#floki fic

Bossman, Boat Builder, the Laughing Guy, although there was nothing comical about him; those were just a few of the names my employer was called. Never to his face, oh my god! You’d have to be reckless, with a death wish to call the head of security (hit-man) for the Lothbrok Family Organization (mob) anything but Floki.

Entering the glass doors of his sleek, nondescript office, I paused in the threshold, adjusting my dark pencil skirt. Why hadn’t I had worn flats, I cringed, as I stepped inside. Having received the message that he wanted to talk to me, alone, I hoped, prayed, as I stalled in the reception, that he didn’t get the idea from the height of my heals that I was looking to catch his eyes. Not that I would mind.... honestly, in a different life, in a different setting.

I had never even been alone with him before; our meetings were always with the others, in fact, I couldn’t even recall talking directly to him on the phone. He didn’t strike me as a phone person anyway, but… there was something about him. Not conventionally good looking, he had magnetism and mysterious confidence in spades. He was quirky for sure. A tad odd even, but more than that, not a single person in our organization or any other didn’t fear him a little.

As discreet as most were, I had still heard the stories of torture, straight up executions, shit, I even heard he pulled the lungs out of some poor guy’s back. Floki wasn’t an animal though, he would have had a good reason.

If someone had asked me what colour his eyes were, I would have a difficult time saying. Sometimes hazel or grey, other times a deep, army green. Yes, I had looked that closely but the point is, anyone would know, looking into those eyes, feeling that shiver of something running down their spine, that he was dangerous. Boarder-line unhinged in fact, and that was saying something in our line of work.

Gods, what a thought to have right before walking into my first one-on-one meeting with the man. Maybe the fuck-me shoes were a good call, after all. Who could resist red sole Louboutins, right?

“Lilly?” his strange, playful voice called from his office behind the empty front-desk. Moving toward his open door, I glanced at Torvi’s chair, wondering where she was on a Friday at 2 pm.

Turning the corner, my feet stopped, and by the grace of the Gods, I didn’t flinch. Not at his desk, he was instead sitting on the leather couch on the far side of the room. Wearing a slim cut expensive-looking suit, he slouched back, his head leaning on his hand, looking at me like he was about to deliver bad news.

“Sir.”

Inhaling, I forced myself to smile hoping he hadn’t noticed my apprehension. Of course he had, I almost scoffed...what a joke, reading people was part of his power. Breathe, I told myself, in and out, just breathe.

“Come in and close the door, little one,” he all but ordered, and I didn’t miss the edge in his tone. “We have something to discuss. I heard what you said about me.”

Oh fuck.

Wrapped in her only shall, her eyes wandered beyond his rounded shoulder toward the simple roof of his tiny home. What more could a person ever want, she wondered, noticing that many of the leaves on the surrounding trees were turning a bronze, like the tone of her hair. Soon the foliage would thin and the morning breeze off the water would bite the skin of her ankles below the hem of her dress.

Being a seasoned recluse, Floki had weathered many winters alone but still she felt there was much to do. The idea of leaving before the first snow without building up his stores did not sit right with her. Neither did the thought of spending Yule apart and away from the warmth of his cozy cottage. Her eyelids fluttered as she allowed herself, for an instant, to feel the weight of that sadness.

Facing him in the small boat with her back to the nearing dock, she turned her attention back to him and his smooth, pull of the paddles. She could not hear the song in his head or the whispers in his ears, but she was sure messages from the Gods surrounded them both on this clear day.

Pausing, his hands stilled the oars and he tipped his ear up as if listening to the wind. His eyes scanned the wharf ahead, quickly finding their way back to her. She returned his stare into his dark green eyes rimmed black with coal.

“Floki, are the Gods speaking to you?”

“Yes, little one, always. They speak to everyone, you know.”

“I do not hear them.”

“Ah,” he said, dropping his eyes to the small space between their knees, a crooked smile weaving across his face. Heaving the paddles once again, they resumed their way. “You must first quiet the noise in your head.”

“What do they say to you?”

“That, daughter of Sol, is for another day.”

Looking to the dock, he slid an oar in, allowing the dingy to glide against the pier. Gabriela’s shoulders dropped, feeling the loss of the conversation that was only beginning.

“Come,” he interrupted her thoughts. “Let us check on the household of Ragnar.”

Unease quickly gripped her stomach, twisting tight. Having managed to avoid visiting the hall on their previous two trips, she dreaded the thought of returning. In the last month of her stay with Floki, she did not want a moment wasted visiting a life she would undoubtedly return and hate.

As if sensing her body’s response, his eyes snapped back to hers, but he did not say a word. Instead, he stepped up onto the wooden planks and tied the small boat. Returning, he leaned over to offer her his hand. Taking it, she smiled her thanks, grateful that the tide was up and she was not required to climb to the dock bent down on her hands and knees.

Heading up the path to the market, she rushed to keep pace with his long, lanky legs. Floki towered above most but looked like a giant next to her and she was unsure if this was the reason people’s eyes lingered. Floki had rarely been seen with a woman but she was not fussed by being a mystery in their minds.  

“Shall I head to the market for the supplies while you go to the hall?”

Clicking his tongue, he scrunched his face.

“We stay together little one. You are the prized slave of the king.”

Snorting, she nearly rolled her eyes. “Still a slave.”

“Still a prize,” his eyes peaked down to her, lit again with his usual mischief.

Entering the hall, her steps slowed, falling behind. She was hesitant to follow as Floki slinked down to sit on a bench, swinging his legs beneath the table.

“Sit child.”

Staying in place, she surveyed the nearly empty hall.

“Sit!” Calling again over his shoulder, he slapped the bench beside him. “No warrior likes the feel of someone at their back.”

Surrendering, she stepped close, sliding down beside, holding the hem of her grey dress.

“Master Floki, have a drink,” Nefja, a hall slave rushed forward, filling a cup from a jug. “Your slave can wait with the others.”

What a rat, Gabriela thought, watching the tall girl with the sour face conveniently forget her name after three months away.  

“Two cups of mead it will be and she is not my slave, so she stays with me.” Letting out a shrill giggle, he set his eyes sharply on her. “Or, I will explain to Ragnar that I was not welcomed when checking his property.”

Pressing her thin lips together, she nodded, lifting her chin as if she held some sort of position. Gods, Gabriela thought scoffing to herself. Turning away, Nefja’s cold eyes narrowed at her as she moved back a table returning with a second cup. Filling it from the jug, she placed it down on the table, purposely out of reach.

Floki opened his mouth to speak but Gabriela slipped her hand into his arm, squeezing the inside of his elbow.

“Ignore her. I do.”

Tipping his head, his blackened eyes watched the back of the tall, fair-haired thrall cross the room disappearing behind the barrier to the kitchen.

“She is very beautiful,” Gabriela whispered, wishing her words had not sounded like a question.

“Hmm?”

“Nefja. She is very beautiful,” she repeated, finally releasing her fingers from his arm.

“Meh,” bending his head lower, he took a pull from his cup. “The eyes cannot see when the mind is under siege.” Reaching forward he grabbed her cup, sliding it over to her.

Allowing herself the subtlest of smirks, she glanced up to his distinct face feeling perfectly pleased to be at his side.

“Is that what beauty looks like to you?” His voice rose with a curious lift.

Taking a sip of her ale, she looked down, noticing is was less than half full.  

“The men here think so.”

“These men who give you their attention? So much so, I stand watch while your masters play?” Laughing, he looked down to her, lifting his cup but lowered it without taking a drink. “I see their eyes on you little one.” He tipped his head even closer. “When you are serving here in the hall, on feast nights when their chests are puffed with battle tales and their blood thick with ale.”

Her eyes widened and she looked away searching the hall for a distraction. Her breathing sped hearing what he had just said. This was the first indication that he had noticed her before being dropped into his life. It was not truly evidence of something... but still, it was not nothing. Was it, she asked herself?

Taking a sip from her nearly empty ale, she turned back, meeting his eyes again. Playfully, Floki teetered his head side to side, a clear twinkle in his eye.

“So, daughter of Sol, you want to speak with the Gods?”

“I... well, yes but I would never want to insult them, making it seem that I am Viking.

The expression on Floki’s face settled but his eyes kept their light.

“No one seems to know where I came from,” she continued, tucking her hair behind her ear, “but Ragnar believes it is a place far away from here. These Gods are the only Gods I have ever known though. That I believe to be true. And…I just feel...”

“Feel what?” Looking at her, he dropped his face, resting his chin on his hunched shoulder.

Never in her life could she remember anyone listening to her so intently.

“I feel there are things to be said. By me to the Gods or even….by them to me.”

“Ahh, little one,” he lifted his brows. “You understand more than you think. Being Viking comes from being born of this land. Under our Gods. But to be Viking, you must not only believe in and follow the Gods, you must also live the Viking way. It is a way of being. A way of seeing the world. Everything you do must be in part for them.”

Nodding slightly, she acknowledged his words.  

“Floki, when we were last in town getting supplies,” she paused, dropping her eyes to look again at her cup. “I bought some sweet cicely.”

Straightening on the bench, he let out an amused whine.

“I know…that it is sometimes taken to enhance one’s connection to the All-Father. Some claim to have visions. That it enables the sight.”

“Did you also know that lovers can take it to strengthen their connection to Odin? Join their spirits. It allows their minds to meet beyond what they can feel, honouring the Gods through their physical love. Did you know that little one?” he leaned closer, eyeing her from under his brow.

Clearing her throat, she swore in her head, feeling her cheeks begin to warm. Why must she have such pale unforgiving skin? “Yes, I heard about that too, I….” stopping, she took a sip from her cup, finding it empty.

“Gabriela,” his voice tickled her ear. Dropping his eyes down to her hands, he poured some of his ale into her cup. “I want you to ask me the question that is rolling around in your pretty head.”

Glancing up to him, for the first time she could not hold his gaze.

“Will you help me?” She took a sip of mead, feeling his dark eyes bore into her. “Help me hear the Gods? Will you take the sweet fern with me?”

Tipping his head back, he giggled, quickly bringing a smile to her face. Wiggling his head, he finished his drink placing it down on the table.

“Of course! Tonight!” he looked giddy. “Let us get what we came here for and then we will go home.”

“Okay Floki,” she finished her drink, smiling into her cup. Relief and excitement swirling in her body, making her feel giddy too. And then we will go home, his words repeated in her mind.

MASTERLIST

Turning from his waist, he peered over his shoulder to Gabriela. Brows lifting as if, in the spell of his focus, he had forgotten she had moved into his world nearly a moon ago. So accustomed to being alone, far from the city, living a life designed to keep him near the Gods. A quick nod of his head was his only acknowledgment. His body and mind still under the trance of his work’s repetition, sanding the honey-colored wood.

Nodding in return, Gabriela lifted her long dress from the path of her feet, making her way back to his funny little cottage. It was not at all an uncomfortable cottage. Well crafted, with a place for everything, and gave the distinct feeling that the man who lived there walked a different path in life. And not only because the doors were tall, and the tables so high Gabriela was forced to stand on a wooden box to prepare their meals. Floki had muffled his distinct giggle the first night he entered, seeing her sitting mending his clothes. Seated by the fire, her feet dangling from the chair nowhere near touching the floor. It had not felt awkward, though, her being in his home. There seemed a veil of respect over the entire circumstance. A consideration that had come at no surprise but still a great relief. The entire plan, of course, spun by the king himself, a live descendant of Odin and Floki’s truest friend.

Often and again on this night, while stirring their simmering meal, she thought of his curious face from that very first day. The light dull and the mist heavy the morning he had collected her from the docks. Loading her small sack of belongings onto his boat, he offered her his steady hand, as she climbed down into the dingy. The silence between them as he rowed away from Kattegat had felt like some exodus from life. Or, perhaps a departure from herself. She did not know and did not have the truth, then, to understand.

Despite being a slave, she could see that he had attempted to prepare for her arrival. Tools and squares of wood were stacked and pushed into the corners. A curtain hung, nailed to the ceiling, sectioning off a small neatly made bed. The bed had been pushed against the wall adjacent to the fire, close to its hearth, to keep her warm. Her unspoken reaction of delight had left him almost embarrassed. Uttering something about something before excusing himself back out to his work.

There was no aspect of her stay she was not enjoying so far. What little conversation they had exchanged seemed polite. Almost shy. With Floki’s eyes never staying on her long. Sitting across from him now, she watched him devour his evening meal. Assuming his creative mind must burn off her food as his body was so lean and his appetite endless.

Sliding off her seat, across the table from him, she reached for his now empty bowl. She could not help but smile at the way he looked down at his topped-up stew. Excited, as if a clay bowl of meat and broth held the most sought after wisdom. An unmarried man, he was no cook and she found herself preparing his meals with extra care, looking forward to his reaction.

“Gabriela,” her name always seemed to roll off his tongue. “I will miss your cooking when Ragnar takes you away.”

Don’t let him, her thought shook her mind but her gaze on him was unwavering. The sensation she had been living was beginning to take form. It was not only the soft work and peaceful seaside setting she was starting to love. It was him. It was all about him. Floki.