#mollyhatch

He shrugged, incorporating his whole face in the expression. "Another land? Another people?"

"You have only recently invaded my shores, and yet you already seek new horizons?" Athelstan said, not hiding his hint of amusement he was uncertain he shouldn't have. Ragnar grinned at him.

"If you were not a man of your G-d, and had seen the woman I had, you would be of the same mind."

"Perhaps," he congenially agreed, dipping his head back to resume his study. "Or perhaps my personal limitations would have propelled me further in discovering this new land where you failed."

"Have caution, monk," but there was no real bite to Ragnar's words.

"I assume you frightened her," he commented, looking back up.

"Why would you assume that?" Ragnar said in a play of mild offense.

"Because you frightened me when first we met."

Ragnar's grin grew beyond his first.

"And because she would be here in addition to the book she carried. Did – is…is she alive?" Athelstan asked, suddenly serious.

Ragnar's grin faltered; the humor leaving his eyes.

"She is."

He dropped his hand, and began picking at a splinter on the table; his focus wavering between his two points of activity.

"Yet you did not bring her?" Athelstan asked unbelieving. Silence stretched for a few seconds until Ragnar successfully broke a piece of wood off.

"She was smarter than you," he said at last, using the jagged splinter to point across the table. "Then again, I was a fool who left her unbound."

Collecting the pieces, Athelstan said amazed, "she escaped you?"

"Hey," Ragnar ceased his fidgeting, and trapped Athelstan in a glare. "Whose side are you on?"

The monk only smiled.

"In this instance, I favor the lady's escape from your clutches. I would not have trusted you not to debauch her."

"Hmm, perhaps you are right," he hummed in agreement, his expression softening. Discarding the splinter, Ragnar tapped the book's binding.

"Tell me more. There are none of your illuminations, only the black markings."

"Indeed, this is no religious text as far as I can tell. There is a lack of elegance or care. The style of writing is inconsistent, yet the book itself speaks of wealth. The binding is extremely precise, perfect almost, and the leather is dyed. Then, of course, there is the ink that is of a kind I have never seen, but would greatly value. Look how it never falters nor fades; it is consistent in each stroke. If I had to guess, this may have been a record for some noble or wealthy lord. What it was doing in the hands of a lady begs the biggest question."

"I am not so certain she was…a lady." The humor returned to Ragnar's countenance, as he clearly meant to conceal how pleased he was of this remark. "Her attire spoke of …"

"Prostitution?"

"Do you know of such things?"

"I am a monk, not an idiot."

"Her trousers did much to help my imagination in filling her out," Ragnar continued, his eyes looking past Athelstan in memory. "She jumped over the side of the boat, you know."

Athelstan expressed his genuine amazement.

"Maybe not a lady then after all, but maybe not yet either a prostitute as you wish her to be."

"Is it not enough that she slipped through my fingers, but you must ruin my daydreams," Ragnar scolded.

"As the only man of G-d in your life, I would be neglecting my duty if I did not make you aware of your folly."

"But He is your G-d, not mine, so what would He care of me anyway?"

"The Lord cares for all His creatures, whether they recognize Him or not."

"He is more generous than my gods."

"And merely waiting for you to realize it," Athelstan smiled good-naturedly. Ragnar returned it with a half smile of his own.

"Go," he gestured with his chin, "continue your study and inform me of anything you find. I must think now."

Athelstan departed to his own corner, despite the table being the preferable work place. There may be an understanding between the pair, but the reality of his residing in his captor's home was still a hard truth to shake.

Ragnar remained seated for a while in deep contemplation; his thoughts varied and grasping, yet always returning to the image of the woman. The very fact that he had had her only to lose her played on his mind in a confusing game of annoyance and intrigue. Idly he wondered what she had done after reaching the shore – where had she gone? At the time, he'd been fairly certain that she did not understand the tongue he himself had only recently learned from Athelstan, but she must have known something.

As gravitating as thoughts of the woman were, they led to nothing more than daydreams that lessened over time. Even the book proved disappointing when Athelstan confessed his bafflement over the script after months of analyses. In time, the incident was remembered as nothing more than an interesting encounter, though was told of as a modern myth by Ragnar's comrades who'd witnessed the event of the woman jumping overboard. They delighted in making her out to be some spirit of the water, therefore, unafraid of plunging into the perilous depths. The more their audiences clamored for descriptions, the more these warrior story-tellers embellished their tales, often contradicting each other.

Years passed and new distractions claimed Ragnar's attention. His rise to Earldom by unseating Haraldson; the tenuous alliance forged with King Horik; the betrayal of Rollo; the redemption of Rollo when he protected what was his brother's from Jarl Borg, keeping safe his home and his people; the loss of Athelstan on one of their raids; and now, six years since the encounter with the woman, Ragnar was once again greeting the shores of the Christians, this time in tow with King Horik. The only thing to serve as memory of that strange meeting was the book, and that he took with him always in hopes of finding someone who could tell him its meaning.

His focus never strayed from their ambitions of gaining land, and talks resumed cordially enough between King Ecbert and their party. That is until King Horik's ambitions outpaced Ragnar's, leading them all to the battle that would see victory for the Christians, and ruin for the Northmen.

. . .

Ragnar lay motionless in the mud, his back one with the soil that clung to him as if welcoming him to return to the earth he came from. The noises around him were muted; distant thuds and reverberations; the call of men; the tramp of horses; the familiar strike of steel on bone.

A raven circled overhead. Ragnar watched its flight through barely open slits. His lips were dry and parted despite the drizzle that wet his face; the taste of blood coated his mouth, filling his senses unpleasantly. Was that a man or was it Odin peering down at him? The hard stomp of feet grew nearer. The raven turned inland and out of Ragnar's sight.

More steel on bone.

Willing his head to move, Ragnar tilted his chin up so that he was presented with a reversed view of the approaching enemy. They were presently halted some feet from where he lay, their backs turned as they overzealously insured that the dead Northman, laying broken on the field, was truly departed from this life.

With an internal groan, Ragnar straightened his neck and then proceeded to bring movement back into his immobile limbs. The pain struck sharper than he'd anticipated, and he hastily self-diagnosed that a gash to his leg would make his flight that much harder. Abandoning his legs altogether, Ragnar silently rolled, blending neatly with the mud and blood-soaked battlefield. He had lain near the summit of one of the hills and the force of gravity took over from his tired body once he initiated the action. Unconsciously, he followed the direction the raven had flown in; the looming shadows of the trees welcoming him in its cover at the base of the hill. Their welcome, however, was harsh as he could not stop his momentum. Only the harsh obstacle of a trunk had that power, knocking the wind out of him with the impact.

For a time he lay there; listening to his breathing above the patter of the rain. He was undisturbed, and over time, the pain became more bearable. The throbbing in his stomach subsided, while the wound to his leg itched. He would have to clean it, he knew, but for now he would rest.

. . .

The drizzle had ceased when Ragnar opened his eyes from the hazy sleep he'd fallen into. His head felt clearer, and his eyes were capable of opening wide, which he took advantage of a couple of times before rubbing the sleep away. His leg, however, remained a problem, as did his location. He was uncertain of the land that was no doubt crawling with his enemies. He also became aware that while he still had his axe, his sword and shield were not with him. He cursed.

"Well this is a pretty mess," he muttered to himself, grunting as he sat up. He couldn't see much of the battlefield; the hill he'd rolled down blocked most of his view, yet he did not think walking back into that open space was a good idea so soon after their defeat. If anything, he would skirt the tree-line of the woods until he could find a route that would bring him back to camp.

The woods were quiet, and save for the few rustles his limping produced, the ground was far too soggy for any leaf or twig to crunch underfoot. His eyes remained vigilant, seeking threats that did not come. He was still armed, but as he progressed, his grip loosened on the handle of his axe.

His intention of edging the eaves of the forest were proving more difficult than anticipated as patches were too thick to cross, and not wishing to walk exposed in the open, was forced to take a route deeper through the trees. On and on he walked, him limp bothering him only when he thought of it. Still, it twinged with each step.

It was nearing midday when a break in the trees spread into a grassy path, bright and green – a striking difference to the scene he'd left. Ragnar hesitated in the shadows; this appeared to be a common-way, though not a soul walked on it presently. There was definition to it, indents in the grass where horses hooves walked, as well as the steady double line impressed by numerous carts wheeling past this spot. He swept his gaze up and down the path, deciding finally to risk the exposure when a figure rounded a bend in the road and came walking towards him.

Slinking back into the shadows, Ragnar watched, first in impatience, then in curiosity as something struck him as being familiar. It was a woman dressed as any other woman of this land would attire herself of a lower rank; a large basket secured around her crooked elbow. She walked slowly, clearly in no hurry to get to wherever she was headed, and which aggravated Ragnar further as his impatience had been transferred to seeing the woman's face.

As she came nearer and nearer to view, her expression neutral as her eyes wandered lazily from point to point of her walk, he could not help an amazed grin to tease his lips as he recognized her; perhaps a little older, but definitely her, and looking far lovelier than he remembered. He considered that she had not the terrified expression that he knew her best by. She was calm, in her own world, and unfortunately in a dress that hid her pretty legs.

Ragnar realized the decision he had to make; soon she would pass out of view, though if he approached her now, she would, without a doubt, run from him and easily outpace him in his present state. He viewed it as no mere chance that their paths would cross each other's again, though they'd not shared one understandable word between them. He had followed the raven, and that path had led him here, right to where she was walking.

He would follow her, he decided. Keeping a distance, he would follow her and take further action as necessary. The battle against King Ecbert's men may have seen the Northmen beaten, seen their endeavors shattered, but right at this moment, Ragnar would follow the soft footfalls of the woman who'd escaped him all those years ago.

. . .

800 AD, Wessex

Out of all her duties, gathering berries for the cook's jam in the nearby field was Molly's favorite. There was no thought involved, and it had that seasonal attractiveness of only lasting for so long. Her basket felt comfortably heavy on her arm as she made her way back to her master's house. Her employer's house.

Master – employer; it was all one here.

After her arrival, and subsequent escape from the Northmen (as she later found out their identities), Molly had rambled aimlessly in a state of delirium and doubt. The shock of her attempted abduction, her wherewithal to escape, and the terrifying swim in the wild ocean had cured her of any further tears, yet she still was oblivious to all else around her. There had been no connecting point, nothing that stood out remarkably as bringing her from point A to point B in her sudden change of situation.

It was by chance that Molly had found the town only just abandoned by her would-be abductors. Tousled by the sea, and red-eyed, it was to the general opinion that she had been caught up by the raid, her clothes stolen (for surely no lady would present herself so scantily clad), no doubt by one of those wild men from the North.

Molly had understood none of this. In fact she remained in a state of ignorance for well over a year, trusting her fate to strangers and her own street smarts to direct her towards existence. She had ceased living that day – her sole priority became survival. In the blink of an eye her life was forever changed; the way she thought altered inexorably. There was no one but herself in whom she could trust, and as dangers continued to loom large and towering over her day-to-day, she learned the art of keeping a bowed head.

News of the raid had spread over the weeks and, as Christian fellowship commanded, those who could afford to offer generous assistance did not want to be outdone by their fellow lords and ladies. It was one such lady that had taken a liking to Molly's subdued manner, yet youthful countenance. When it was learned that the 'young woman' as she'd been termed, did not speak their language, the lady had taken pity over her and decided to take her into her employ. The nerve-wracking experience of traveling a great distance with even more strangers, and with no knowledge of the purpose of the journey, nor her requirement, Molly could only accept what came to her and make of it what she could. Acknowledging how little power she had did much in aiding her in how to maneuver these new waters.

Though the barrier of language was a hard and grueling one to overcome, within her second year of this new life the flow of conversation came easier. Unlike her former self, however, she exhibited no inclination in resuming her talkative nature. There was no one to talk to. Her employer was certainly above her, despite her initial pity; her fellow maids and serving staff engaged with her in mundane things, but they'd learned early on that Molly was a quiet sort - quiet, but dutiful and uniquely lacking in ambition. This made her harmless, allowing her to evade the censure of her co-workers and the attacks they pulled on each other.

The large manor that no longer housed the lady that had brought Molly, was the estate and property of the eldest son who'd inherited everything at the passing of his mother. While Molly had no communal relationship with the lady, she had preferred her to her heir. Still, nothing had changed much in her sphere of existence and she had to be content with that.

Walking up the stone path that led to the servant's entrance, Molly pushed through the heavy wooden door that creaked on its hinges, and into the bright, south-facing kitchen. Depositing her burden on the wide table, she looked around curiously at the empty space.

"Hilda?" She called, peering down the corridor. There was a murmur of voices coming from one of the other rooms of the servants' hall, followed by an excited squeal. Bemused, Molly stepped forward to investigate what had drawn everyone from the kitchen when the familiar creak of the back door caught her attention.

Turning, she caught sight of a large man, covered in a mixture of blood and mud, leaning on the door as his piercing gaze stuck her to the spot. There was no amount of grime that could obscure the one face that would remain etched forever in her conscious – the one face that haunted her nightmares from time to time.

"You!" she breathed, taking a shaky step back. The sounds of the others continued to filter down the hall, though they now seemed miles away.

He made no move towards her, only continued his posture against the door, yet this did little to comfort her. She knew that Hilda the cook had an array of knives she favored, and while she might be cross with having them used for anything other than the preparation of her delectable meals, she would understand the necessity of the situation.

"You can speak now – that is good to know," he said, his grin peered out from his tilted chin. "Were you pretending before?"

Molly made a sudden grab for the biggest knife on the stone counter behind her, and brandished it with both hands.

"Leave! Get out!" she commanded rather boldly considering how terrified she was. Her hands were sweaty, as was most of the rest of herself; a steady trickle streamed between her breasts and down her stomach, absently tickling her. "I'll scream," she threatened.

"Scream, then. I would like to meet your friends."

Molly couldn't discern if this was meant as a threat against her co-workers' lives, or if the Viking truly did not care if his presence was known. The chatter down the hall gave her some courage, but then, to her dismay, the friendly voices began moving away. They were entering the main house in a body, unwittingly leaving her alone with a most dangerous man.

She should have screamed. Perhaps she still could.

But then – what if he lunged for her? What if he stuck her through the heart with the very knife she had poised at him? He was a warrior, skilled and lethal, and, for some reason, an unfortunate magnet she couldn't seem to shake.

"What do you want?" she asked at last.

"There are many things I want," he pushed himself away from the door, grimacing. Molly startled back, crashing into the side table, her arms trembling as she positioned the knife even higher. He ignored her, limping towards the central table where her basket of berries sat. "But first, I need your help."

His eyes met hers, unblinking. They stood nearer now, though, with the table continuing to separate them. The silence stretched, measured by their audible breaths; one heavy with fatigue and pain, the other laced with fear and suspicion.

"Why?"

"Because I know you, and you will help me," he said earnestly. Molly stiffened.

"You do not know me."

Maintaining her gaze, the Viking made slow, deliberate, steps around the table, approaching her as she pressed herself as firmly as she could against the unyielding edge of the side tables. Her whimper morphed into a shaky gasp the moment his rough hand grasped her wrist, echoing his first hold on her from years prior. The blade of the knife pressed against his throat, yet with no pressure applied as he leaned towards her.

"I know that you will not use this knife on me," he practically whispered, "or you would have done so the moment you saw me."

"I am not a ruthless killer," she hissed back, craning her neck closer to his. Their arms still locked between them as the knife hovered close to taking a life.

"I know," he smiled, the expression fully visible beneath the mud on his face.

Molly's eyes widened a fraction as she realized that her own words conceded his point. A flare of anger was coaxed from her, and recklessly she aimed to knee him in his most sensitive spot while attempting to pull free from his grip. It was a sloppy maneuver coming from her, though she succeeded in freeing herself, though he managed to evade her knee. Letting her fury fuel her actions, Molly sent out a wide swipe with the knife, which he easily avoided in spite of a grimace of pain. Her next jab was caught and in the following second the knife clattered to the stone floor.

"You don't know me," she spat, her chest heaving after the effort, disliking how it momentarily drew his attention. To her consternation, his features told of nothing but satisfaction.

"Perhaps," he said, his voice maintaining that low timber. With a gentle slither, his calloused hand released her, sliding down her forearm. She brought her arms to her chest, crossing them over as protection. "Or perhaps you do not yet know yourself."

He moved from her then, limping back around the table to lean against it, his back towards her.

"I am injured," he said over his shoulder. The generous beam of sunlight entering the kitchen windows shadowed his profile, while highlighting Molly, casting a glint in her eyes as she observed him cautiously. "Will you help me?" He sought her gaze for an instant, almost as if he wanted to see her reaction, before lowering his eyes and turning his head forward.

Nothing further was said on either of their parts. The Viking remained half seated on the table, his back the only privacy Molly was allowed as she clutched the neckline of her dress with nerves. It seemed impossible that he was giving her an out. Yet could she not slip past the door and down the corridor without making a sound?

She could – she meant to.

She hesitated.

Slowly, with the weight of what felt like bricks, Molly hedged her feet around the first bend of the table, bringing her ever closer into the Viking's range of sight. She couldn't say what exactly her reasoning was for not running when the chance was so tempting. He was wounded and would be outnumbered by the men her employer kept for his own personal security; nasty men that leered at her and the other women. One trembling step after the other, the width of the table never felt so long, until finally she stood before the Viking, out of arms reach. The gnawing grip she had on her dress was nearly strangled into a state of permanent wrinkles when his gaze flicked up, his blue eyes turned translucent from the light of the sun.

Swallowing under his stare, she subtly nodded her chin at him.

"I-Is it your leg?"

"Among other things."

Another silence lapsed between them; she, absently taking in how battered and bruised he actually was, and formulating what next she was going to say.

"Are you going to hurt me?" she asked plainly, meeting his gaze as bravely as she could.

He held it, silently appraising her before answering, "I will not hurt you. It was never my intention to cause you harm, you know."

"I doubt that," she said, shuffling her feet with nerves.

He shrugged, clearly unconcerned whether she believed him or not. "Do you think I am in much of a way of posing a threat to you at present?"

"Yes," she answered at once.

"And yet I can see you will help me anyway," he pointed a brown finger at her face, as if exposing her thoughts with that simple gesture. She shifted her jaw in discomfort, her teeth lightly grinding against each other. "Your gaze has been drawn to my leg as we've been speaking. That is how I know you will tend to me."

Molly deliberately looked away from his wounds and into his eyes, willing any fierceness she possessed to encompass her countenance as warning. His lax posture against the table exhibited none of the wariness she'd hoped to achieve. In fact, a coy smile was gently lifting the corner of his mouth.

"If I help you…you will leave?" she meant it to come out as a demand, however her nerves couldn't quell the inflection. He tilted his head, his lips slightly parted as his tongue played behind his teeth.

"Once you have tended me," he dipped his chin in a nod, "I will leave this place."

Not entirely satisfied by this answer, Molly deliberated a second longer, eyeing him all the while. She knew only simple first aid, but at least she knew the importance of disinfecting his wound and pressing clean linen to it. She supposed that would have to be the extent of her medical care, and yet that was more than what he deserved.

If she chose not to treat him, he was too loose a cannon for her to anticipate his reaction. Would he remain, or try to get at her in some way? Would he bring about his own death if he persisted in seeking out her help and instead drew the attention of the household? Molly held no love for her master's guards; they were cruel and beady eyed with a love for violence. It took little imagination to know what they would do if they learned of the Viking's presence; even less to deduce what they would do to her for aiding the invader.

Taking a step closer, Molly sought his gaze, the gaze of the man who greeted her in nightmares every so often; the gaze that was already watching her with a piercing quality that extricated an ounce more of her courage.

"I am sorry," she found herself saying, "but you must leave. I will give you alcohol and fresh linen, but you cannot stay here."

His brows rose as his lips simultaneously frowned with his shrugging shoulders.

"Perhaps some bread and cheese can be added to the other supplies?" he requested, seemingly unbothered by her refusal.

Molly did not trust his nonchalance, though she set about the kitchen collecting the things she'd promised as well as the food asked for. She never lost sight of him, always turning to make sure he remained on his perch at the table as she quickly worked.

Opening the door with its customary squeak, sunlight struck a beam straight through the middle of the kitchen, highlighting the Viking and presenting a true picture of how ghastly he looked. A tinge of guilt gnawed at Molly's conscience for leaving him like this.

"The alcohol is not for drinking, unless to help with the pain, but you must use it to clean your wounds," she informed him, standing by the open door, basket in hand. With a twitch of pain, he pushed away from the edge of the table and walked towards her. "If you run out, you must find some way to boil water in order to…" there was no word for 'disinfect' in Old English and she doubted there was a translation for 'sterilize'. "…to…purify anything that comes in contact with your wound.

"You know much of healing?" he questioned, his gaze once more pinning her like a butterfly to a board. She jolted when she felt the rough calluses of his hand slide past her fingers as he took the basket from her.

"N-no. No, I am only telling you simple things that most people know."

He quirked a doubtful brow at her. The golden light cast their faces in half-shadow where they stood in the doorway.

"I have never heard of the methods you've told me."

"That is because you are not from here," she answered quickly, fidgeting against their prolonged conversation.

"Just as you are not from here," he stated.

Molly clasped her hands behind her back, digging her nails into her palms.

Suddenly a trill of laughter floated down the corridor, reaching Molly like the midnight stroke that broke Cinderella's enchantment. Forgetting her fear of him, she lightly pushed against his chest, mindful of his injuries as she whispered for him to leave.

"They will see you! Oh! and they'll kill me! Please, flee!"

In the six years that Molly had endured learning the colloquialisms, not only of the place but of the time, had proven a bitter taskmaster. Yet, now the use of 'flee' rather than 'go', or 'get', tripped only slightly on her tongue as she urged him out the door. He, however, was proving to be a mountain of a man, vulnerable body notwithstanding, as he resisted her.

"Who will kill you?" he asked, serious.

"Never mind that now! Flee!"

Her gentle shoves turned more forceful when suddenly she found herself being whipped around by the Viking, an arm pressing against her throat, locking her neck to his chest. When she could once again focus, her eyes caught sight of a stunned Delwyn standing framed in the entry to the kitchen from the corridor – a piglet in her arms. A distant part of Molly's mind wondered if the animal was what had everyone giggling earlier.

Her fingers scrabbled against the corded muscles of his forearm and bicep as she drew her hips away trying to pull free. His strength held. Though, she noticed breathing wasn't a difficulty as she feared it would be. His hold on her was firm, yet not abrasive.

"That is a nice pig," the Viking remarked, ending the stunned silence and surprising Molly at his direction of dialogue. Poor Delwyn was rooted to the spot, her eyes impossibly wide as her entire figure shook. The pig in question let out a grunting squeal at the palpable fear.

"Delwyn," Molly gasped, hooking her fingers between the Viking's arm and her neck. "Run! Run, Delwyn!" she urged at the seemingly immobile woman. The Viking stepped back, forcing Molly to match his movement. She did so with a stumble, her hands remaining the only barrier between her throat and his arm. Her eyes remained riveted on Delwyn.

"You would do well to listen, Delwyn," the Viking said lightly, almost unconcerned at his tenuous position. If either of the women screamed, attention would inevitably be drawn towards the kitchens where his waning strength would be tested. "I have no quarrel with the house."

Unexpectedly, the pig fell with a crash, its stubby legs scrabbling against the stone floor, squealing in protest at the rough treatment as it scurried away. Delwyn's screaming reverberated off the hollow pots hanging from hooks above the hearth, echoing down the corridor, and piercing Molly's eardrums painfully.

"Time to go," the Viking grunted, hauling her with effort down the single step out the kitchen. His gait was awkward from the contributing factors of manhandling Molly while still gripping the basket. His arm released her only for his hand to fist in her hair at the base of her skull, forcing her to comply with his retreat. She gasped and hissed at the pain, refraining from a struggle as Delwyn's terrified face stuck in her mind. Their hurried, yet stunted steps carried them several yards before a challenging shout sounded behind them.

Molly automatically tried to look back, and for a second she saw Emory, her least favorite of her master's guards, charging after them before a tug pulled her back forward. The hard thumping of running feet grew louder behind them until Molly was thrown unceremoniously to the side as her chronic captor spun fluidly to precisely deflect a blow that would have cleaved his head in two.

The basket fell with a tumble, as the Viking employed both hands to grip either ends of his axe, the handle bearing the brunt of Emory's sharpened blade. From the ground, Molly watched with an anticipatory cringe at the inevitability of bloodshed. This life had surely toughened her up, but she had still been spared the sight of gory violence right before her eyes and at close proximity — save for that one time six years ago when she had found the town.

Emory was a fine fighter, but his passion was a caustic flame, likely to extinguish after the first throes of battle. He fought for the blood, not for any honor. His strikes came quick and stealthy, slipping past the Viking's guard more than once. Yet, what little Molly could tell from the blur of fighting, was the Viking's continued strength. There was tactic to his movements so that even when Emory's sword struck like a snake beneath the Viking's arm, he maneuvered away from the blow, using that momentum to launch an attack of his own. However, his wounds still deprived him of a decisive victory, of which Molly was certain would be his had he been hale and hearty. She did not claim a vast knowledge of warfare in the slightest, but she knew enough to recognize a walking weapon when one of her master's best guards began to falter under continued blows.

Belatedly, Molly realized that there was shrill screaming piercing the dry air. Looking back at the kitchen door, she spotted Delwyn uselessly exhausting her lungs, her cheeks afire with either fear or lack of breath. Motion caught her eye, and she saw that more guards, no doubt drawn by the horrible racket, were filing in from around the house, while some slipped past Delwyn, paying her no heed as they made for their struggling comrade.

"There are more coming!" Molly shouted. She didn't know why she warned him; perhaps because she felt that some invisible line had been drawn and they would see the guilt in her face, see that she offered aide, no matter the smallness of the gesture, to one of the Northmen.

The Viking didn't even acknowledge her, though with a final swing, the head of his axe found its home in Emory's gut. Blood splattered in an arc, streaking across the Viking's middle, and, more disturbingly, landing in a myriad of specks across Molly's face.

There was a moment, a mere millisecond, in which she was capable of viewing this scenario very pragmatically. A man she didn't like, but had known for a few years just died in front of her, his innards barely contained by the remaining walls of his flesh. His life's blood now marred against the Viking's already filthy jerkin, and which also pulsed hotly against her own nose, cheeks, and chin. The blade of the axe a tortured image of gore. Emory's eyes nothing more than glass — his face a frozen picture of his final pain.

She couldn't scream. How could she? She didn't mourn the guard's passing, she realized. Did that make her cold, she wondered? No. No, she was in shock. Her mind skipped like a bee in the wind, bouncing off tenuous petals born by a gust that she had no control over. Thoughts and images unrelated to the violence flashed before her eyes; her mother picking her up from school; Captain America assembling the Avengers; a drop of her blood staining white fabric inflicted by a sewing needle. Random pictures of her life filled her head in a nauseating slideshow that left her blind and deaf to the scene that had prompted this brief departure from reality.

It was as an echo, shadowy at best, where the corners slurred into one another in a most distorting way that set her mind reeling further. The Viking had her, some part of her mind was aware of this. Vaguely she recalled his shouting, his hands on her again; pushing her, dragging her. The thunder of armored feet clanging behind them. She'd lost her footing and fallen hard on her knees; a sharp rock piercing her skin in a jagged line. She hadn't even felt it. The oncoming rush of greenery, a hazy canopy whose quiet was disturbed by their approach. But suddenly, there was nothing. She lay prostrate on the soft earth, her nose buried in the soil as a firm hand pressed against her back. The fresh scent of the earth overwhelmed her senses, and ignoring the particles that shot up and tickled her nostrils, she breathed hungrily as one emerging from deep water. In the dispassionate earth, Molly found some grounding. It neither cared nor asked what she meant by gulping up its soil – it simply was, and would be long after this disaster.

Whether it was seconds, minutes, or hours passing, time held no sway to the current fragility of her mind. She wanted never to open her eyes again; never to move from this safe, hidden position. Never to see the seal of her life, now irrevocably changed once again.

His hand remained fixed to her back; a pesky line linking her to the reality she'd rather not face again. The hand was strong, however, an unavoidable presence separated from her skin by a mere two layers. The heat branded her otherwise shivering body, and she was brought grudgingly back to the present by its coaxing humanity. It moved slowly up her spine, as if uncertain of its route. The fingers dragged on the ridges made by the fabric of her clothes. She felt with indifference his touch at the base of her neck, grazing only minimally the peek of her bare skin there, before moving to her shoulder where he offered a comforting squeeze, and then withdrew his touch.

With his sudden absence, Molly blinked, jerking onto her elbows and staring at the patch of scuffed up soil her face had produced. She could still feel it in her mouth and around her cheeks and nose. Automatically, she coughed. Then again, and a third time for good measure. She realized that tears were mingling with the saliva leaking from the corner of her lips, and the prospect of surrendering to hysterics was almost too tempting.

"Hush!" The Viking's whisper tickled her ear. "They are still near enough to hear us."

Molly silently gasped at his voice right in her ear, seeping into her brain and becoming her only thought. Her mouth remained open, taking in shocked breaths, as if it surprised her that the function of breathing still remained capable. Her eyes, inches from the ground, stared at its teeming community of natural life without seeing anything. Her vision clamped on a troop of carpenter ants, dutifully making their way over a mountain of an oak's root to the other side where, hopefully, a better life awaited them.

'What a ridiculous thought!' But Molly continued to watch their progress with undivided attention, finding once more a way to ground her mind; the Viking beside her drifting momentarily to the realm of hallucination once more.

Alas, he was not to remain there.

"We must keep moving. They will come across us eventually if we remain."

She let herself be drawn to her feet where she was surprised to find her balance cooperating. A lingering dizziness swayed her initially, but after putting a hand out on a trunk to steady herself, her eyes cleared and almost unwillingly, looked up, accepting that there was no going back. Quickly, she took inventory; her knees twinged with minor soreness, but from experience she knew they were nothing more than scruffs; her hair had come loose from its cap and the plaits she wore them in hung loosely coiled at the base of her neck, a mild irritant; but most importantly, she noticed the absence of something.

"Where's the basket?" Her voice was thick with the question. She didn't expect that that would have been her first contribution to this unexpected path; but when she saw the Viking, soaked in the shared blood of his and his adversary's, and no sign of the basket loaded with medical supplies, she felt oddly irked.

"I assume it is back with the guard. Little use it will be to him."

"You left it?" she asked, complying with his tread, though there was no mistaking her irritable tone. His grasp was strong and encompassing, though it only retained the small purchase of her wrist, and brooked no arguments. For a man severely wounded, and fresh from yet another battle, he seemed incapable of tiring. But then she remembered his efforts at standing upright against the broad kitchen table and found her eyes narrowing in grudging wonder at his mere will to keep going.

"It was a choice between it and your sorry self. A decision I am already coming to regret as my stomach aches with hunger." He stopped suddenly, causing her to bump into him, at which point a small transference of blood occurred. It was easy to keep her eyes averted from her front where the blood now stained her frock, as the Viking was looking directly at her. "I don't suppose I could take a bite out of you?"

There was no response to that, save open-mouthed astonishment. Was he serious? Or merely teasing her?

A glimmer of amusement passed over the glassy expression of his pained eyes, and she was again distracted. No longer embarrassed by his true or mocking implications, she spoke firmly, "You're in too much pain."

"And what makes you think that?" His expression made it clear that if she thought otherwise, she was immensely thick.

She wanted to know where they were going; how long it would take; where the guards were, just how long he thought he could go on like this, and all manner of similar queries that left her tongue stumbling over which to ask first.

"I-I…whe – why…"

"You can gather your thoughts as we walk," he said, resuming their hike through the forest. They went slowly, taking care of their surroundings and pausing whenever they became aware of an approaching guard. Molly saved her questions for later. Their flight through the forest did much to sharpen her senses after emerging from her shock, and made her aware that arguing with a Viking, who may or may not be her worst enemy presently, was best done with the absence of marauding guards. She eyed him, however, waiting for the moment that he would keel over. His broad shoulders had long taken the appearance of being weighed down by a tree's bough, while his limp only aided in their snail's pace.

She wanted to say something, to suggest a break perhaps, though was a little afraid to do so. They'd already had to divert their direction a handful of times to avoid being caught, and couldn't help but think that sitting ducks were a far easier target. However, that reasoning didn't quell her sore feet, nor her pangs of hunger, having only partaken in some of the berries she picked that morning for breakfast.

"Er…Mr. – I mean…what do I call you?"

The Viking didn't stop, though a tilt to his head indicated that he was listening.

His voice, barely higher than the rustle of the wind dancing between the trees, drifted back to her.

"You may call me what you like," he replied simply. "And you," he briefly looked over his shoulder at her, "what do I call you?"

"Hmm? Oh. Er…Molly. My name is Molly Hatch," she answered, slightly thrown by his evasiveness.

"Molly Hatch?" he repeated. She could hear the frown in his tone. "What an ugly name."

Despite herself, she let out a laugh like a silent cannon blast, short and quick, but with just enough humor to reach her eyes. The Viking glanced back at her again, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

"It is not an ugly name," she defended, allowing a small grin of her own to linger momentarily. It was a grasp at something menial and unrelated, and could not last as her features returned soon after to their grim expression.

"No? Tell me what it means and perhaps I will change my mind," the Viking continued.

Rather than answering, Molly kept quiet. She wasn't sure if she wanted to get into the habit of opening her mouth to him; it held the possibility of becoming comfortable with him. Instinct told her to flee, to leave him while he could not chase her. Alas, reason cautioned this impulse. Should she be caught by the guards alone, there would be no one to help her.

Suddenly, the Viking reached back and slipped his hand over one of hers, giving it a squeeze, and breaking through her thoughts.

"Well?"

It took her a moment to remember what they'd been discussing, and when she did, no humor remained.

"It's not important. It's just a name," she spoke harshly, and pulled away from him.

Neither said anything more, and he did not attempt to reach for her again.

She was angry at her trapped position; angry at the Viking who'd ultimately caught her; and angry that she cringed in sympathy with every other step he took. His gait was clearly labored, and not for the first time she wondered if he would die of infection. Was it possible to die of infection, she asked herself, trying to remember if it just led to death or if it was the cause itself. Shaking her head as if to clear it of medical science she didn't understand, she told herself the most important thing was that one way or another he would be in no shape to dodge the law for much longer.

She was pulled sharply from her day dreams by a shove to the ground and the alarming weight of the Viking atop of her.

"Wha – "

His hand clamped over her mouth, and she wisely shut it under his grimy palm. She could feel the bite of his fingers digging into her cheek, as the taste of blood bloomed suddenly on her tongue. She'd bitten her lip. Her eyes were wide, and staring up at his extended jaw, his beard tickling her nose and smelling of something questionable. He was staring up, straight ahead, his face impossibly close to hers, as the breath in their bodies rose and fell in time to each other – the beat of their racing hearts providing the tempo to their abrupt distress.

"Let us turn back," a muffled voice bloomed from a short distance, strangely sounding as if conjured from thin air by the suddenness of its appearance.

"Let us first investigate further down this hollow. We have come far brother, and I will not turn back until we see our comrade avenged. The damned Northmen must be taught a lesson they will not soon forget."

A grumbling acquiescence from the first fellow followed this bold declaration and the sound of their dismounting their horses thumped heavily in the still forest. Their footfalls came heavy and approaching, and with terror, Molly caught the Viking's eye. There were mere seconds before they would be seen, and a blind terror made her grip the Viking's shoulders in some pretence of a shield. To her astonishment, however, his hands moved down her body, passed her waist and hips and quickly rucked up her dress.

"Play along," he hissed in her ear and, with a deliberate shift, settled himself between her legs, forcing them open. Her cooperation was yielded only by her inability to comprehend the fast-paced business at hand; the simultaneous rustle of the guards, now nearly overhead, sounded loudly in her tense ears as the Viking began to pantomime the very intimate actions of sexual relations.

Molly lay frozen for what felt like minutes, but really could have only been a split-second. She maintained her grip on his arms, clutching him fiercely, and couldn't decipher if it was a silent plea on her part for him to stop, or to remain atop as her protector. His eyes bore into hers, imploring her to respond, and with a jump, she felt his hand slide up her leg, further revealing her skin to the cool air and his searing touch.

The footsteps closed in on them, then stopped abruptly. Above her, the Viking let out a satisfied grunt which broke through her state of disbelief and moved her to action. Awkwardly, she tried bucking up against him, but then stopped, feeling too self-conscious. His lips came down to brush hers.

"Move with me," he breathed into her mouth, then kissed her fully. He tasted awful, and, instinctively, she tried to turn her head away, despite understanding what charade he was playing. She forced her hands to release their vice-like grip on his arms, to instead trail her fingers up his shoulders and to the nape of his neck, while tentatively allowing her body to follow his lead; raising her hips to meet the illusion of his thrusts. Embarrassment was pushed aside as necessity took the reins of her rationality, and she could almost imagine that she was viewing this spectacle unfold from a distance, rather than experiencing it at the heart of it.

Peripherally, she saw the guards' feet through her slit lids, not three yards away, and distantly heard them remarking on the show being provided for them. Wishing to add to the farce in hopes that they'd deem them as harmless and be on their way, Molly let slip out a breathy moan. Her feet met the leafy floor decisively, as she arched her back sensuously. She'd never been intimate with a man before, having been nineteen (and a good Catholic girl) when she'd first arrived in this time, but she knew the generic routine. Sex-ed and quiet late night sessions in her room with nothing more than a finger and fantasies (perhaps not altogether a good Catholic girl) had helped her understand certain aspects.

He kissed her again, and this time she responded, ignoring his foul breath and dirty beard. Their movements were equally becoming more enthusiastic, and she was certain the Viking was taking advantage of the situation, but noted that he wasn't actually forcing her to have sex with him. The quiet part of her brain, still capable of stringing thoughts together, wondered how he was not groaning in pain at the friction forced upon his wound. Then it occurred to her that what she took for sounds of false pleasure were really a mask for the reverse.

It felt an age of this play-acting, and Molly began to think that perhaps they were putting too good of a show on if the guards' continued attention was anything to go by. She was unable to escape the stench of the Viking - even when his mouth left hers to follow a new trail along her jaw and down her neck – and wanted nothing more than to push him off, stomp up to the lascivious guards and use their own swords against them. The sudden thought of violence, however, brought the sharp memory of seeing Emory's guts spilling out, his life's blood staining the ground and splattering her face. Of his blood now being forever worked into the fabric of her dress by the continuous drag of the Viking's body across hers.

He seemed to sense her sudden distress a mere second before her body convulsed, the tingling strain just beneath the surface of her skin; her pupils blown wide not from desire, but from horror. Before she could act, his mouth was on hers once more.

"Stay with me," he barely whispered past her lips, stifling a cry that had made it halfway up her throat. Their eyes met, and a silent tear slid down the side of her temple and into her hair. With the slightest nod to indicate understanding, Molly closed her eyes and sent herself to a place very far away.

"Well, here, that's no fair. He's had his time with the whore and let's see her favors shared, is what I say," the first guard spoke, shattering Molly's endeavors of mind over matter.

"You there," the second guard joined. The Viking's movement's began to slow, though he did not show any other signs of being aware of the interlopers. "Are you aware that you are on the land of Lord Cyneric?" the second guard continued.

"Well? Are you?" he pressed, when he received no response. He poked the Viking in the back with something. Molly felt him tense up as he slowed completely and gave her a meaningful look. Their jig was up. She noticed how he blocked her face from them by the bulk of his head and shoulders, and knew it was in case they should recognize her.

"Your name and business, rogue?" It was the guard who'd displayed more loyalty to Emory who spoke, and clearly would not be satisfied until answered. His fellow sniggered, however, and answered before the Viking had the chance to.

"I think it's plainly obvious what his business is. And I say as he's had his fun, and should be willing for others to have their pleasures," he said. And with a resumed tramp of heavy feet, he meant to close the distance and likely fling the Viking off of Molly.

With their noses already touching, sharing their mingled breaths, he relayed his final order.

"Do not come until I call for you."

She gazed at him confused, torn between wanting to understand what he was saying, the threatening approach of the lustful guard, and the continued interrogation of the self-important bastard who wouldn't shut up.

"Come now, we haven't all day. Have you seen – "

With the speed of a striking snake, the Viking rolled Molly aside so that she fell neatly to the bottom of the hollow, away from the lightening fast engagement that claimed two more lives of her master's guards. With no thought or plan, Molly rose from her tumble on unsteady feet and ran, slipping on the slime and mildew of a carpet of leaves before gaining traction and darting frantically between the trees. She dare not look back for fear of witnessing further violence, or worse – swift pursuit. Presently she didn't know who she feared most, but with the taste of the Viking in her mouth and the echo of his body atop her and between her legs she was inclined to think that her true terror was being recaptured by him once more.

'Third time's a charm,' a wicked voice sing-songed in her head.

She was blind to any goal, save perhaps escaping these woods. One bounding step followed the next, and the next, and the next, and so it continued until her breathing was short and her legs burned. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, however, and she felt that she could sprint her way to freedom if it took eternity to do so. Caution was thrown to the wind as she crashed through the underbrush, running from her predators as a rabbit flees from pursuing hounds. And very soon after, she knew she was being pursued. The unmistakable drum of hoof beats reached her ears.

A last, desperate, spurt of energy propelled her like a shot, and she wove through the labyrinthine trees with little care for the scrapes and scratches that etched her skin from the prickly twigs she passed. Alas, her pursuer was not easily lost, and ere she could redirect her course, the Viking, mounted on a steed of her master's, cut off her escape by using himself and the horse as a barrier.

Molly caught herself before she ran into the black destrier, her eyes traveling up once to meet the Viking's as she gasped for air. His expression betrayed no oncoming retribution for having disobeyed him; in fact, he sat almost calmly in the saddle, his arms crossed easily over the pommel. Yet, Molly knew his focus rested solely on her. She sensed it by the way he masked it.

"You are a fast runner," he commented, almost nonchalantly. Molly did not answer. Instead, she took advantage of taking full breaths as she discreetly transferred her weight from one leg to the other, slowly edging her way backwards. Her eyes remained on the Viking, warily anticipating what next he might try. He looked a mess, incongruously seated on the fine horse while he himself a picture of bloody violence.

"You did well…back there," he said, looking past her, as if seeing the scene they had just departed.

"I had little choice," she spat.

His eyes met hers. "You would rather return then to your castle where you fear death awaits you?"

"No," she bit out through a tight-lipped frown. "No, but I – "

"What?" he prompted when she cut herself off. She looked over her shoulder, as if expecting to see a sudden door labeled, 'Escape Route'. Only the woods stared back at her, however, and her movements grew more restless. She no longer tried to hide her attempts of retreat, as she glanced around, taking greater strides backwards. The Viking dismounted the horse, his leg swinging over the neck of the destrier. His landing was accompanied by a wince, but other than that he showed no outward sign of his pain.

Molly jumped slightly, her fists clenching by her sides.

"Haven't we been here before," she asked rhetorically.

"You would not make it one night on your own," he said, his calm demeanor masking his measured steps. "Between the soldiers and the harsh wilderness you would either be caught or dead before the following morning. Is my company not a better alternative?"

Molly's restlessness subsided at his words, at the truth she heard in them. Her retreat stilled as her eyes gazed sightlessly at the leafy floor. Absently, she became aware that the Viking now stood before her, his presence a paradox of her blink-of-an-eye altered fortunes, and now the only anchor that she could cling to in order to weather the storm he'd created. Slowly, she brought her eyes up to stare him directly in the face.

"And why do you even care what becomes of me? I seem only to ever be prey to you."

He considered her a moment, his eyes boring into hers as if attempting to read a hidden message he was certain would be written there for him. With a grunt, he dipped his hand beneath the band of his trousers, rummaged for a second before pulling out a book. Molly looked on with a deep crease between her brows, her lip curling up in disgust at his hiding place for whatever he had brought forth.

"I keep it with me always so that should I ever meet someone who can read it, I may learn its secrets," he told her candidly. She eyed the book with an ounce more interest, noting that one side was smeared with the same blood that adorned both of them. At least she hoped so, though there was no telling with a berserker. There was something peculiar to it, however, something that made her want to reach out for it.

"What is it?" she asked, keeping her gaze on it.

"Do you not recognize it?" he responded sounding surprised. She looked up then, and shook her head. "Take it."

With a barely concealed grimace, Molly had no choice but to accept it when he all but shoved it into her grasp. Taking care to use only her fingertips to handle the book, and to stay clear of the blood, she cracked it open to a random page.

The woods grew suddenly quiet, or was that merely the blood rushing to her head, pounding in her ears as a piece of her old life stared back at her. An unbidden teardrop quickly ran down the bridge of her nose, dangling on the tip for just a second before falling on the familiar pages of her journal.

All the fight left her as she was thrown back into the painful memories of first arriving in the past. Seeing the names of her friends, of their day-to-day activities in Wales, England, and finally in Scotland before the writing gave way to ominous blank pages.

Molly let the Viking guide her to the horse. She let him help her into the saddle, and she lightly held onto his middle as they set off to some unknown destination. Feeling drained physically, emotionally, and with her surge of adrenaline now depleted, she hesitated only a second before resting her head on his back and closing her eyes; flashes of her own writing lighting up behind her eyelids.

She did not trust him, yet she found that she did not fear his physically harming her. His returning her journal had pulled him away from being that phantom she had viewed him as for so long.

With yet another twist of fate, she found herself in the care of a man she had escaped in the most dramatic of circumstances six years prior, and all she could think about was how happy she was to be holding her diary, propped as it was between her stomach and his back.

Breaking the silence, she had only one thing more to say before letting drowsiness overwhelm her.

"I can't believe you kept it in your trousers," she mumbled into his back.

Even if her eyes had been open, she would've missed the satisfied smile that cracked the mud and blood on the Viking's face. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .