tears threatening to trickle down any moment now. Seeing this, Osferth felt pain twist inside of him like a thorny vine— something told him this poor soul had been through a lot of suffering in order for it to lead up to this very moment of desperation and despair. He brushed aside some stray strands of hair from eyes, so she could see properly.

"Who are you?", he asked. He got out a flask of water and brought it to her bloody, cracked lips. "Drink this, you must be parched from the heat and your fever. Where is your family? What happened?"

She greedily took long sips. It felt like it had been months since she last had something to drink. "I... I don't know... I can't remember... my back hurts a lot...," she mumbled though her fever. "Are... are you an angel? Since.. when.. are angels... so handsome?"

He chuckled, his voice full of worry. "As much as I'd love to be called an angel I'm just a mortal. You've been through a lot haven't you? Where did you come from? What do you last remember?", he asked, dabbing away the sweat on her face with the sleeve of his shirt.

With shaky, unsteady movements she nodded her head, trying to stand up but stumbling backward into the ditch. The impact sent a shockwave through her body, reverberating down every nerve ending until she was lost in a daze of pain. Her hand shot out instinctively, grasping for something to steady herself - anything- but it was too late as she fell backwards into the pool of her own blood.

 The sticky substance coated her skin and hair with an oily thickness that refused to be wiped away. With each movement she made, more blood flowed forth from the wounds on her back, staining the ground beneath her with a deep red hue.

"I... I can't remember a lot.. but... please help...", she managed to stutter out, between deep, pained gasps for air. She felt her skin burning up with the fever, trying her hardest to stay awake and conscious.

Osferth felt his heart sink as he saw the girl's limp body, almost lifeless against the ground. He quickly lifted her up, not caring that her blood had now spread to his hands and clothes. His voice was filled with desperation as he shouted for help, running back into the camp. "Don't do this to me! Don't you dare die on me!", he begged, squeezing her tightly in his arms as he ran.

As he reached the camp, he frantically ran up to Uhtred, who had been sharpening his dagger together with Finan and Sihtric. They all jumped up and readied themselves for attack, but relaxed when they saw that it was just Osferth. "Uhtred, please... I know not what to do, she's injured and burning up... I...," he stuttered and held her even tighter.

Uhtred's mouth drew into a tight line and his eyes narrowed as he glared down at the battered girl. "Aemma?! But that's the daughter of the alehouse owner in Coccham! What is she doing here?! Sihtric, get our herbs! Lay her on some furs Osferth, we need to stop her wounds from bleeding!" His voice was tinged with concern. "Just a child, barely reaching adulthood... so many things could have happened to her..."

Osferth tenderly laid her on the thick furs of his tent and nodded to Finan, who ground Sihtric's herbs into a fine powder and put them into a tiny pot of steaming water over the campfire. "Yes my Lord, I recall seeing her scrubbing the floors but I just stumbled upon her in a ditch - lost in an incoherent delirium and blazing with fever. She's been fading in and out of consciousness ever since...," he rambled, gripping Aemma's hand for dear life.

Uhtred exchanged a worried look with Finan and pressed his fingers onto his lips, silencing the Irishmen from saying anything. Osferth took out his flask and placed it gently to Aemma's lips. "Drink this, I want you to try and stay awake.. Please..."

Aemma weakly opened her eyes and took a few small sips, coughing in between. "I... I went to fetch herbs and berries... then... I can't remember...," She muttered and fliched, as she touched her back."I'm so sore..."

Sihtric stalked into the tent, his jaw clenched in determination as he ripped Aemma's dress away and slathered herbal paste onto her wounds with harsh strokes. He muttered a silent prayer of thanks to the gods as he saw that the injury did not appear to be infected. Her cries of agony filled the tent as Sihtric shushed her with a gentle yet firm tone. "She should recover in a few days if we can keep her hydrated and nourished," he declared with a steely voice.

Osferth's tears streamed down his cheeks, mingling with her own blood. He tenderly brushed away a clump of matted hair from her face, trying to ignore the deep gashes that crisscrossed her skin. "What kind of monster would do this to you? I wish I could take away your pain." His heart ached as he crouched before her, pressing a cold rag on her forehead in an effort to soothe her agony. 

Aemma opened her eyes and looked up into Osferth's worried gaze, feeling like she was spinning in a never ending circle of despair. "Yes... please.... just take away the pain," she murmured softly. She forced herself to focus on Osferth's ragged breaths and the chill of his touch against her skin, desperately needing the distraction from her misery.

"Don't fear. I will protect you with my life, so sleep now and forget the pain of your wounds. It's alright to close your eyes now, to rest. You'll get through this, and I will be here for you." When he told her that she would make it out alive, that courage filled his eyes. His voice was strong but sincere. As the men saw her slipping away into a deep slumber, they walked out of the tent and sat down by the fire; shocked by what had just happened.

The men started speculating what could have happened and remembered the times they had seen her in the ale house in Coccham. Uhtred spoke first, recalling a time when he'd seen her talking to a shady looking Mercian with an moon shaped scar on his face. Finan nodded solemnly, remembering another time she had mentioned something about a stranger coming to visit her. All of them pondered over these events, trying to figure out how it could tie into Aemma's current condition. 

Osferth felt overwhelmed with guilt for not being there to protect her; he only wished that he could make it up to her somehow.

They all agreed that this was no mere accident or misadventure, and that it was indeed possible that someone had deliberately done this to Aemma. Outrage filled their veins as they discussed who could be behind this heinous act and what their plan might be. They all made a silent vow at that very moment—to do whatever it took to bring justice for Aemma, even if it meant risking their own lives in the process.

Taglist: @valerie977

[happilyhertale]

Fuck you Osferth, that’s what you get for ignoring and hurting us with those bitches 😤

Right?! And now reader may kiss Uhtred 👀😄