#vikingsfic

You were running through a field, laughing into the air. The sun shining, in the lush Nordic summertime. You turned you head back to see Ubbe, chasing you. He laughed as he gained speed. Finally he tackled you, and the two of you crashed into the ground. You both groaned as the wind left your lungs for a moment before collapsing into another round of giggles. You were a tangle of arms and legs, laying together, in the tall grass. He cradled your head in one hand, keeping it from the dirt. As you both quieted down, he lifted his other hand hand to the hair that framed your face and stroked it, staring into your eyes. His hands were rough from his scars and calluses, signs of hard work. And yet, it was the most gentle sensation in the world. He caressed you so delicately, like you were the most important thing in the world. It felt so real. So tactile. So… there.

You gasped awake and went to reach for the knife under your pillow, but before you could move, those blue eyes stopped you in your tracks. Ubbe sat on the edge of the bed, his hand caressing the side of your head and he whispered, “I missed you.”

In shock, you reached out your arms and pulled him down to hug you. You held him against your chest for a long moment, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“I missed you so much, my love,” you sighed.

You felt him smile, his cheek pressed flush to yours as his beard tickled your neck. “Every day, I thought of you. Every night, I wished you were with me.”

You both laid like that, together only lit by a quickly burning candle in the corner, for a long time. You felt hot tears spring to your eyes and spill out as you cried, “I love you, Ubbe.”

He rose out of your hug and looked you in the eyes, one hand on either side of your face. “Why these tears?”

“I don’t know, I just missed you so badly. My days are not the same when you are gone.”

“Mine either.” He leaned his forehead against yours. “But I am here now.”

He sat up, kicking off his boots and quickly stripped his outer layers and crawled over you to climb under the furs. He pulled you flush against him, face to face, arms encircling your waist.

“I am here now, with you. And I will not go for a very long time.”

You both drifted into an easy, deep sleep, waking to find one another again in the morning.

Cathy and Ellie gave Molly a final, appraising look, before having to agree with Gracie.

"Just don't go off the paths and – oh, is your phone charged? Do you have a signal?"

"Yes and yes," Molly answered without checking. "I will stay on the paths, look both ways before crossing, and I'll make sure not to talk to any strangers. Happy?"

Ellie grumbled. "Fine, but if you're not back within the hour Scotland's going to have three stereotypical Americans on their hands who won't shut up until they find their friend. So for the sake of our motherland's reputation – don't daydream!"

Laughing, Molly shooed away their concerns, waving fondly until their little rented car dipped into a valley, vanishing from sight.

Free to explore, Molly thought giddily.

At a much slower pace than the automobile she sloshed her way down the road making sure to hit every puddle until the denim of her jeans were beyond damp and murky water could be felt sliding down the inside of her wellies. She twirled her umbrella over her shoulder, humming 'Singin' in the Rain' to herself as the flat land around her held the tempting invitation to drop her umbrella and just run until she couldn't – to throw caution to the wind and indulge even further into her reckless nature.

She wanted to see everything that could possibly be seen on this trip, to soak up as much as the culture and folk lore as possible. In a week's time they'd be journeying even further north to the Highlands, something she was particularly excited about. Snapshots she'd seen of the rugged land spoke directly to her romantic imagination and the raw mountains with hints of mossy green, she felt sure, would easily fulfill her desire for adventure. She gave a rueful chuckle at her friends' expense as she thought of the near future and how many times she planned on giving them the slip. Her endurance for new experiences far outpaced theirs.

For now, they were staying in a seaside chalet in Dunbar, overlooking a glorious stretch of beach with a walk that was part of John Muir Park. It was to this strip of sand she was headed. The rain was tolerable; no threat of lightening as of yet, and the desire to stand on the beach and be eye-level with the stormy waves, the sea-breeze filling her lungs, sounded like the perfect cure for cabin fever.

The beach was deserted, forcing Molly to momentarily doubt the sanity of her notions, but then the drizzle sputtered into a few week drops, and she felt it safe enough to continue. The tide was low, stretching back so that the glistening sand seemed to extend for miles before meeting the white foam. Slipping out of her wellies, Molly toed the sand, imprinting her feet in the cooling ground. She stood in the space between high and low tide, looking out towards the horizon in easy meditation, the natural rhythm lulling her into a deep serenity so that time was forgotten. Her mind turned to the legends of natural in-between points: cross-roads; the gloaming hours of dawn and twilight, not quite day nor yet night; the stretch of sand between high and low tide.

Eventually, the drizzle resumed, though turned stronger this time, and Molly was forced out of her reverie. Unconsciously, she had allowed her umbrella to droop to the side, and now straightened it above her head once more. Checking her phone she read the time as being half past two, and if she were to follow her friend's warning about time she had only eight minutes to return before Scotland would be plagued with a headache.

Chuckling to herself Molly cast a final glance at the sea before turning her back towards it.

Missed by her roving gaze, however, was a speck on the horizon. Smaller than a dot, yet moving swiftly towards the shore, its wooden body soon loomed clear as the men waiting within watched the ever approaching beach with war-lust in their eyes. The metal of their weapons were dull under the foreboding sky, yet they received the fall of the rain with a low pattering that thrummed pervasively on the hull of the longboat. Out of the scores of men, only one stood with the outward appearance of patience. His glance held a spark of wisdom missed by the others as he prepared himself to once again meet the somewhat familiar land of the Christians.

It had been quick. The tolling bells had eerily fallen silent all too quickly when the monks ringing them had been relieved of their heads. The monastery sacked, the town pillaged; young men who were no more than farmers or apprentices bravely stood their ground against the invading forces only to be cut down with a ferocity and cruelty undeserved. The passionate actions of the berserkers were dispassionate in their execution. There was no thought, no mercy, only the blood-lust that they entreated to take hold of their mind when rampaging. The women faced depredations hitherto unknown to them as they no longer had their men folk to protect them. Their screams related the horrors of the North-Men far better than any round church bell could.

Undisturbed by this red backdrop, Ragnar Lothbrok walked slowly down what had only recently been an aisle of the church. The wooden benches now overturned, cut, chipped, and strewn alongside the bodies that had fallen atop them. The sight did nothing to upset the marauder, though unlike the rest, it did not make him revel either.

His steps were firm, but questing. He had no predestined location that he sought, only to gather all that he could to learn more of this new world. Past a ruined door that led to an ante-chamber, he found more bodies slumped over slanted desks; their life's blood mingling with the colorful ink on the illuminated pages.

Recognizing these monks as being similar to Athelstan, Ragnar flicked a curious glance towards the ruined pages, his gaze running over the unintelligible scripts. In terms of value, these sheets were worthless to him, even less to Earl Haraldson. He may not understand the lines that marked out a language, but he knew that they were filled with nothing but the Christian G-d. Still, there was an undeniable twitch in his hand that impulsively snatched at the most unspoiled parchment.

The yearning for knowledge, no matter its source, was a more powerful inducement than the finest of kings' hoards.

. . .

It was not long before the treasures; the gold crosses and platters, the silver goblets and candle-holders were accounted for and brought excitedly to the proud serpent's head rising from the water. The lapping waves caressed the hull, only to turn to erratic splashing when the tread of the Northmen disturbed the shallow depths as they distributed their goods throughout the boat. The rain had ceased early on in their raid. Their talk was disconnected from the carnage they'd delivered to the town; happy and boasting of the fine things they would get for themselves and their women once returned. The honor that would come to them as their riches increased; as they had no doubt it would, seeing how bountiful this land to the west was proving to be.

Ragnar stood back from this talk, both physically and figuratively. His ambitions were perhaps more far-reaching than those on the beach, yet his wits were sharper. Earl Haraldson was much on his mind of late. Ragnar had drawn the board and now the moves must be played by himself and those involved – whatever the consequences.

The land he stood on was rich, richer than mere jewels and trinkets - it was a land of wealth. Tillable soil, hardy animals, weather not so unforgiving as the climes of his homeland. Yes, he thought, his narrowed gaze taking in the sprawling promise, the flash of his eyes striking against the brown of his skin. Yes, there are riches to be had here.

Movement caught his notice breaking the spell he was weaving for himself. There was a flash of red between the green foliage of the trees that grew on the far reaches of the beach.

Cautiously stepping forward Ragnar paid a quick glance over his shoulder to the men by the boat. He was unobserved by them. Looking back to the trees he tilted his head, his eyes roving for a sign of a threat while he unobtrusively tightened his grip on his ax.

Flicking his gaze back and forth, Ragnar entered the first line of trees. He could hear the person's tread now - quick and careless. At first they seemed to be marching away from him, however, a few seconds later had them returning in an indirect route. They changed course for a third time, and Ragnar found himself intrigued.

On silent feet he followed the noise, his grip no longer so intense on the handle of his ax. Low murmuring soon joined the footfalls, then, what sounded like an exceedingly frustrated grunt. There was a feminine lilt to the aggravated noise, and Ragnar quickened his steps until he saw a woman crashing through the trees away from him, only to change course as if she didn't know which direction was hers.

Sidling up to a large trunk he watched her unseen.

Her raiment piqued his interest, as did the implement she was currently wringing in her hands. The curved end was intriguing, though, with a raking gaze, Ragnar determined its dullness, therefore it's uselessness as a weapon. The satchel at her side was more promising of finding something of interest. His head was tilted curiously, his breathing quiet as he observed the woman's ill contained hysterics.

She did not belong to the town they'd just sacked, he was sure of it, though he had nothing to base it on other than an educated summation.

Cocking an ear, he heard her distressed murmurs catching on barley contained sobs. There was a foreign lilt to her undertones, alas, ere he could distinguish the tongue, her reckless ambling began taking her further away from him.

As a shadow, he trailed her, pursuing her with a hunter's instincts. Unknowingly, she made it easy for him.

She branched off a few times in opposing directions, displaying clearly that she was as much a stranger in these parts as Ragnar was. Several times he had looked back over his shoulder contemplating the distance he was risking by plunging deeper into these foreign woods. It was when he desired to go no further - and was entirely confident that this woman was alone - that he slipped from the concealment obtained from the woods and let himself be seen.

He anticipated her change of heart a second before she made it and was there to catch her startled gaze the moment she spun on her heels to retrace her steps.

Immediately she froze; a stifled gasp swallowed quickly in the back of her throat. Almost imperceptibly her fingers tightened around her strange device as her eyes darted over his appearance. At his side, his ax still had flecks of blood from spots he had missed in his initial wipe of the weapon, and he was sure splattered red ornamented his face and clothed chest. A slow smile tugged at his lips bearing an overwhelming resemblance to something feral as he enjoyed her eyes on him.

"You are a stranger?" he poised it as a question, though his tone was indicative of knowing the answer.

The woman's eyes snapped back to his from where they had been staring at the lethal array of weapons strapped to his belt. Slowly, she shook her head, voicing a stuttered response in a language unfamiliar to him. He did not doubt her authenticity, though, immediately his interest was piqued even further. A new language meant a new land, a new land meant new riches, and new riches held the tantalizing treasure of more knowledge.

In mere seconds a plan had formulated.

The woman still stood frozen, like prey who knew they were caught yet clung to the hope that if they drew little attention to themselves they'd rediscover their freedom.

"I have a proposition for you," Ragnar began in a tone of voice that might have been interpreted as mocking in his overt congeniality. It was clear she didn't understand him, if the desperate shaking of her head was anything to go by. And which only intensified when he brought himself a step closer to her.

With a trembling step back she interrupted him speaking again in her tongue; the hitch in her voice audible.

"You will come with me," he said, keeping pace with her, never quickening his step in a terrifying show of unconcerned victory. He had her, and both knew it. She stumbled away regardless, tripping on her own feet as she was unwilling to turn her back towards him. The useless implement she held she began defensively brandishing when his eyes glinted.

"There is a story to your presence, and I would have it; a meaning to your language." His gaze dropped to her denim-clad legs deliberately, then back to her eyes. "A reason for why you wear such tight trousers where any man may appreciate your form with little imagination."

She spoke again, almost pleading as her footing faltered over some roots, and Ragnar deemed it time to end the cat-and-mouse game. With little effort he was before her, trapping her between his form and the solid trunk of an oak. Grasping first her wrist, he little expected the rattle to his head when the woman suddenly struck out with her odd stick and attempted to flee. His grip tightened immediately, holding her to him, as he brought her right before his nose where he proceeded to stare down at her squirming figure. Her entire body was engaged in struggling against him, tears streaming down her already wet face as he closed his large hands around both her wrists. Even then the fight persisted in her. Her fists railed against his chest, straining to break free of his hold. The curved handle of her stick proceeded to strike Ragnar in the face a couple more times before he wrenched it from her grip and flung it blindly behind him.

He was beginning to bristle at the soreness in his nose from the implement he'd initially deemed useless.

With a final attempt, the woman threw her body weight at him, knocking him only slightly off balance, though, startling him nevertheless at the move. She was able to slip her wrists from his grasp and, forgetting her stick, darted away. However, the North Man was too sharp for her. His grasping reach for her caught her round the middle, sending her crashing to the forest floor where her head collided with the hard ground; the impact rendering her unconscious.

Ragnar breathed heavily from where he fell atop her stomach and looked up to see her still form. His brow furrowed minutely until he saw the flutter of a pulse in the dip of her jaw. Taking a moment to examine her unimpeded at such proximity he decided that he had made the right choice in seeking her out. Her face agreed with him and when her eyes would be open once more he hoped to see that flare that had sparked even through her fear. Her hair fell long and tangled prettily in the grass and fallen leaves. There was no stain of blood which told Ragnar that he'd better use this time to his advantage and get her to the boat before she woke. He would investigate later into her satchel.

. . .

The others had noticed his absence, but it was Rollo who voiced their question.

"What is this?" He extended his chin to motion at the woman slung over his brother's shoulder.

A few appraising eyes scanned her drooping body as they continued loading the last of their treasures and slaves into the long boat.

"A woman," Ragnar answered broadly, splashing into the sea and walking towards their vessel home. Rollo huffed in irritation at the deflection; he followed after.

"What is she doing here?"

"Presently? She is unconscious." He turned to give Rollo a half-smile. "She was not an easy catch."

"Why are you bringing her? We already have many slaves. She will be an extra mouth to feed." Briefly, his eyes roved over her raised derrière, taking in the shapely cut of her legs on display.

"Is that your only complaint against her coming?"

"It matters little to me which creature you decide to plow, only don't let your cock decide who has the smaller ration."

Ragnar swung into the boat with a little difficulty due to the woman, but when his feet were solidly on the deck of the boat, the woman slumped in front of him against the side, he looked down at his brother.

"Your proficiency with words brother leaves little to the imagination. There will be no shortages of food," he assured before hauling the woman back up and bringing her farther down the boat, effectively winning the argument.

Rollo spit into the sea, watching his brother's back a moment longer. He finally turned away with an unpleasant twitch to his lip as the last of the load was brought on board and the Vikings cast off.

The first thing Molly was aware of was a nauseating dip and rise that moved her body, and which made her spinning head that much more unbearable. Her eyes were shut still, and she decided to let them remain as a shield against an unfamiliar scene. The sounds engulfing her were foreign and baffling. The voices of men speaking in a different language rang left and right of her while the rushing song of the sea made clear why she was experiencing vertigo. A cool sea spray tickled her cheek causing her to flinch.

Her head was lowered, her chin nearly touching her chest, and she felt a soreness at the back of her neck from being bent so. The throbbing on the side of her skull, however, outweighed any of her other discomforts.

Molly remembered falling; remembered the man who'd appeared out of nowhere, interrupting her hysterical hike through the forest.

Upon quitting the shore with the mind of returning to her friends, Molly underwent a transformative experience of confusion, denial, anger, then raw fear when the horrid screams had pierced the stifling quiet. It was then that she heard the distant crash and clang of metal, of fearsome roars that she instinctively knew no animal emitted. In her turmoil and desperation to get away from whatever violence was taking place, and to somehow return to something she knew, Molly had lost her way in the trees. The broad trunks soon turned maze-like, only increasing her panic and seeping away any vestiges of rational thinking she might have had at her disposal.

It hardly mattered when the screaming stopped. The screaming had happened, and she prayed that whatever had caused such anguished cries would miss her entirely. Interestingly, she felt guilty at feeling no guilt in wanting to help in whatever crises had just occurred. Without even seeing what evil had befallen, she knew she was out of her depth and possibly a bit mad. When she'd first climbed the path of the cliffs that lead to the B&B she'd found nothing. No lodgings and no town; as if it had never been.

When he appeared, when she turned and found herself face to face with a heavily armored man, visible blood flecked on his clothes, his face, and disturbingly on the blade of his ax, she felt a numbing that nearly threatened immobility.

Where was he now, Molly wondered?

A tall wave rocked her and the boat close to upright, and her fear, which seemed endless this day, compelled her to scream in horror at the reality of her situation. She strangled the impulse with a low whimper, one that was drowned out by all the other noises, and forced herself to remain quiet.

He'd kidnapped her! And with that little understanding it was all she needed to know that she had to get away – even if it meant succumbing to the ocean. A known fate, even fatal, was preferable to the unknown horrors that lay in wait.

With the seed of intention planted firmly in her mind, beating back the fear that had consumed her was easier with the prospect of action. Slowly, Molly cracked open her eyes, fluttering her lashes in tiny blinks to clear away the hazy grime coating her sight. When her vision cleared, she was grateful for the curtain her long hair provided, concealing most of her face, bowed as it was. Extending her consciousness to the rest of her body, she became aware of herself being propped up against something, her feet bent in front of her, while her unbound hands lay in her lap. Her umbrella was long gone, but she still had her bag; she felt it's strap across her chest. Strangely, that comforted her.

It was the only chance she had. It was the only choice she had.

The men's voices continued, and absently she heard them as she worked up her courage to spring for her freedom. She felt certain that she was against the side of the boat, therefore a leap, and quick turn would see her over the side.

Suddenly boots entered her line of vision and stopped in front of her. She squeezed her eyes shut, then forced herself to relax to allay suspicion should whoever stood before her stoop down and look. They did indeed stoop down, lowered in a crouch, and Molly felt their presence close to hers. A hand touched her head, smoothing down the side of her face until her chin was caught in their fingers; locks of her hair caught in between. Her head was forced back, exposed to the terrifying environment, and softly placed against the wood, bracing the rest of her form.

Molly willed her breathing to remain even, willed her eyes to remain calmly shut.

She would escape, she thought to herself, encouraging her state of mind to take this attention as nothing more than passing. But then the wicked thought of lust poked at her; of his lust, of every man on this boat's lust. What if that was why she'd been taken? What if they all planned on having their way with her? She was about to spring, uncaring of the hand that still cupped her face, uncaring of the dangerous timing.

She needed to escape!

She was going to!

Now!

The hand left her, and she heard him rise, the heavy tread taking him a few steps from her.

The time was now. No one was expecting it.

Molly's eyes flew open as she blindly turned while scrambling to her feet. Her shaking hands gripped the side of the boat, hauling herself up when she heard the first shouts of protest to her endeavors. The voices grew loud and angry, but she didn't dare look back. Slinging her legs over in a surprisingly fluid movement, she dropped, only to feel an interruption in her fall to the lapping waves scant feet below. Gravity favored her, however, and it wasn't until she felt the shocking cold of the sea that she realized what the hiccup had been. Allowing herself a single glance back, she saw him standing with every intention of jumping in after her, her bag clutched in his fist. But another restrained him, shouting words that the sea swallowed, while physically holding him in place. The boat maintained its course, speeding away from her, while Molly grit her teeth against the cold and the stinging pain of the salt water washing over her head. Her body rose with the waves, her hair sticking to her face as she pulled her eyes away from the striking boat - indicative of another time - and began paddling away. She didn't even care that she lost her bag. Her spirits were somewhat buoyed when she realized that they must have only cast off, for she could see the shore.

Her strokes were strong and deliberate, and to her relief, the shore remained visible. It would be the longest she's ever swum in the ocean, but she could do it. She'd escaped her captors; she would not fail when deliverance was so close.

Ragnar stood stonily, his narrowed eyes watching the woman's progress, his fist still gripping her satchel. His anger towards his brother was immense, despite the reason that was plain to view in Rollo's argument. They had many slaves already, he knew. He'd been told. That was not what rankled him. It was something Rollo could not understand; something he hadn't understood when Ragnar had protected Athelstan against his blood-lust.

There were more to these raids than violence and treasure – to him at least.

The current was in her favor, pulling her farther and farther away, until she was nothing more than a speck climbing out of the sea and straggling up the beach. Even from this distance he saw that her gait was slow and labored; and had he had absolute command over this vessel she'd already have been back on board and under his careful watch.

She was a slippery one. Almost begrudgingly, Ragnar had to admire her daring; the barest hint of a smile tickled the corner of his mouth as his regret played ruefully on his mind. Now he could only imagine what secrets she had to tell; what manner of society permitted women to be dressed so tantalizingly, and if it was not her society, what circumstance had her attired so. Why it was she was so terrified, even before she'd been aware of him. And if he had discovered these things with her lips to his ear and those legs wrapped around him he wouldn't have minded that either.

She was gone from the beach now, having disappeared from his gaze somewhere between the trees and the lengthening distance growing between them. Ragnar stared some minutes longer until he was certain that he could gain no further sight of her. The men's chatter had died down after her escape, and Rollo, once he ensured his brother's remaining on the boat, had moved away.

With a curl to his lip, Ragnar pushed away from the edge, his attention being caught by the woman's satchel. He'd almost forgotten it in his absorbance of watching her. It's weight was sturdy and the means of opening it occupied Ragnar longer than he anticipated. He finally found success when he tugged on the metal flap and dragged it down the binding that resembled teeth. He frowned at the unusual sound and greedily dipped his hand within, rummaging and pulling out the contents. Most of the items merely raised more questions, though, one or two things were vaguely recognizable. There was a perfect ring of keys, the craftsmanship precise and clean and far the superior of any of their blacksmiths, as well as a book. Ragnar rifled through its pages eagerly, although he found nothing comparable to the works Athelstan had told him of, nor of what he had seen himself in the monasteries of the Christians. There were no colorful illuminations, only scribbles, words that maintained an elusive illegibility. Also unlike the monks' works, there was no neatness to the script. The scratching looped and slanted, were big then small from page to page.

Skimming a hand down one of the open pages, Ragnar sought any clue as to what language he was attempting to read, yet continued to be disappointed. With a snap, he shut the book, but did not return it to the satchel as he did with the rest of her things. Resting it atop his leg, he stared down at it, his eyes mapping its corners as he projected future conversations with Athelstan about translating it for him.

He may have lost the source, but perhaps he would learn of something worth his time from the green book now in his possession. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .