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AmongHeroes
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You just get some good rest Idle - and hoping the same for poor Lillian too. Long, bad, exhausting days have to end eventually [thankfully].
Shizuka quietly went about her preparations, making ready for the tea ceremony proper, anticipating the arrival of her good host's son and the moment when she would have the 'honor', at last, of offering Takahiro Souma a refreshment of her own. The cups and tea set she chose to serve were truly exquisite, expensive and paid for entirely with her own coin in lacquered colors to honor the home of her hosts. Deep blues faded to a gleaming ebony in its expertly applied glaze, somber colors that spoke the true depth of the Takahiro clan's dedication to the business of their family and their honor.
But the young woman who personally saw to the arrangement of the tatami mats appeared, at the least, anything but dark or somber. An iromuji-style kimono swathed her lithe body in deep pinks and subtle reds, reminiscent of the intricate floral rinzu pattern of its shimmering silks, the soft tinkling of the polished metal kazanshi secured in her long, dark brown hair. The ivory obi was secured about her tiny waist with a pale green obijme cord, completing the effect for all purposes of a single ephemeral cherry blossom resting on a branch.
She made only two concessions in her outward appearance, to the truth of her Western heritage. She did not wear her hair in the more precise and taut style of the most elegant Japanese women, like the lovely Takahiro Ai who, in her secret heart, she came to wish might have been her sister in another time, another place. Rather, her long brown hair was pulled back from her face, adorned by the kazanshi and bound at the nape of her neck, the long, wavy tendrils instead spilling down her back.
The second concession, was in the rings she chose to wear on the index finger of each hand: a polished onyx ring bound in an ornate platinum setting on the left, sparkling darkly in the sunlight; and a mother of pearl ring on her right, glowing with an opalescent luminescence in a band of gold.
Shizuka had learned a great deal in her eleven months in Japan, about a great many things. A Western woman come to teach these ever-inquisitive people the ways and language of those far-flung Western lands, she had become a student herself among them, her simple and sincere love for the customs and language and people of this island nation charming not a few in her wake.
And all the right people as well.
When Galina returned with Klara from their voyage on the Empress, she confessed everything to her father. Everything, to the last. She spoke of the meeting in the Winchester Mansion, and those once-precious moments with the gallant young Japanese man who stole away her naive heart as easily as she stole the schematics from the safe. Galina even shared the true reason for her strangely morose behavior for all those long months afterward, and did not spare her pride a single lash as she spoke aloud the ridiculous, shameful daydreams she once held so dearly. She told her father the truth of all that happened aboard the Empress of Japan, the elaborate deception and her humiliation, and yes, Takahiro Souma's message for her family, to the very word.
Never once in her life, had her father struck her in anger. Oh, he had trained her as hard and vigorously as any one of her brothers, and spared her nothing of the fist and blade and the hoof, every last blow that all Cossack boys knew in their youth. His unsparing training had made her harder, stronger and faster, honed her instincts and wit to a razor's edge. Baron Demidov had crafted a true Cossack warrior from the flesh of his girl child, her will married to the Church, to her people, to the Tsar and the Russian nation. And never once in all that time had he raised his hand to her in a rage, to strike his beloved little Night Wolf.
Looking into the darkly-lit depths of her father's eyes in that moment, Galina was suddenly certain if she did not bear her father's ancestral name, if she did not so resemble the wife he loved above all Earthly objects? Baron Vasily Demidov would have killed her where she stood.
Oh, there would certainly be blood spilled for all her folly, but not a drop of it would flow from Galina's veins. And that carnage had been merely the start of her penance.
Her penance and her punishment. Galina would take these months exiled from the seat of her family home to entrench their own interests in the Japanese nobility, in the patrons of the Takahiro clan. The master spy had managed through subtlety and charm, through daring and audacious boldness to take root like a creeping vine throughout all the family interests - the cover businesses and the illegitimate enterprises they masked - of Souma's beloved Takahiro clan.
All while stepping not one foot on American soil.
And now the favored son had returned triumphantly from his adventures roaming that same soil, rightly anticipating a homecoming worthy of all his success and accomplishments.
Galina's dark gaze turned toward the opened shoji door of the tea room, spotting the large shadow of Yury pass by in the hallway. His own dark eyes glanced toward her, and brother and sister exchanged small, knowing smiles as the laughter of Takahiro Ai drifted toward them like the sweet, high sound of tinkling bells.
But the young woman who personally saw to the arrangement of the tatami mats appeared, at the least, anything but dark or somber. An iromuji-style kimono swathed her lithe body in deep pinks and subtle reds, reminiscent of the intricate floral rinzu pattern of its shimmering silks, the soft tinkling of the polished metal kazanshi secured in her long, dark brown hair. The ivory obi was secured about her tiny waist with a pale green obijme cord, completing the effect for all purposes of a single ephemeral cherry blossom resting on a branch.
She made only two concessions in her outward appearance, to the truth of her Western heritage. She did not wear her hair in the more precise and taut style of the most elegant Japanese women, like the lovely Takahiro Ai who, in her secret heart, she came to wish might have been her sister in another time, another place. Rather, her long brown hair was pulled back from her face, adorned by the kazanshi and bound at the nape of her neck, the long, wavy tendrils instead spilling down her back.
The second concession, was in the rings she chose to wear on the index finger of each hand: a polished onyx ring bound in an ornate platinum setting on the left, sparkling darkly in the sunlight; and a mother of pearl ring on her right, glowing with an opalescent luminescence in a band of gold.
Shizuka had learned a great deal in her eleven months in Japan, about a great many things. A Western woman come to teach these ever-inquisitive people the ways and language of those far-flung Western lands, she had become a student herself among them, her simple and sincere love for the customs and language and people of this island nation charming not a few in her wake.
And all the right people as well.
When Galina returned with Klara from their voyage on the Empress, she confessed everything to her father. Everything, to the last. She spoke of the meeting in the Winchester Mansion, and those once-precious moments with the gallant young Japanese man who stole away her naive heart as easily as she stole the schematics from the safe. Galina even shared the true reason for her strangely morose behavior for all those long months afterward, and did not spare her pride a single lash as she spoke aloud the ridiculous, shameful daydreams she once held so dearly. She told her father the truth of all that happened aboard the Empress of Japan, the elaborate deception and her humiliation, and yes, Takahiro Souma's message for her family, to the very word.
Never once in her life, had her father struck her in anger. Oh, he had trained her as hard and vigorously as any one of her brothers, and spared her nothing of the fist and blade and the hoof, every last blow that all Cossack boys knew in their youth. His unsparing training had made her harder, stronger and faster, honed her instincts and wit to a razor's edge. Baron Demidov had crafted a true Cossack warrior from the flesh of his girl child, her will married to the Church, to her people, to the Tsar and the Russian nation. And never once in all that time had he raised his hand to her in a rage, to strike his beloved little Night Wolf.
Looking into the darkly-lit depths of her father's eyes in that moment, Galina was suddenly certain if she did not bear her father's ancestral name, if she did not so resemble the wife he loved above all Earthly objects? Baron Vasily Demidov would have killed her where she stood.
Oh, there would certainly be blood spilled for all her folly, but not a drop of it would flow from Galina's veins. And that carnage had been merely the start of her penance.
Her penance and her punishment. Galina would take these months exiled from the seat of her family home to entrench their own interests in the Japanese nobility, in the patrons of the Takahiro clan. The master spy had managed through subtlety and charm, through daring and audacious boldness to take root like a creeping vine throughout all the family interests - the cover businesses and the illegitimate enterprises they masked - of Souma's beloved Takahiro clan.
All while stepping not one foot on American soil.
And now the favored son had returned triumphantly from his adventures roaming that same soil, rightly anticipating a homecoming worthy of all his success and accomplishments.
Galina's dark gaze turned toward the opened shoji door of the tea room, spotting the large shadow of Yury pass by in the hallway. His own dark eyes glanced toward her, and brother and sister exchanged small, knowing smiles as the laughter of Takahiro Ai drifted toward them like the sweet, high sound of tinkling bells.
At least the eye candy eases the pain... *hugs gently* :(
Awww thank you Dot! And yes, I agree, heading off a little morning sickness is probably preferable to earth quakes! *shudders* Can't wait to see what you and Idle pull together too.
And... Whoa... >.> Maybe it's just me, but hell yes I'd be popping Benadryl like there's no tomorrow to go hang with [on? all over?] Kevin Richardson a while
(and yes I checked, age appropriate too - guilt-free ogling! 
)
Fantastic post Justric - I love the detail you've created, in Hob's strangely beautifully horribly unique world.
And... Whoa... >.> Maybe it's just me, but hell yes I'd be popping Benadryl like there's no tomorrow to go hang with [on? all over?] Kevin Richardson a while
(and yes I checked, age appropriate too - guilt-free ogling! )Fantastic post Justric - I love the detail you've created, in Hob's strangely beautifully horribly unique world.
"Oh, his Tante certainly would like a glass," Antonia said softly, though she waited for Luc's head to nod his assent before she turned to the First Mate in earnest. The rogue watched the graceful hands of Nicolette finish pouring the brandywine before taking up her own offered glass, smiling to the gracious woman gratefully. She hadn't the least idea what one of uncountable numbers of stories she shared with Luc over the years he might want to tell Mademoiselle Beauchamp, but she was as intrigued by the boy's sudden boldness as she was by the question of what story he would choose to share.
Antonia nodded her thanks to Nicolette and, with the glass of brandywine perched in her fingers, crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the wall. Luc beckoned Nicolette to the chair abandoned by his aunt, because whether in the telling or the hearing, one truly ought to be most comfortable in the presence of a story. Only when the golden angel took her seat, did the boy begin his tale.
"Once upon a time - and as you know, 'tis not a true fairy tale unless it begins just so," Luc began, his voice sure and warm. His words held only the faintest hint of the Cajun patois that spiced his aunt's and his Maman's so thickly, but the easy cadence he fell into was the very match of the rogue's own.
"Once upon a time, there was a king who had three daughters. At dinner one evening, he thought to discover which of his daughters loved him best, and so he said to them, 'Come now and tell me, my precious girls, tell me just how dearly you love your father!'"
Antonia's brow lifted curiously when she heard the start, recognizing the tale and wondering how this one ever came to Luc's thoughts. But she did not interrupt, of course, to ask. The rogue simply took another sip of her delicious brandywine and smiled softly to herself.
"The oldest girl proclaimed, 'Papa, I love you as dearly as all the treasure and gold on this good world!'"
"The second declared, 'Papa, I love you more than the heights of the skies, or the depths of the ocean!'"
"And the youngest daughter said, humbly and sincerely, 'I love you as much as water and salt.'"
"As pleased as the king was with the proclamations of his eldest two daughters, he was furious with the sentiments of his youngest. 'Water and salt? Is that all I am worth to you, but common water and salt? Executioners! Come at once and take my youngest daughter away, and kill her immediately!'"
"Right away, the elder sisters brought the executioners a small dog to kill in her place, and begged them to kill it and bring its tongue and their sister's rent clothing to their father. The executioners did exactly as the princesses asked of them, killing the dog and rending the youngest sister's clothing to the king as false proof of their deed."
"The king rewarded his executioners handsomely, though unbeknownst to him? The executioners left the youngest sister in a forest cave. But Fortune and Fate both dearly loved the little princess, and she was found in that same forest by a strange magician who took her in, to his home opposite a royal palace."
"And it was here where the lovely youngest princess was espied by a king's son who fell madly, desperately in love with her. And when the match was agreed upon, the strange magician came to the little princess with the oddest of requests."
Luc leaned forward toward Nicolette where she sat, the cast to those dark, amber-lit eyes suddenly far, far older and wiser than his meager eight years alive in this world. "'On the day before your wedding, sweet little princess, you must kill me. Invite three kings to your nuptials, your father being the very first. Order your servants to pass water and salt to all the guests, but your father.'"
"The young princess was heartbroken, but swore she would do as he asked. And yet her heartbreak was not, in truth, near so great as that of her father who, the longer he lived, was buried beneath regret for what he'd done to the youngest daughter he truly loved more, day by day. So great was his regret and sorrow and grief, he very nearly turned away the invitation to the wedding, thinking only that his littlest girl should be old enough to have been marrying by this time as well."
The young boy sat back in his chair, his face aged and careworn, his arms spread wide as if the old king's helplessness were his own. "And yet he feared the other king might make war on him, and so he decided he must go."
"The day before the wedding, the strange magician was killed as he was ordered, and they quartered his body, a quarter in each of the cardinal directions of the castle, and sprinkled his blood in every room. Wherever the crimson drops fell, flesh and blood turned to gold and precious gemstones. And when the three kings arrived, they were amazed and awed by the sight."
"The wedding was a magnificent affair as well, as was the celebratory banquet afterward. And true to the words of the strange magician, the little princess' father was served all the rich foods, but nothing of water or salt. The young queen sat near her father, and noted he did not eat."
"'Your majesty,' she asked, 'Does this food ill please you?' The king shook his head sadly, though he replied only, 'No, the food is grand - only I do not feel well.' At that the bride and groom fed him the choicest pieces of meat themselves, though without salt he found all flavorless, and without water the old king found it impossible to swallow past the lump of grief in his throat."
"And when the dinner was done, the entire assemblage told stories. And it was a towering regret that drove the old king to tell the tale of what he'd done to his youngest daughter. The young queen slipped from the room and returned then, in the very dress she'd worn when she last told her father how dearly she truly did love him."
"As he sat astonished, amazed with recognition, the youngest daughter said, 'You wished me dead because I told you truly, I loved you as water and salt. Do you see now Papa, how little there is to savor to the lengths of our days, without these dear and simple-seeming blessings in our lives?'"
"The old king said not a word, but only took his youngest daughter in his arms and begged her forgiveness - a thing she most gladly gave, another simple-seeming blessing as beautiful as water and salt. And they all most certainly did live, from that day forward, happily. Ever. After." The boyish grin returned to Luc's face as he searched Nicolette's face, to read there what she thought of his tale.
"And as you might know, Mademoiselle Beauchamp, 'tis not a true fairy tale, unless it ends just so."
Antonia nodded her thanks to Nicolette and, with the glass of brandywine perched in her fingers, crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the wall. Luc beckoned Nicolette to the chair abandoned by his aunt, because whether in the telling or the hearing, one truly ought to be most comfortable in the presence of a story. Only when the golden angel took her seat, did the boy begin his tale.
"Once upon a time - and as you know, 'tis not a true fairy tale unless it begins just so," Luc began, his voice sure and warm. His words held only the faintest hint of the Cajun patois that spiced his aunt's and his Maman's so thickly, but the easy cadence he fell into was the very match of the rogue's own.
"Once upon a time, there was a king who had three daughters. At dinner one evening, he thought to discover which of his daughters loved him best, and so he said to them, 'Come now and tell me, my precious girls, tell me just how dearly you love your father!'"
Antonia's brow lifted curiously when she heard the start, recognizing the tale and wondering how this one ever came to Luc's thoughts. But she did not interrupt, of course, to ask. The rogue simply took another sip of her delicious brandywine and smiled softly to herself.
"The oldest girl proclaimed, 'Papa, I love you as dearly as all the treasure and gold on this good world!'"
"The second declared, 'Papa, I love you more than the heights of the skies, or the depths of the ocean!'"
"And the youngest daughter said, humbly and sincerely, 'I love you as much as water and salt.'"
"As pleased as the king was with the proclamations of his eldest two daughters, he was furious with the sentiments of his youngest. 'Water and salt? Is that all I am worth to you, but common water and salt? Executioners! Come at once and take my youngest daughter away, and kill her immediately!'"
"Right away, the elder sisters brought the executioners a small dog to kill in her place, and begged them to kill it and bring its tongue and their sister's rent clothing to their father. The executioners did exactly as the princesses asked of them, killing the dog and rending the youngest sister's clothing to the king as false proof of their deed."
"The king rewarded his executioners handsomely, though unbeknownst to him? The executioners left the youngest sister in a forest cave. But Fortune and Fate both dearly loved the little princess, and she was found in that same forest by a strange magician who took her in, to his home opposite a royal palace."
"And it was here where the lovely youngest princess was espied by a king's son who fell madly, desperately in love with her. And when the match was agreed upon, the strange magician came to the little princess with the oddest of requests."
Luc leaned forward toward Nicolette where she sat, the cast to those dark, amber-lit eyes suddenly far, far older and wiser than his meager eight years alive in this world. "'On the day before your wedding, sweet little princess, you must kill me. Invite three kings to your nuptials, your father being the very first. Order your servants to pass water and salt to all the guests, but your father.'"
"The young princess was heartbroken, but swore she would do as he asked. And yet her heartbreak was not, in truth, near so great as that of her father who, the longer he lived, was buried beneath regret for what he'd done to the youngest daughter he truly loved more, day by day. So great was his regret and sorrow and grief, he very nearly turned away the invitation to the wedding, thinking only that his littlest girl should be old enough to have been marrying by this time as well."
The young boy sat back in his chair, his face aged and careworn, his arms spread wide as if the old king's helplessness were his own. "And yet he feared the other king might make war on him, and so he decided he must go."
"The day before the wedding, the strange magician was killed as he was ordered, and they quartered his body, a quarter in each of the cardinal directions of the castle, and sprinkled his blood in every room. Wherever the crimson drops fell, flesh and blood turned to gold and precious gemstones. And when the three kings arrived, they were amazed and awed by the sight."
"The wedding was a magnificent affair as well, as was the celebratory banquet afterward. And true to the words of the strange magician, the little princess' father was served all the rich foods, but nothing of water or salt. The young queen sat near her father, and noted he did not eat."
"'Your majesty,' she asked, 'Does this food ill please you?' The king shook his head sadly, though he replied only, 'No, the food is grand - only I do not feel well.' At that the bride and groom fed him the choicest pieces of meat themselves, though without salt he found all flavorless, and without water the old king found it impossible to swallow past the lump of grief in his throat."
"And when the dinner was done, the entire assemblage told stories. And it was a towering regret that drove the old king to tell the tale of what he'd done to his youngest daughter. The young queen slipped from the room and returned then, in the very dress she'd worn when she last told her father how dearly she truly did love him."
"As he sat astonished, amazed with recognition, the youngest daughter said, 'You wished me dead because I told you truly, I loved you as water and salt. Do you see now Papa, how little there is to savor to the lengths of our days, without these dear and simple-seeming blessings in our lives?'"
"The old king said not a word, but only took his youngest daughter in his arms and begged her forgiveness - a thing she most gladly gave, another simple-seeming blessing as beautiful as water and salt. And they all most certainly did live, from that day forward, happily. Ever. After." The boyish grin returned to Luc's face as he searched Nicolette's face, to read there what she thought of his tale.
"And as you might know, Mademoiselle Beauchamp, 'tis not a true fairy tale, unless it ends just so."
((collab between RoadRash and Igraine))
Svala’s seax had made quick work of her mother’s shift, the small frown on the young woman’s face disapproving though she remained obedient nonetheless, recognizing the expediency of the moment for what it was. Hallerna nodded, a faint approving smile for her daughter as she turned silently, taking the strips-turned-bandages from Svala. There was no room for stewing over Harald’s lies, the ones he told and the ones he continued to vomit up as she wrapped the little girl’s burns so carefully. She would need fresh water as soon as they could find it, to get into Una as well as to wash her wounds. Burns made a body so thirsty - and the greater the burn, the greater the thirst.
Hallerna made to tuck her arms beneath Una, to try to pick her up and cradle the child on her unburned side, when Svala’s gasp ripped her attentions upward to her daughter’s face in an instant. All the blood drained from the young woman’s already pale cheeks, deep blue eyes wide with horror as her fingers swiftly pulled Hallerna’s attentions upward and toward that hateful little dwarf of a man, and to the thralls who were making their reports.
Draugr. There were draugr at the Hall - where she’d sent Eyja to retrieve Loker and his men.
Hallerna groaned softly in the back of her throat, her eyes shut tightly for a moment as she stood with Una in her arms, teeth bared in a helpless grimace of pain. She took a breath then, a long breath that she let out slowly, as if by this act alone she could somehow release that gut-deep thrill of terror that gripped at her now. From danger to danger to danger, from their farm to Trelleborg to the Jarl’s very own damned Hall - was there nowhere in this gods-blasted land to find even a moment’s respite?
She cursed softly, just under her breath as she pulled Una just a little closer, the small, brave girl whimpering softly. When Hallerna opened her eyes a moment later, she met her daughter’s steady gaze with her own. “Go on Svala,” she said, the two women knowing without a single word between them exactly what had to be done. Hallerna nodded toward the axe her daughter kept at her belt, and then in the direction Eyja had sprinted toward the Hall - exactly the same direction as Ragnar and his men had run a second before. But the thegn would have his own priorities, his own family to care for - all these three women had left in their world, was each other. If they did not care for their own, there was no one left in this world who would.
“Do what you have to do. Draugr or man - you get to your sister.”
Haakon grumbled as Ragnar and Ivarr took off away from the burning hall, squinting his eyes against the morning sun. His head throbbed with every beat of his heart, but it was nothing compared to the frustration he felt. The entire situation infuriated him; he’d been beaten over the head, then kicked like a dog. That, combined with his current useless state, was enough to enrage the normally stoic warrior.
I’ll cut his fucking heart out, and offer it to Odin, he thought with a grimace, slamming his sword back into its sheath. He watched Svala as she helped her mother with the bandages, the saw her sprint away after the two warriors, headed towards the Jarl’s hall and her sister. Shifting uneasily on his feet, Haakon glanced over and caught Loker’s eye, then jerked his head questioningly towards the retreating woman.
Loker looked at him a moment, then shook his head. “Go on, lad, I’ll handle this.”
With a grateful grin, Haakon shouldered his shield, then turned and ran after Svala, quickly overtaking her with his long strides. As he reached her he slowed, falling in beside her, his hand on his sword hilt to keep it from bouncing in the scabbard.
Svala heard the now-familiar jingling of armor coming up on her from behind at a swift clip, and those deep blue eyes narrowed with a rising fury. She had seen Harald and his men leave the burning healing house, heard his “offer to help” cleanse Trellesborg but felt the true threat in those words. No matter his public dismissal, Svala knew her Madir had enraged that evil, twisted dwarf of a man, and though she’d suffered nothing like poor Tora, the young woman had her own taste of what he and his men were capable of - and she’d have it no more. Draugr or man, Madir had said.
The fingers she had wrapped around the haft of her hard-won bearded axe clenched just a little tighter and, when she realized the man was on her, the young woman stopped in her tracks and whirled about with a growl. The razor edge of the axe’s blade glinted even in this wan morning light as her arm descended in a wide, swift strike.
As Haakon caught the glimmer of sharpened steel, he reacted instinctively. His reflexes had been honed by years of battle, and he ducked inwards, catching the haft of the axe on his shoulder with a grunt. Cursing, his legs scrambled briefly for purchase in the snowy muck before he plowed headlong into Svala, bringing both of them to the ground.
Recovering swiftly, Haakon reached up and grasped the hand holding the axe, pinning it firmly to the ground.
“Svala! Easy! It’s me!”
”Umphfff… “ Or some other graceless sound rather like it blew past her lips, squashed as she was beneath the weight of a fully-outfitted Danish raider. Svala’s gaze went a bit unfocused as her head smacked into snowy, mud ground. She blinked quickly, her ears picking up on the startled reassurance in that voice before she recognized the bearded, bloodied face hovering inches above her own.
The bitter cold of the frigid muck she was now embedded in began to seep through her skirts in seconds, and she shivered and blinked again. That shiver had nothing at all to do with the unexpectedly close distance of Haakon’s face just above her own.
“Thought you were… Not you… “ she managed to wheeze out, quite unnecessarily. “Gods… Did I hit you?”
Haakon rolled off of her and hauled himself to his feet with a grunt, chuckling.
“I’m harder to kill than that, Svala,” he told her, reaching down and hooking his hands under her arms and lifting her to her feet before looking her over, concern showing on his face. He’d tackled men in battle before, and been tackled himself; a warrior in mail was no light burden to have crashing into one’s chest at a run. “My apologies...I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you alright?”
Her first instinct was to deny she’d been scared at all. But that would have been both silly-sounding and an enormous lie, and Svala let it go as easily as Haakon set her back to her feet, lightly as a babe just learning to walk might be by his Madir’s hands. She did not miss the oddly gentle humor and concern that, strangely enough, did not seem so out of place on his poor, already beaten and bruised face. Svala could not help the wide smile and the small, warm laugh that bubbled up.
“Oh no, I’m fine,” Svala spoke quick reassurance, though she took a deep breath nonetheless. No, no ribs broken she could tell, probably just a lasting bruise or two. She’d survive.
“And I’m sorry for trying to bury an axe in you! But what are you doing here Haakon?”
Shrugging, Haakon adjusted the shield hanging on his back and gestured vaguely in the direction of the Jarl’s hall.
“Ragnar needs me, regardless of what happened outside the healing house. I’m sore, not dead. Besides, I couldn’t have you running around alone, axe or no axe. Harald’s men are scum, and I guarantee they aren’t going to be too particular about telling innocent people from draugr.”
He crossed his arms, giving her an approving look. “Nice strike, though. We can work on your form a bit, but if I’d been one of Harald’s rabble you’d have split my head like a melon.”
Svala’s now mud-spattered face beamed far brighter than the listless morning light at Haakon’s praise, qualified as it was. “Well this might be the first time in my life, I’m glad my form was imperfect,” she quipped, the little half-tilt at the corner of one lip speaking to the jest in her words.
But her gaze followed Haakon’s gesture toward the Hall, and the sudden cloud of worry dimmed the playful light in her deep blue eyes. “We should hurry,” Svala said through the sudden lump in her throat. Thoughts of the draugr and the threat of Harald’s men around every turn between here and the seat of the Jarl sent a shiver of dread down the young woman’s spine. Svala wrapped her arms about herself, steadying and warm against her troubled heart and the frigid wet cold of her muddied clothing.
“Thank you Haakon,” she said softly, turning to look up to his sincere face. “Thank you for coming after Ragnar - and thank you for coming after me too.”
Haakon’s eyes narrowed, and he nodded once, bending to retrieve Svala’s axe. He flipped it once in his hand, admiring the weight and balance of the weapon, then spun it and offered it to her, butt-first.
“You’re welcome, Svala. I’d have it no other way. Come on, let’s go. I’m right behind you.”
“Better than on top of me,” Svala teased just loud enough for the raider beside her to hear as she took the offered axe, and began to sprint again toward the Hall.
Svala’s seax had made quick work of her mother’s shift, the small frown on the young woman’s face disapproving though she remained obedient nonetheless, recognizing the expediency of the moment for what it was. Hallerna nodded, a faint approving smile for her daughter as she turned silently, taking the strips-turned-bandages from Svala. There was no room for stewing over Harald’s lies, the ones he told and the ones he continued to vomit up as she wrapped the little girl’s burns so carefully. She would need fresh water as soon as they could find it, to get into Una as well as to wash her wounds. Burns made a body so thirsty - and the greater the burn, the greater the thirst.
Hallerna made to tuck her arms beneath Una, to try to pick her up and cradle the child on her unburned side, when Svala’s gasp ripped her attentions upward to her daughter’s face in an instant. All the blood drained from the young woman’s already pale cheeks, deep blue eyes wide with horror as her fingers swiftly pulled Hallerna’s attentions upward and toward that hateful little dwarf of a man, and to the thralls who were making their reports.
Draugr. There were draugr at the Hall - where she’d sent Eyja to retrieve Loker and his men.
Hallerna groaned softly in the back of her throat, her eyes shut tightly for a moment as she stood with Una in her arms, teeth bared in a helpless grimace of pain. She took a breath then, a long breath that she let out slowly, as if by this act alone she could somehow release that gut-deep thrill of terror that gripped at her now. From danger to danger to danger, from their farm to Trelleborg to the Jarl’s very own damned Hall - was there nowhere in this gods-blasted land to find even a moment’s respite?
She cursed softly, just under her breath as she pulled Una just a little closer, the small, brave girl whimpering softly. When Hallerna opened her eyes a moment later, she met her daughter’s steady gaze with her own. “Go on Svala,” she said, the two women knowing without a single word between them exactly what had to be done. Hallerna nodded toward the axe her daughter kept at her belt, and then in the direction Eyja had sprinted toward the Hall - exactly the same direction as Ragnar and his men had run a second before. But the thegn would have his own priorities, his own family to care for - all these three women had left in their world, was each other. If they did not care for their own, there was no one left in this world who would.
“Do what you have to do. Draugr or man - you get to your sister.”
Haakon grumbled as Ragnar and Ivarr took off away from the burning hall, squinting his eyes against the morning sun. His head throbbed with every beat of his heart, but it was nothing compared to the frustration he felt. The entire situation infuriated him; he’d been beaten over the head, then kicked like a dog. That, combined with his current useless state, was enough to enrage the normally stoic warrior.
I’ll cut his fucking heart out, and offer it to Odin, he thought with a grimace, slamming his sword back into its sheath. He watched Svala as she helped her mother with the bandages, the saw her sprint away after the two warriors, headed towards the Jarl’s hall and her sister. Shifting uneasily on his feet, Haakon glanced over and caught Loker’s eye, then jerked his head questioningly towards the retreating woman.
Loker looked at him a moment, then shook his head. “Go on, lad, I’ll handle this.”
With a grateful grin, Haakon shouldered his shield, then turned and ran after Svala, quickly overtaking her with his long strides. As he reached her he slowed, falling in beside her, his hand on his sword hilt to keep it from bouncing in the scabbard.
Svala heard the now-familiar jingling of armor coming up on her from behind at a swift clip, and those deep blue eyes narrowed with a rising fury. She had seen Harald and his men leave the burning healing house, heard his “offer to help” cleanse Trellesborg but felt the true threat in those words. No matter his public dismissal, Svala knew her Madir had enraged that evil, twisted dwarf of a man, and though she’d suffered nothing like poor Tora, the young woman had her own taste of what he and his men were capable of - and she’d have it no more. Draugr or man, Madir had said.
The fingers she had wrapped around the haft of her hard-won bearded axe clenched just a little tighter and, when she realized the man was on her, the young woman stopped in her tracks and whirled about with a growl. The razor edge of the axe’s blade glinted even in this wan morning light as her arm descended in a wide, swift strike.
As Haakon caught the glimmer of sharpened steel, he reacted instinctively. His reflexes had been honed by years of battle, and he ducked inwards, catching the haft of the axe on his shoulder with a grunt. Cursing, his legs scrambled briefly for purchase in the snowy muck before he plowed headlong into Svala, bringing both of them to the ground.
Recovering swiftly, Haakon reached up and grasped the hand holding the axe, pinning it firmly to the ground.
“Svala! Easy! It’s me!”
”Umphfff… “ Or some other graceless sound rather like it blew past her lips, squashed as she was beneath the weight of a fully-outfitted Danish raider. Svala’s gaze went a bit unfocused as her head smacked into snowy, mud ground. She blinked quickly, her ears picking up on the startled reassurance in that voice before she recognized the bearded, bloodied face hovering inches above her own.
The bitter cold of the frigid muck she was now embedded in began to seep through her skirts in seconds, and she shivered and blinked again. That shiver had nothing at all to do with the unexpectedly close distance of Haakon’s face just above her own.
“Thought you were… Not you… “ she managed to wheeze out, quite unnecessarily. “Gods… Did I hit you?”
Haakon rolled off of her and hauled himself to his feet with a grunt, chuckling.
“I’m harder to kill than that, Svala,” he told her, reaching down and hooking his hands under her arms and lifting her to her feet before looking her over, concern showing on his face. He’d tackled men in battle before, and been tackled himself; a warrior in mail was no light burden to have crashing into one’s chest at a run. “My apologies...I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you alright?”
Her first instinct was to deny she’d been scared at all. But that would have been both silly-sounding and an enormous lie, and Svala let it go as easily as Haakon set her back to her feet, lightly as a babe just learning to walk might be by his Madir’s hands. She did not miss the oddly gentle humor and concern that, strangely enough, did not seem so out of place on his poor, already beaten and bruised face. Svala could not help the wide smile and the small, warm laugh that bubbled up.
“Oh no, I’m fine,” Svala spoke quick reassurance, though she took a deep breath nonetheless. No, no ribs broken she could tell, probably just a lasting bruise or two. She’d survive.
“And I’m sorry for trying to bury an axe in you! But what are you doing here Haakon?”
Shrugging, Haakon adjusted the shield hanging on his back and gestured vaguely in the direction of the Jarl’s hall.
“Ragnar needs me, regardless of what happened outside the healing house. I’m sore, not dead. Besides, I couldn’t have you running around alone, axe or no axe. Harald’s men are scum, and I guarantee they aren’t going to be too particular about telling innocent people from draugr.”
He crossed his arms, giving her an approving look. “Nice strike, though. We can work on your form a bit, but if I’d been one of Harald’s rabble you’d have split my head like a melon.”
Svala’s now mud-spattered face beamed far brighter than the listless morning light at Haakon’s praise, qualified as it was. “Well this might be the first time in my life, I’m glad my form was imperfect,” she quipped, the little half-tilt at the corner of one lip speaking to the jest in her words.
But her gaze followed Haakon’s gesture toward the Hall, and the sudden cloud of worry dimmed the playful light in her deep blue eyes. “We should hurry,” Svala said through the sudden lump in her throat. Thoughts of the draugr and the threat of Harald’s men around every turn between here and the seat of the Jarl sent a shiver of dread down the young woman’s spine. Svala wrapped her arms about herself, steadying and warm against her troubled heart and the frigid wet cold of her muddied clothing.
“Thank you Haakon,” she said softly, turning to look up to his sincere face. “Thank you for coming after Ragnar - and thank you for coming after me too.”
Haakon’s eyes narrowed, and he nodded once, bending to retrieve Svala’s axe. He flipped it once in his hand, admiring the weight and balance of the weapon, then spun it and offered it to her, butt-first.
“You’re welcome, Svala. I’d have it no other way. Come on, let’s go. I’m right behind you.”
“Better than on top of me,” Svala teased just loud enough for the raider beside her to hear as she took the offered axe, and began to sprint again toward the Hall.
Abby knelt at the edge of the stage, one hand on the ledge as she dropped down to the floor below, forgoing the stairs as she approached the rising rows of her military policemen and the SRT. The meeting was ending and, as much as she'd have liked to run after not a few of the people departing now, and track down one or two more? The immediate priority was her people, the security contingent for the Copernicus, and ensuring everything they needed to walk directly into their duties. Abby held up her arm, wrist turning swiftly to rally everyone to her.
In all, Abby presided over a platoon-sized contingent now alongside SRT Bravo. Sergeant Davis and the other three MP squad leaders would be working up their own patrol and duty schedules, with First Sergeant Larson, in essence, on duty and on call for the next three years. This was just an informal meet, a few questions fielded about shift timing and weapons issue, with Abby taking the chance to reiterate she was available 24/7 for any reason - well, not including hauling their asses back to their rooms if they got into some homemade hooch. They'd just be rotting where they dropped then, unless a buddy could be bothered to scrape them off the floor.
That earned some laughs, a few grins, but Abby knew that deep down, most of her people weren't happy with the suspicious eyeballing they felt sure they'd be getting from the other crew members, no matter Sergeant Davis' tongue-in-cheek joke about MIB and storm troopers. These were damn good men and women, professionals all, and dedicated to the bitter end. Every last MP standing there had risked their lives at some point just before Copernicus' launch, braving the poisonous environs of the Change and the ravenous Kind to recover hundreds of men, women and children, fighting like hell for every last precious human life.
They deserved better. Abby wished she had better to give them, but human nature was what it was. And in general, it was a bitch.
So she gave them what she had: reassurance, order, some measure of normalcy in a world that was anything but. This was a short meeting, only a few minutes really, but the Auditorium was nearly cleared out completely by the time they were done, and Abby dismissed her teams to the proverbial four winds. She didn't wait long as they dispersed, before heading back to her own private room.
In the space of her quick walk, Abby had already prioritized in her head, the stops she had to make after this briefing, and they were not a few. But the small "waking gift" she'd managed to put together made that first decision for her.
The door slid back with a slow hiss and a click as it latched within the wall, a familiar sound Abby found oddly comforting, like the creak of a door hinge that became a part of an old home's character. The private room aboard this ship was like everyone else's, but of course in its particulars, like no other. Now that Michael was asleep, she'd pushed the bed back into a single, opening up the small space - though she would have far preferred the company of her son to some extra leg room. Neatly made with comforters of ocean blue and turquoise, her bed was positioned beneath her portal, glowing softly now with a wintery scene. Fluffy thick snowflakes fell languorously in a forest turned bare brown, after autumn let her brilliant gown of foliage fall away. The barest indentation of a well-worn forest path could be seen winding into the trees and into the growing dark, not yet trodden this day though inviting intrepid booted feet nonetheless.
Abby grinned as she turned toward the built in desk where the small tin plate was set, from this morning some honest-to-God fresh fruits, blackberries and raspberries and even a few cherries shining like jewels among a cushion of brazil nuts and macadamias and walnuts. Her whole family smiled back at her in approval from the photographs in those simple black wood frames, set along the back of her desk. Her parents and her brothers, aunts and uncles and cousins and even an ancient black and white photograph of her great, great grandparents on her Mom's side. Times boating and waterskiing on their lake camp, defiantly-worn Christmas sweaters and a rare and mammoth brown trout brandished with toothy grins outside a Minnesotan ice fishing shacks - the very best of her world and her past.
There were even books on the shelves above the desk too - real books, some literary classics and some definitely not-so-much - all surrounding a clear glass case preserving a Kirby Puckett-signed baseball she'd bought for Michael when they visited Cooperstown.
All these much-loved mementoes abided in her thoughts, much as they did her room. Every last one of them was gone now, irrevocably, from the winter's forest path to the enormous family she still loved and missed with all her heart. But unlike so many aboard the Copernicus, Abby didn't see them as memories to mourn, remembrances to turn her thoughts maudlin or melancholy. Far from it. These reminders were the pillars that upheld her purpose, her reason - the keepsakes that pointed toward the promise of every last good and decent thing that the future might yet hold.
Though the present would have to do just fine for now. She would have loved to change out of her ACUs into some 'civilian' clothes, but her day wasn't over yet and that would just have to wait. Abby took up the plate carefully in both hands, her tablet tucked carefully under her one arm before she walked back out her door and down the hallways she'd gotten to know pretty well by now.
Outside Gavin's lab door, Abby thought about announcing herself, seeing if OLGA was... Oh wait, if she'd heard right (and who in the auditorium not functionally deaf hadn't?), OLGA was off chatting with Mr. Bach. Frankly, she wasn't entirely sure the good geneticist wasn't a touch peeved with her at the moment anyway. This plate of precious freshly-grown fruits and nuts really had been procured on the sly before the briefing as a gift, but it might do as a tasty little mea culpa as well.
Abby held her finger over the laser pad entry, waiting for the second it took for the recognition of her near limitless ship access and for the door to slide open. Simply showing up on Gavin's proverbial doorstep all unannounced and such wasn't likely to put him in a better mood if he really was irked with her, but better to ask forgiveness and all that...
She caught sight of the scientist in the dimmed light of his numerous LED panels. Sure, the hoodie and vintage jeans and those Converse low tops weren't exactly the typical look one might expect for the towering genius of a Nobel Prize nominee, but was a welcome sight to her eyes nonetheless. "Good morning Gavin... Well, sort of. All right fine, that was entirely rhetorical, but this isn't: just how pissed are you with me, for that shite answer I gave you in the briefing?"
Abby held out that tin plate of fresh fruit and nuts before her, a wide and ridiculously hopeful smile on her face. "And just how much of a difference would it make, if I promise I come bearing gifts that might go well with your coffee - and a few real answers too?"
That bright smile dimmed just a little though, the gravity of what she had to say taking root. "Though if I could get a cup of that blessedly fresh-brewed coffee? I might promise you some damn good reasons as well."
In all, Abby presided over a platoon-sized contingent now alongside SRT Bravo. Sergeant Davis and the other three MP squad leaders would be working up their own patrol and duty schedules, with First Sergeant Larson, in essence, on duty and on call for the next three years. This was just an informal meet, a few questions fielded about shift timing and weapons issue, with Abby taking the chance to reiterate she was available 24/7 for any reason - well, not including hauling their asses back to their rooms if they got into some homemade hooch. They'd just be rotting where they dropped then, unless a buddy could be bothered to scrape them off the floor.
That earned some laughs, a few grins, but Abby knew that deep down, most of her people weren't happy with the suspicious eyeballing they felt sure they'd be getting from the other crew members, no matter Sergeant Davis' tongue-in-cheek joke about MIB and storm troopers. These were damn good men and women, professionals all, and dedicated to the bitter end. Every last MP standing there had risked their lives at some point just before Copernicus' launch, braving the poisonous environs of the Change and the ravenous Kind to recover hundreds of men, women and children, fighting like hell for every last precious human life.
They deserved better. Abby wished she had better to give them, but human nature was what it was. And in general, it was a bitch.
So she gave them what she had: reassurance, order, some measure of normalcy in a world that was anything but. This was a short meeting, only a few minutes really, but the Auditorium was nearly cleared out completely by the time they were done, and Abby dismissed her teams to the proverbial four winds. She didn't wait long as they dispersed, before heading back to her own private room.
In the space of her quick walk, Abby had already prioritized in her head, the stops she had to make after this briefing, and they were not a few. But the small "waking gift" she'd managed to put together made that first decision for her.
The door slid back with a slow hiss and a click as it latched within the wall, a familiar sound Abby found oddly comforting, like the creak of a door hinge that became a part of an old home's character. The private room aboard this ship was like everyone else's, but of course in its particulars, like no other. Now that Michael was asleep, she'd pushed the bed back into a single, opening up the small space - though she would have far preferred the company of her son to some extra leg room. Neatly made with comforters of ocean blue and turquoise, her bed was positioned beneath her portal, glowing softly now with a wintery scene. Fluffy thick snowflakes fell languorously in a forest turned bare brown, after autumn let her brilliant gown of foliage fall away. The barest indentation of a well-worn forest path could be seen winding into the trees and into the growing dark, not yet trodden this day though inviting intrepid booted feet nonetheless.
Abby grinned as she turned toward the built in desk where the small tin plate was set, from this morning some honest-to-God fresh fruits, blackberries and raspberries and even a few cherries shining like jewels among a cushion of brazil nuts and macadamias and walnuts. Her whole family smiled back at her in approval from the photographs in those simple black wood frames, set along the back of her desk. Her parents and her brothers, aunts and uncles and cousins and even an ancient black and white photograph of her great, great grandparents on her Mom's side. Times boating and waterskiing on their lake camp, defiantly-worn Christmas sweaters and a rare and mammoth brown trout brandished with toothy grins outside a Minnesotan ice fishing shacks - the very best of her world and her past.
There were even books on the shelves above the desk too - real books, some literary classics and some definitely not-so-much - all surrounding a clear glass case preserving a Kirby Puckett-signed baseball she'd bought for Michael when they visited Cooperstown.
All these much-loved mementoes abided in her thoughts, much as they did her room. Every last one of them was gone now, irrevocably, from the winter's forest path to the enormous family she still loved and missed with all her heart. But unlike so many aboard the Copernicus, Abby didn't see them as memories to mourn, remembrances to turn her thoughts maudlin or melancholy. Far from it. These reminders were the pillars that upheld her purpose, her reason - the keepsakes that pointed toward the promise of every last good and decent thing that the future might yet hold.
Though the present would have to do just fine for now. She would have loved to change out of her ACUs into some 'civilian' clothes, but her day wasn't over yet and that would just have to wait. Abby took up the plate carefully in both hands, her tablet tucked carefully under her one arm before she walked back out her door and down the hallways she'd gotten to know pretty well by now.
Outside Gavin's lab door, Abby thought about announcing herself, seeing if OLGA was... Oh wait, if she'd heard right (and who in the auditorium not functionally deaf hadn't?), OLGA was off chatting with Mr. Bach. Frankly, she wasn't entirely sure the good geneticist wasn't a touch peeved with her at the moment anyway. This plate of precious freshly-grown fruits and nuts really had been procured on the sly before the briefing as a gift, but it might do as a tasty little mea culpa as well.
Abby held her finger over the laser pad entry, waiting for the second it took for the recognition of her near limitless ship access and for the door to slide open. Simply showing up on Gavin's proverbial doorstep all unannounced and such wasn't likely to put him in a better mood if he really was irked with her, but better to ask forgiveness and all that...
She caught sight of the scientist in the dimmed light of his numerous LED panels. Sure, the hoodie and vintage jeans and those Converse low tops weren't exactly the typical look one might expect for the towering genius of a Nobel Prize nominee, but was a welcome sight to her eyes nonetheless. "Good morning Gavin... Well, sort of. All right fine, that was entirely rhetorical, but this isn't: just how pissed are you with me, for that shite answer I gave you in the briefing?"
Abby held out that tin plate of fresh fruit and nuts before her, a wide and ridiculously hopeful smile on her face. "And just how much of a difference would it make, if I promise I come bearing gifts that might go well with your coffee - and a few real answers too?"
That bright smile dimmed just a little though, the gravity of what she had to say taking root. "Though if I could get a cup of that blessedly fresh-brewed coffee? I might promise you some damn good reasons as well."
Kuro and the .gifs!
I laughed hard when I read that post first. Lil had me thinking for the couple paragraphs that Stella was stalking her some yummy French cuisine - until I realized her tastes were running a bit more toward the exotic...
eta: working on an Abby post, I had a bit more sleep and homework to knock out than I originally thought o.o
I laughed hard when I read that post first. Lil had me thinking for the couple paragraphs that Stella was stalking her some yummy French cuisine - until I realized her tastes were running a bit more toward the exotic...
eta: working on an Abby post, I had a bit more sleep and homework to knock out than I originally thought o.o
OH MEH GOSH! SO I SEE! *reads more*
*reads more*Wonderful Idle, and sleep well hon! *waves* You and Walrus did a fantastic job and, as you know, love Moire! And nice one-liner at the end there, Walrus
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