Determining One's Worth (As Day Fades & darkangel76)

The off-balance roll of old, ill-kept wagon wheels were the only sound amid a somber moment, a grim silence that added punctuation to the air after the event of the day. They rattled some as they traversed over a slightly uneven dirt road, at times through a bit of yet to dry mud from yesterday's rain. It was the afternoon now, that place between afternoon and evening, and behind the large cart, in the growing distance, plumes of smoke could still be seen billowing in the air. Much closer than that was the fresh batch of slaves marching forward, a man, a Viking warrior every few feet on either side of the line to keep things in check. Some sobbed, understandably; it was that and the roll of the wheels that created the din as each person involved put one foot in front of the other, leaving behind a sacked town for something far different ahead.

Some called these men 'barbarians.' Others 'savages.' Others it was a social taboo to even mention their proper name, while others still would say it just to spit right after, or proclaim to their friends that should such men ever show up on their doorstep one day, they'd be the one to give them a what-for. But in truth, Vikings were known far and wide as near-untouchable warriors, as men who struck fear in all they charged against and whose on-field ferocity was mirrored by their gratuitous passion in several other aspects of life. They'd come to this town several days ago, these nomad warriors, sending a small group of token messagers to speak with Bristam's mayor and officials on a token agreement. One tenth of their wealth, one tenth of their food stores, one tenth of their of-age women, to be chosen by the men, and an overall change to worship Odin and embrace the Viking culture. The town would have been not only allowed to exist, the rest of the people happy in their new lives, but would have found their lives enriched and received protection from all others who would do them harm.

'We can protect ourselves,' the Mayor had said, spurning the offer immediately.

Three days had been given to pass, with no change. Today, on the fourth, the Viking warriors had attacked early. 'We can protect ourselves'... The town had been sacked by noon.

Now they'd get everything. Those who weren't slain in the fighting were rounded up, stripped down to nothing, and found themselves now in a march back to where the warriors had been making camp, about two miles away. Barefoot, getting more and more covered in dust and filth with every few steps, it was mostly of-age women that had been spared, children and the old being too much to care for, and men being too likely to resist even long after they'd lost. Any with development in their breasts or hair about their loins were considered old enough, with some estimated as young as fifteen, others well into thirties and forties, marching in a line on that long dirt road. Rough hemp rope was wrapped around each woman's waist, around her wrists in front of her, then went on both to the next person in front and behind. Somewhere between sixty to eighty in all, half would be alive to see tomorrow. Maybe thirty would still live a week from now. Those twenty or thirty, though, would find themselves integrated into their conqueror's society, many for whoring and breeding purposes, others if they proved agreeable servants or had some sort of talent in entertainment. Brown and black-haired, red or honey wheat, they were tall or short, teenager or late twenties, some average looking, some immensely pretty. Fair-skinned English girls, this was their life now. The encampment was coming up in the distance, maybe a third of a mile now or so.

What's more, the wagon in front of them all wasn't even the Vikings', originally. It had come from the town. The supplies in the bed on the back had come from the town, as had the horses pulling it too. As did other carts that would surely come along with more supplies. As did...the naked women, as did everything. As did everything now. They'd chosen to fight and had been conquered; everything belonged to these men now.

The road was rough on Eira's bare feet as she walked, though it was nothing compared to the bite of the rope as it stung her flesh. The burly man who'd wrapped it about her waist and wrists had shown no mercy when he'd tied those knots. In fact, she'd never forget that smirk, that laugh... It was forever etched into her mind and would plague her thoughts, her dreams for a long time to come. Of course, that was assuming she'd last the day. As it was, she was beginning to wonder. The longer she walked, the wilder her thoughts ran. So dark and fierce as her blue eyes tried to peer on ahead at the bleak path that lay before, not just her, but everyone marching along with her.

Eira's heart hammered harder than the heavy footfalls of those she marched along side with, her panic rising and roiling, though she couldn't let on, couldn't let these savages have the satisfaction. No. No, they might destroy her home, take away her family, her friends. But she'd be damned if they'd take her soul. That was hers and no one was ever to possess it, not ever. She glanced over her shoulder, her silvery eyes catching a glimpse of the other women—some she knew well, others not so much—causing a shiver to roll down along her spine. Facing forward once more, the road somehow looked longer. It looked darker.

The whimpers were starting to get to Eira the longer they marched on, the whining of the wagons as they creaked over stones causing her to cringe. How she wished she was back home, back in her bed with the covers pulled high about her neck. She could use some sleep, some warmth. Looking up at the sky, a cool breeze caressed her skin, the bite clean and fierce though not as unwelcome as these men that were escorting her along what felt to be a death march.

Closing her eyes, Eira thought about Winter, those cold harsh months when food was scarce and everyone pulled together. It was a time when only the strongest survived, though each year they always strived to care for even the most sickly until it was clear nothing could be done. Winter. It was a hard time, but her favorite time. It was her time. Just then, the wind blew harder, her platinum locks whipping in front of her face, falling in front of her eyes. She wanted to push the hair out of the way, the urge desperate as she opened her eyes, but found herself unable to move her hands to do even the simplest of gestures. Instead, she felt the bite of the rope as it rubbed against her pale flesh, burning and marking it as it slid against tender, un-roughened skin.

Swallowing hard, Eira tried to think about Winter. Her time. It was during those cold, harsh months that she was born. 'She'll die!' they exclaimed. 'She won't last the season!' they shouted. But here she was twenty-two years later. Twenty-two years and ready to face a fate more gruesome than a death due to starvation or sickness. Shivering from the wind, but still holding her head up high, she continued walking, her feet only stopping when the caravan came to a sudden halt.