smoke and honey

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“Then it sounds as if you are already a warrior, one far braver than my brothers and sisters.” Agnes was talking about her fellow warriors with whom she spent hours and, even, months with. Sometimes the blonde craved something different when it came to war and tending to bees sounded refreshing in her views.

When she heard the other female speak, Agnes couldn’t help the expression on her face. It brightened to amusement, something she hadn’t felt for a long while. “Is that so? It makes me want to try it.” She really needed sleep herself but that was something she kept to herself, only mentioning it to the few she trusted. “I mean,” she cleared her throat, “I think some of them could do with some sleep as I believe they’d rather train than rest.”

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A doubtful little smile curved Beyla’s lips at the older woman’s comment, but she shook her head to humbly deny such a comparison.  The gods had given her strong hands and an able body, that was true enough, but Beyla could never imagine herself holding a sword or shooting a bow.  

“If you and your warriors made yourselves guests at my master’s home, I would gladly serve you.”  She offered, her smile holding the barest hint of playfulness.  “Though I have rarely seen the mead that I brew lead to restful sleep.  It usually ends in something more...chaotic, and generally destructive.”  Drunk vikings were hardly known for their restraint, after all.

Originally posted by mumbal33

Lothor enjoyed being alone within the woods. Tranquil, calm. The sounds of the river and bird chirping were soothing, reminded him of home. He was happy here, though she was not shy about being in an inn.

Lothkr had called the night before and it was time to grab find something to eat. He was in a hunting mood and was about to pack up until he heard a faint sound. Quickly he turned with sword in hand, only to find a young woman. He eyed her carefully but heard her greetings. She did not seem threatening, he nodded to her respectfully.

“Good morning to you as well.” He placed his sword away in the sheath, folding his arms. “Can’t I help you?”

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Beyla’s heart thundered in her ears and all through her bones, adrenaline having shot through her like an arrow at the sight of such a massive man with a drawn sword.  Sharp eyes followed the line of the stranger’s sword as he sheathed it, taking in the strength and size of him even more than she had at a distance.  There was little she could have done if he had a taste for violence, for she would not have been able to outrun him, nor less put up a fight.

She kept him in her sights with a dark-eyed gaze, her expression guarded as she did not slow her steps.  “I...need no help, though it is kindly offered.  Good day to you.”  Another nod, this one of presumed farewell as she cast her eyes past him, to the wild forest beyond.

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“The Gods already favour this decision. But they don’t have control over us, they can only guide us,” Ingrid told the other servant, pacing around the room. Like she said, it was already risky enough for the woman to be here, along with everyone else. “If you’re worried for your life being here with me, you’re free to go. I won’t have any ill-feelings. We live in a selfish world, you must always take care of yourself above all else,” 

Lately, though, it seems that Ragnar was more guarded than usual. He had to be a fool to think that there wasn’t something brewing quietly. 

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Beyla’s eyes tracked the other woman around the work, her dark and solemn gaze betraying nothing.  “I worry not for myself.”  Her voice was quiet, as ever.  “The gods will do with me as they see fit, and I do not pretend to be important to the likes of a king.”  She folded the dough under her hands once more, setting it aside to rise.  “ I only seek to know what dangers I may yet protect my charges from.  My master’s children and grandchildren are in Hedeby, and I hold their safety as something sacred.“

When the woman spoke up, Eivor was the one that was shocked into being frozen. He just stared at her. His mind suddenly filling with memories he had thought long gone. The first time they had raided in Wessex. Finding her in the monetary and whisking her away to live with his family as a servant. One that was treated like family. He remembered the day Lif, his daughter, named Beyla. Remembered seeing Beyla holding Lif when she had just barely been born. How the two of them played together when they both grew a bit older. Kiira, Eivor’s wife, had loved Beyla as well. She would wanted so badly to teach her everything about being a Norse woman. 

The good did not last forever. Those memories twisted into darker ones. Coming home to find only Beyla left. Her big watery eyes and trembling hands. The way she told him about the death of his family. The way she sobbed not just for his family but for Eivor as well. He remembered giving her up to her current owners. Good people. Kind people. People who could give her a better life than Eivor would be able to provide. She begged him to stay. She’d never asked for anything and she begged him. 

Seeing her again was a shock to the system. One that could only be akin to jumping into a cold pool of water after working in the sun. Part of Eivor wanted to get up and leave, yet he was glued to the spot. “When did you return?” He asked after a long moment of silence. His mind racing to try and figure out how best to deal with such a situation. “Are- Have you been treated well?” Eivor asked hoping to the gods that she had. That the family he had entrusted with Beyla had not used her as some slaves were known to be used. 

.

Half a lifetime of suppressed feeling and lost hope overwhelmed her mind, though she fought hard not to show it.  There was a painful tension written across every line of her body, and she tried to ignore the instinct to flee the hall and put as much distance between herself and this unwanted catharsis as she could.

She had wanted this so much, at one point in her life.  Days and nights spent waiting to hear Eivor arrive in her master’s house, eager to take her home, back to the farm.  He had acted selflessly; she knew that now, with painful certainty.  But making the right decision had not been the easy decision, and both Eivor and Beyla had surely suffered for it.  If Eivor had kept her at the farm, there would have been nothing for her but ghosts and the ashes of the people she had called family.

But no matter how certain she was that Eivor had made the right decision, Beyla had still spent years wondering if he hated her for living when Kiira and Lif had died...for she had surely hated herself.

Beyla finally nodded, unshed tears blurring her vision.  “I am well.  I have a good life.”  She swallowed thickly, working hard to keep her tears from falling and embarrassing them both.  “I’ve...I’ve heard stories of some of your raids.  I tried to listen for news of you, after...”  After I had stopped looking up at the horizon, waiting for you to bring me back home.  “Are...are you well?”

This was the scene where Aldis felt much at home, drunk off of her arse and glaring down the barrel of another full cup. Aldis was sheets to the wind as her usual habits ran amuck. Spurred by the sounds of Viking revelries, she had wondered within sight of an all to familiar face.

When inebriated, the world was crystal clear and light as a feather… usually. Tonight she had seen the face of a woman who made her blood run cold. Her shaking palms clenched at her sides. Aldis could feel the bloodlust lurking beneath the intoxication. Actions would be unwise, Aldis knew this to be true. Nails dug into her palms as she exited the longhouse and stood bathed in moonlight.

How many fantasies had she envisioned where that face was contorted in pain? Thousands or more scenarios raced through her mind and yet she refused to cause the festivities to cease. It was a calm request that shook her from thoughts of violent delights.

“Who am I to say what you can and cannot do?”

Aldis turned to face the woman with an eccentric gaze, “Though, I wonder if you have been allotted any time to yourself. Refil the mead pitcher of you must, but I think they have had enough to keep themselves merry. The real concern is your merriment and mine….” Aldis stumbled toward a tree where she caressed the bark longingly. “This tree wants to be a real boat, but he’s much too old….frail, perhaps you’d make a fine push cart. What do you think?” Aldis addressed the one who delivered her mead for the evening.

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The barest flicker of feeling passed over Beyla’s young face, something between confusion and concern.  Her head cocked to the side, taking in the sight of the strange woman speaking to a seemingly silent tree like they were old friends.  There was very little imagination in Beyla; she was too pragmatic to waste her time with fantastical things, not when there was work to be done.  It was easier to assume that this was all due to strong drink, and there were very few things she knew better than navigating between those who had filled their cups one too many times.

“I would just as soon see that it built a good, hot fire to keep away the cold and cook good food.”  She answered, voice slow and measured and quiet now that they were free of the noise inside.

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Agnes watched Svend leave, a slight smile pressing along her features. How long had it been that she had known him? His excitement for his growing family and the way he treated his thralls made her respect him. He never seemed bothered by her need to train and her other interests, that most of their peers seemed to not notice. 

The blonde took in the smaller female, keeping her face impassive which usually frightened others. Agnes knew that size had nothing to do with personal strength and that it was more to do with their core. When she heard about beekeeping and mead, she briefly glanced over to the trainees and sighed in relief. Luckily they hadn’t overheard her and went back to their duties. The blonde looked back at the other female, a smile finally gracing her lips. “You keep bees, hm? I hear some men flee from the sight of them so you must be very brave. How do you prevent them from striking you with their stingers? And I am sure they require rest and drink soon so we could fetch some mead for them.” Agnes paused, looking at the other carefully waiting for an answer, wondering if her words made sense.

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Beyla mirrored the woman’s smile out of politeness, though she gave a more honest grin at her questions.  “The only certain thing in beekeeping is that you will be stung, it is only a question of how often.”  She said, mirth dancing in her eyes.  “But perhaps, I am luckier than most.”

Her gaze followed the shieldmaiden’s to where the warriors trained with strength and varying amounts of skill.  It was all too easy to imagine the wildness that would ensue if she were to begin pouring mead for a city’s worth of warriors.  She did not wish to directly contradict a stranger, especially one that was almost certainly armed...but Beyla also had no desire to watch a bevy of drunk idiots hack at each other with swords.  She cleared her throat, attempting to sound diplomatic.  “With respect, the mead I brew is strong enough that they would not be of much use to you after it was poured.”

Gods, Eivor was tired. He had been attacked my memory in his sleep for the past few nights. Haunted by those who no longer walked this earth but whom he saw in his home daily. Their faces always just in the corner of his eye. Their touch just out of arms reach. He needed to sleep this night. He needed it badly. As the spring warned the sea, Eivor would be come busy with preparations for the summer raids. He could not avoid training the younger men and women up either. Should a battle come to their doorstep, and it did seem to be going that way, he needed to be able to win the war. If only for the people who had supported him all these years. 

Sliding his hands across his face, Eivor let out a long sigh. His hand raising to grip a loaf of bread that had been left out. He ripped a piece off as footsteps neared him from across the room. Thank the gods, mead was on its way. Well, the thought it was till the sound of smashing clay hit his ears. So much for the quick work of the Long house thralls. His hands dropped to the table in front of him and he silently prayed to Odin that someone was coming with another jug quickly. 

His eyes then turned ton Beyla. Eivor did not recognize her. He had not see her in close to a decade. With one eye brow raised, he gave her an unimpressed look. “Are you having a fit?” He asked with only a hit of mind concern. Though it did not stop him from tossing another small hunk of bread into his mouth. “Do you need our healer?” Eivor asked again hoping that might snap the thrall out of whatever trance she seemed to be in. 

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She had not let herself hope for this, not for a long time.  Even in the days where she had hated him for abandoning her, she had imagined running away to the comfort and familiarity of home, or imagined him arriving at her master’s home to take her back.  But those naive hopes had not ever been realized, and in the mean time, Beyla had a life that needed to be lived.  She had let her heart harden, and her emotions deaden, and that had been that.

He moved, and her breath caught in her chest as the man turned and spoke to her.  The same voice, the same eyes like ice over a blue sea.  He did not recognize her, and it occurred to her only absently that she had been a child when he had last set eyes on her.

Beyla took a hesitant step toward him, mead soaking into the soles of her leather shoes.  “Eivor, it’s--”  She swallowed, her throat aching with half a lifetime of unshed tears.  “It’s Beyla.”

Closed for: @xbeyla​

As much as Eivor should have been out helping train the younger members of the village, he could not manage it. Not today. His mind was a mess of wants. His desire to sail away from this place full of haunting memories had weighed him down since the moment his eyes opened this morning. Training had been a passion for him once but that flame seemed to have gone out long ago. Now he wished only to do. Not to teach but to learn. Yes, Eivor needed able bodied men and woman to raid with but today was not a day for them to learn. Not from him at least. Today, his words would be waisted and unimpassioned. Nothing from him would make them any better. His mind lay less where. Which is way he’d come to the Long House so early in the afternoon. 

Normally, he would have at least waited till evening to start drinking.  When the sun started to dip and its reflection pooled against the sea waters, that’s when he headed to the Long House. Today was not a day that he could wait that long. He was writing this one off. A day to feel something other than anger or sadness and the only thing that would cause those feelings to subside was mead. Mead and lots of it. Thor himself would have been challenged to out drink Eivor. He was sure of that. This was what would impress the gods, no doubt, that is what Eivor told himself anyways. 

Sitting down on the long, wooden, bench, Eivor let out a sigh and ran his hands over his hair. It was getting out of order in its length. He would have to have someone cut it for him before the summer raids. The last thing he needed was for some Saxon to grab his hair mid battle and make a fool out of him. Raising one hand, Eivor did not bother to look for a thrall as there was always one near in the Long House. “Mead. As much as I can have.” He grunted out the order before letting his hand drop back down to the table with a light thump. 

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The day had been a good one thus far.  The work at her master’s household had been easily managed, as the bulk of the family had gone to visit the master’s brother’s family some days away.  This had left Beyla’s hands distressingly idle, with winter having sent the bees to sleep and her normal duties having been completed far too quickly.  Idleness was too close to laziness, and Beyla hated both.

The Long House was the obvious destination for a servant finding themselves without a task, as there were always empty cups to be filled in a hall full of vikings.  Even here, the benches were mostly empty and the hall did not yet shake with the noise of warriors recently returned from the sea or from battle.  Perhaps later she would find the place growing wild again, when the sun had set and people returned home from the cold with a thirst for company and fine drink.

It was still early though, and she had spent the hours helping the servants of the hall in what small ways she could.  A jug of mead was held fast in her able hands, still mostly full.  It was not her own mead that Beyla carried, but it was still strong enough for anyone who did not care overmuch about the taste.  When a voice called for a cup of it, Beyla moved on swift feet to fill the man’s cup...

...only for her body to go entirely numb, as the jug fell from her hands.

She did not hear it crash to the earthen floor, nor did she feel the mead splash across her skirts.  There was no sound, no thought for those around her, only the sight of a face she could not forget if she lived a thousand lifetimes.  Beyla could not speak, couldn’t summon a single word to her lips if she tried, and she stared and tried to remember how to breathe.

The sun was only just over the horizon when Beyla took her first steps into the forests outside of Hedeby.  She had been awake for hours, helping to start and stoke the kitchen fires and bake bread for a hungry household.  There were some hours yet before she would have to return to knead freshly-risen dough, or help watch the master’s children and grandchildren as they ran wild through his halls.  She fully expected to spend these precious few hours in silence, letting the stillness and peace of the land settle in her soul and help her brace against the day’s burdens.

But apparently, that was not what the gods had in mind for her.  As she rounded the path, it was clear to see that Beyla was not the only one with the idea to pass the morning amidst the trees.  There was a man still some paces away, unfamiliar and terribly strong in appearance, even from such a distance.  A tiny thing like Beyla would have been best served turning on her heel and returning to civilization, but there was the promise of a fine morning’s walk beyond this man’s place in the path, and Beyla was loathe to give it up.

She deliberately made her steps louder, imagining that a man of his stature would not react pleasantly to being surprised.  When she was within hearing distance, Beyla cleared her throat and spoke in her quiet voice.  “Good morning,” she called, slowing her steps only enough to be polite, obviously intending to continue on her way into the trees, quite alone.

–

“Expect it all, Beyla. Seriously,” Ingrid told the slave woman, rolling her eyes at her. It was blankly obvious of the risks she was making, the risk of everyone who was in the same room as them. They were all plotting against the King, all can result in death. But could they really kill all those who are in here? “I can’t think of the worst possible things that can happen, but I am sure if Ragnar becomes aware, he will have no issue cutting off my head and putting it on a spike like those heathen saxons do to their criminals to set an example.”

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Beyla’s stomach twisted at the confidence in the other woman’s voice.  There was obviously no doubt in Ingrid’s mind that a nightmarish future was before them, courtesy of a drunken king.  She looked down at her flour-covered hands, imagining them in chains.  What harm would come to them, if they were caught speaking as they were now?  There were other servants nearby; did they agree with Ingrid, or stay quiet out of fear?  How long did they have before all semblance of safety fled?

It was easy enough to remain outwardly calm, and she kept her eyes on her work as she tried to ignore the cold bite of fear in her bones.  “We must rely upon the gods’ mercy.”  But even the devout Beyla recognized those words as a platitude and nothing more.

“Ragnar is becoming a drunken just like my father was. And because my father was such a drunken, he was easily overthrown out of that weakness. What makes you think history can’t repeat itself?” The dark-haired woman asked, playing with the small knife in her head as she was cutting a few pieces of bread into chunks. “He knows danger lingers, he just doesn’t know when it will strike. Tell who you must. The King or potential supporters. Let them know his reign is coming to an end,”

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A shot of something like fear went down Beyla’s spine at the stranger’s warning, though her face did not betray her thoughts outright.  Her own hands paused in their work as she let the words wash over her, with her stillness hiding whatever panic she may feel.  Hedeby was still unfamiliar, with undercurrents of gossip and magic and politics that she, as a stranger, struggled to comprehend.  But it did not take a nuanced understanding of kings and gods to recognize danger when it was imminent, and this woman spoke of it with a chilling certainty.

Beyla took a deep breath, then slowly worked her hands back into the dough beneath her hands.  She had been largely silent in her time amongst these unfamiliar servants, in this unfamiliar house; the sound of her own quiet voice was startling even to her.  “And...what danger should we expect?”

Anna despised such events. Being held under thrall by the King offered her little protection when the mead flowed so freely. The jeers, the wandering hands, the foul stench of ale and fermented fish. It abhorred her, but they were a necessity. It was the Viking way of life. A way of life that still felt alien, even after two years.

The King had chosen to remain home this evening, but that hadn’t put a halt to his want of mead. He’d demanded a thrall be sent to collect some, and so the task had landed upon Anna. She sauntered through the crowds, brushing aside any advance in search of one person in particular. A fellow thrall with a reputation.

“Beyla?” She questioned the young woman wearily, hoping she could gain what she came for as quickly as possible.

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Part of a good servant’s responsibility was to be unseen, to smooth the day to day workings of a household and keep themselves out of the way of their masters.  It was something that Beyla herself had long excelled in, though as her skill with mead-making had grown, it had become harder to hide in her work.  Tonight, the wildness of the feast had helped return some of that anonymity, though it appeared now that it would be far harder to remain invisible as the night wore on.  That being said, it was still a surprise to be sought by name in an as-yet unfamiliar city.

Dark, solemn eyes took in the clothing of the young woman, gathering some idea of this strangers’s status and household without the need for awkward questions.  “Yes, I am Beyla.  Do you have need of me?”

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Agnes turned when she heard a voice speak up from behind her. It was a young female that she hardly recognised and, judging from her movements, this one was one of those thralls. Now, the blonde didn’t have any slaves or thralls working for her but her older brother did, she was sure. When Agnes heard the name of her master, her lips quirked up in recognition and she nodded slowly. “Wait here for a moment,” she gently instructed and waltzed over to the man in question. 

The blonde got along with Svend - due to a mutual respect and knew of his wife’s condition. As soon as she utter the message, the male warrior discarded his sword and went on his way, a huge grin marring his features. Agnes walked back to the thrall and gave her frozen look. “Message received. Now, do you need to head back or would you like to observe the training?” Agnes didn’t know how to act around thralls (and most women in general) and often displayed a softness around them.

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The news was met with obvious joy, and Beyla watched as Svend passed by his comrades to receive thumps on the back and shouts of encouragement as he disappeared towards their master’s holding.  Beyla’s mind was already going back to the tasks she had left behind, the measuring and making of mead, the molding of candles, the pressing of honeycomb.  It would be a full day’s work, and she would collapse into her blankets after dark with the aches and pains of a job well done.

Only her thoughts were interrupted when the shieldmaiden returned to Beyla’s side, startling her just slightly with the suggestion that she could stay.  That surprise did not show on her face, but she glanced between the men and women at their work and the shieldmaiden watching them with a sharp gaze.  “I...hardly think that the warriors of Hedeby would have use for a beekeeper among their ranks, unless it was to keep their thirst at bay with strong mead.”

THE SOUNDS OF SWORD AND SHIELD CLASHING TOGETHER WAS A SOUND THAT AGNES ADORED. It was early morning and the chill was clinging to her skin as stepped out of her hut to admire the training going on. The blonde placed her hands on her hips and glanced around her, attempting to keep her expression neutral. All around her, men and women (of various sizes), were testing their steal for battle. It made Agnes ache with the anticipation for the next raid they would go on, if their king had the notion to go that was.

Stopping in the middle of a morning’s work was an easy way to rile Beyla’s ill temper, but there had been no way around the urgent task she was given.  It was easy to follow the sound of singing steel, even as Beyla had to navigate the unfamiliar paths and alleyways of Hedeby to reach the source of it.  Clearing the town’s muddy paths, she at last saw warriors honing their skills with varying degrees of success, and hurried toward them.

She came to a stop just behind a woman whose stance spoke of authority, and Beyla felt the same thrill of respect and fear that she always felt near someone that knew much of war.  But she had a duty, and thus she spoke and bowed her head as any obedient servant would.  “Forgive me, but I am to find the man called Svend of my master’s household.  His wife’s pains have come, and he asked to be made aware when she went into the birthing bed.”

the crumpled form of a man laid at erik’s feet. sprays of red blood dotted the snow around them, evidence of the fight that had just taken place. crimson dripped off his fists both from the man below and the cuts and scraped on his calloused hands. hearing a noise behind him, erik quickly turned to spot who it was. golden yellow eyes locking with another individual. “you shouldn’t be here.” he told them, worry laced in his voice.

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The morning had been a good one.  Frozen wind had danced around Beyla’s skirts as she left her master’s camp in the first rays of a cold winter sun, ice and snow crunching underfoot as she allowed the unfamiliar path to lead her along.  She had ended up in the shadowed forests that surrounded Hedeby, regarding the trees and brush and snow with a detached curiosity.  There was no real point to her wanderings today, no task she must accomplish, nothing to fetch for the household; she only wished to know more of the land her master would call home for the coming months, for it would become the center of her world when spring returned.

It was luck that had her finding a forgotten bounty of rose hips, snow clinging to the bright red of them but not entirely hiding their brilliant hue.  A little smile curved her lips as she brushed away the snow and tugged her coat this way and that to make a basket, filling it with the sweet bounty that would be such a treat for the children of the household as the winter months continued.  She couldn’t resist popping one into her mouth, relishing the bite of cold and rush of sweetness on her tongue as she went about her work.  This find had made her wanderings quite worth the effort, and she set out to return in just as meandering a way as she had come.

After an hour’s walk deeper and deeper still into the trees, the outermost layers of her clothing were frozen stiff.  Beyla did not feel the cold overmuch, and she did not hear the gods yet whispering in her ears that she must lay down and take that final rest, as so many had done in times of true cold.  She kept walking, and watching, and humming an ancient song under her breath as she wandered...until another shock of red stopped her steps, and a dart of cold shot through her heart.

One hand reached to slowly draw down the cloth from her face, revealing sharp, solemn eyes and cheeks ruddy with cold.  Beyla looked the man up and down, the red on his hands and in the snow so much redder than the rose hips she carried, but her expression did not give anything away.  Bloodshed was common enough, and it was not the blood that caused her panic, but the man’s eyes as he told her she had stumbled upon something best left unseen.  A moment or two passed before she could speak, and even then, it was barely audible even to herself.  “No.  I should not.”  Her eyes looked between the man and the broken, bloodied shape at his feet, and she wondered if she should be afraid.  If the gods saw fit for this to be her death, then she had no power to fight against fate...but still, she was afraid to think that this had been the last morning, and these the last words she might speak.  “Is it enough to say that I will not speak of this to anyone?  Or must I expect the same fate at your hands?”

It also did not help that her master had given their hosts the gift of Beyla’s own very, very fine (and very, very strong) mead alongside the barrels of beer and ale that the other thralls ferried to and fro.

Beyla flitted between the long tables with a heavy jug, watching the room descend into something like chaos.  She was cautious, taking care to not be trod on or tripped over as she filled one cup here and another there, using her own judgment to determine if the mead was too strong for someone already too deep in their cups.  Denying a massive, drunk Viking his drink was something akin to challenging a wild boar to battle, but Beyla had the advantage of experience in doing just that.  She always managed to calm or confuse with a smirking jest, or a teasing way of turning the eye to another sweetly-shaped servant with a full jug of beer, giving her time to move on to the next empty cup.

All too soon, her jug was empty again, and she kept to the farthest edges of the revelers as she made her way outside to refill it.  She was nearly to the door when her path was blocked by an unfamiliar figure.  “If I may pass?”  Her voice was polite, and just barely loud enough to carry over the wild sounds around them.