Vikings - Love Thy Enemy (ScarlettFever x Traveler)

[Traveler]

Hate is not the first enemy of love.
Fear is.
It destroys your ability to trust.


​

Long boats swiftly cut through the choppy waves, heading towards the green, morning lit shores of France. Peaceful fluffs of white dotted the hillsides; a flock of sheep, waiting to be shorn come spring. The water splashed over the sides of the ships as anchors pushed out and the sail was hoisted, slowing the ships’ approach, and though much was said through gestures and practice, no voice was raised lest the village be alerted. As silent as death, twenty long boats met the shore, and one by one Vikings poured out, their shield and swords at the ready.

The burg was ripe for pillaging, and the prize on the hill, the tiny Abbey rumored to hold treasures fit for a king, was Tait Eriksune’s goal. The leader of the right flank of ships watched as his men pulled the longboats onto the shore. One from each ship would stand guard; the others looted. Whatever they found, was split half among the raiders and half to their Jarl, Erik the Slayr. Tait and his two brothers led the morning raid. He led his men along the winding hillside road, past quiet homes still deep in slumber, towards the whitewashed Abbey, as his brothers headed to the town center and the wealthier homes on the hillsides. Tait gestured to his leaders, sending half around the back, and as the sun began to lay its rays across the vibrant dew-kissed grasses, they used the nuns’ hospitality to entreat them to open the doors for ‘poor travelers’, and once the doors were breached, forced their way into the quiet, peaceful interior of the holy structure. White arches held by marble posts soared overhead. The walls were covered in colorful murals depicting scenes from their holy book, and the floor was neatly tiled in blue and white alternating tiles. Every moment, every gasp and shuffle of feet, was echoed through the hard surfaces of the abbey. Despite the fear in the women's eyes they neither screamed nor fought back as hard hands gripped them by the arms and began to drag them together and bind their hands.

It took a moment for Tait to realize that the women were not fighting back, nor were they screaming and fleeing as those in other abbeys had done, but were quietly gathering and moving away from the hulking, fur-clad Vikings who had invaded their sanctuary. They did not even rush to the aid of their captured sisters. As he strode through the rooms, he saw them begin to congregate in a main room and kneel, facing the carving of a man crucified upon a cross. He stopped a moment, watching them as they gestured across their chests and began to pray quietly in their huddled mass. A tingling feeling of foreboding crossed the back of his head and snaked down his spine; these were women who cared more for the blessing and protection of their dead god than they did for the live men who would snatch them up and sell them into servitude across the seas.

As the women prayed, the Vikings began to swipe silver candelabras and golden chalices and dishes into large burlap bags, taking what they wanted and caring not for the mess they left behind. A tap at his arm alerted the captivated leader to Igor the Bezerker. The man was one of the shorter of the crew, but his wild fighting abilities and his impossible-to-kill attitude had long ago won him the admiration of the taller son of a Jarl.

“Tait, this doesn’t feel right,” he said, eyeing the women as if they had all sprouted wings and a third arm. “They don’t scream, they don’t fight…” he frowned.

“I see it to.” Tait dark eyes traveled up to the carving of the man on the cross. “Tell the others; do not touch a woman who is praying. If they scream, run, or fight, we take them. But these…” his eyes dropped to the praying nuns, “we leave them to their god, lest he smite us for taking his women.” The Viking leader saw some of the men begin to haul the bound women away, he called for them to stop – “Take the gold and silver, leave these women be,” he ordered. "Untie them and allow them to go 'pray' with the others."

“Your father will not be pleased,” Igor observed. His darkened eyes glowered, and he pulled at his long beard as he eyed the motley group of women, some young and some old enough to be near their death beds. “Slaves sell well.”

“Hm.” He shook his head. “There will be plenty of women and men fighting in town, where they are not so holy. We will have our slaves,” he concluded, “but none of these pious ones. I don’t want to bring their god’s wrath upon my fleet.”

With a grunt, Igor went to stop those who had begun to drag the praying women off, spreading the word of Tait’s decision to all. Several smaller groups began to explore the abbey, others had already filled their bags and were hauling the stolen goods back to the ship. Tait, his own hands still empty, began to go through the rooms, opening cupboards, doors, and looking under tables and beds, for the supposed gold and gems that they were told all houses of the Christian god hid in their holy places.

It bothered him that the women did not fight back, and he saw it in Igor’s eyes as well. No…if they were that dedicated to their god, then leave them to the crucified one. They wanted women who were not already dead to the world, and they wanted treasure. At least the latter was here; he knew that the take they had from the main hall with the large cross alone would make their raid a success. Hopefully his brothers, Beorn and Garth, would have better luck with the slave bounty.

 

[ScarlettFever]

"We must take to heart, brothers, from what we were created, who we were and what kind of creatures we were when we entered the world, as if from a tomb and from utter darkness. Having prepared for us bountifully before we were born, He Who fashioned us and created us brought us into His world. Since, then, we owe all this to Him, we ought to give Him thanks for everything."
-Pope St. Clement I, 1st Century AD

Celeste DuMaurier clutched the empty basket closer to her chest, holding the her gray wool scapula close against her slight body, as she glanced longingly at the sisters who were tending to chores in the garden. They were warmer than she simply because they wore the traditional wimple and veil of the nun rather than just a simple novice veil. In two days time, though, she would be one of them, and she swallowed a lump in her throat at the thought. Despite only being October, the autumn season was a harsh one for the Benedictine sisters of Abbaye Sain-Ouen de Rouen (St. Ouen Abbey of Rouen) in northern France. They were scurrying like mice to gather the last of their fall crops and make preparations for what appeared to be a bitter winter ahead, and the Reverend Mother had even allowed them to work from 2 until 4 p.m. on the holiest day of the week--Sunday. Celeste had been tasked with taking cheese and milk to the Arseneau family since Claudette Arseneau was heavy with child, and her husband was fighting the Vikings in the north. When she'd left the small cottage, she hurried down the dirt lane until she heard the unmistakable clip clop of Monsieur Bardet's simple buggy.

"Salut, Sister Celeste, how are you this fine Sunday afternoon?" he asked, his wizened face split into a grin as he slowed the vehicle and his horse to a slow pace.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Bardet," she replied, making a sign of the cross in her greeting. The people of Rouen adored the Benedictine order at the abbey and always requested blessings when they encountered one of the sisters, so she had automatically gone into the motions of the blessing without thinking twice about it. "I am quite well, thank you. I just left the Arseneau cottage; Madame is close to her babe time."

"But that is wonderful news!" he bellowed, slapping his knee with enthusiasm. The Bardet family was a large one, and the old man and his wife always rejoiced when their neighbors had babies. "Here, sister, it is too cold to walk all that way back to the abbey. Allow me to carry you there in my buggy."

The young woman thanked the man and climbed aboard, sitting beside him on the springy seat as he used his crop to make the horse pick up its pace. As the old man talked about the weather and the crops, Celeste rubbed her hands together, sending a quick prayer of gratitude that the man had given her a ride. She felt half frozen because she had not thought to put on her woolen stockings and wore only her light ones. She eyed her ankle that peeped out beneath the hem of her long gown, noting its slender shape before she stuck it beneath the gray fabric of her dress. Her ankles had once been quite the talk of society just two years before when she had scandalized Parisian society at her debutante ball and worn a gown sewn with diamanté and pearls instead of traditional flowers, and she'd dared to lift her skirts enough to show her ankles when she danced. The crones had tittered into their teacups at the sight, shocked that the Marquis DuMaurier's younger daughter had dared to show her ankles. How crass! How bold! How scandalous!

The young beauty had laughed in delight at the stir she'd caused, teasing her friends when they warned her to be more circumspect, and she'd danced the night away. The next morning, however, the girl had been ordered to her father's study, and he and her mother broke the news that they had been approached by Count François Villejoin who wanted to marry her, and they had accepted on her behalf. She'd cried and pleaded with her parents, but they would not be dissuaded from this course, telling her she was fortunate that any man wanted marriage after her deplorable behavior at the ball.

That evening, her parents had hosted an intimate dinner party with friends to announce the betrothal and to introduce Celeste to her fiancé. When she met the older man, her skin had crawled. He was old enough to be her grandfather and had watery eyes and a pot belly that hung over his pants. He'd insisted on dancing every dance with her, and when he'd maneuvered her onto the balcony, he'd pawed pulled at her until she finally was able to convince him that she'd heard her mother calling for her. That night, she'd cried into her pillow, praying for salvation. When the morning sun beamed through her windows, she'd risen, dressed, and approached her parents, telling them that if they did not end the betrothal immediately, she would not eat. The next few days and weeks became a battle for who could outlast the other. Surviving on water and a bite of bread each day, Celeste had grown shrunken and frail, her usually chestnut hair lacking its usual lustre and her visage growing gaunt. Finally, her father had recanted on the condition that she enter a convent for breaking a betrothal was unheard of and brought shame to families, unless the party who broke it entered the Church. Celeste agreed, despite having no true desire for such a life, but she preferred it to a life as Villejoin's brood mare.

Within the week, she had been shipped to Abbaye Sain-Ouen de Rouen, stripped of her worldly possessions, her hair shorn down to short, two-inch locks, and given the plain, woolen garments of a novice. Now, two years later, her studies were coming to an end, and she would take her vows on Tuesday. Although this wasn't the life she thought she would live, she was content and grateful to God for allowing her to choose her own path instead of being forced down one she knew she would hate.

Just as they rounded the bend in the road and the abbey loomed large before them, Monsieur Bardet's words caught the 18-year-old's attention.

"...And Monsieur le Viacomte's son arrived from Trouville just yesterday and said the invaders were vicious and left nothing except the ancient. It truly was a tragedy and a great loss."

Celeste blinked, trying to recall what the man had said before she had paid attention, but she couldn't place it. Choosing her words carefully, the girl asked, "Monsieur, who are these invaders?"

"They come from the north in ornate boats--Vikings--and they destroy everything in their path," he responded ominously, his voice deep and sad at the retelling.

"But surely Rouen is safe since it is not a seaside village," she half exclaimed, half asked, and the old man shook his head. "No, sister, the Vikings are vicious creatures. They and their false gods care for nothing but wealth and women. If they learn of the riches of the abbey, they will come here soon. You would do well to warn the Mother Superior."

Celeste scoffed, "Riches? We have given away all of our earthly possessions, Monsieur. We have no riches."

The man sighed and patted her hand as he would his daughter's. "You forget, sister, that you look at the world differently from most. The holy chalices and plates that are part of mass are made of gold and adorned with jewels. From the pagans' perspectives, the abbey is rife with riches."

The young woman swallowed nervously and thanked the man for the ride before hopping off of the buggy. She would warn the Mother Superior and then seek guidance in the chapel.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Hours later, Celeste's head was bent in prayer before a lighted candle in the chapel when she heard the sounds of the invaders breaking through the oak doors of the abbey. Heart pounding, she tried to remember the Mother Superior's instructions, but instead of praying and keeping a serene countenance, she found herself trembling, shaking with fear, her mind cluttered and confused.

Minutes passed, and the sounds grew nearer and nearer until, finally, the girl could remain still no longer. She stood and ran to the altar, deftly sliding her fingers beneath the ledge until she found the spring that opened the hidden cabinet door. She yanked the contents out, placing candles and flint on top of the altar, and then she climbed into the cupboard, grateful for the first time that she had not been able to put on all of her pre-hunger strike weight. After weeks of only water and bites of bread, the food served in the abbey had tasted like ambrosia, but it was scarce and carefully portioned so that all could eat, so although she was no longer gaunt, and her hair had regained its vitality, her figure was slight and her breasts smaller than they had been two years before.

Bang!

She flinched as the invaders entered the chapel, their heavy boots echoing in the sacred space. She heard them rummaging through the sanctuary, their voices loud in their strange tongue, and she closed her eyes, praying for safety. Just as she had begun to relax, she heard a squeaking sound, and she opened her gray eyes and finding them clashing with two big brown eyes.

 

[Traveler]

Empty cabinets, already picked bare by efficient hands, were all that greeted Tait. He supposed he should be proud of his men, but the women clustered before the hanging cross had soured his mood and put his superstitious mind to thinking of curses and spell. Before it, upon the alter, had been a nice pile of vessels; silver candlesticks edged in emeralds, chalices of gold and ruby gems, even a book, though that had been left on the alter untouched. Who wanted a book? He stalked around the women to the alter and glared up at the carving at the man on the cross. I will not be cursed by you! He quietly insisted, before turning back to the altar. The book…some might pay for that, though it might not last the sea journey. Perhaps they had more books, he thought, opening the cabinet below to inspect its contents.

And stared down into a pair of frightened grey eyes on a woman clothed in white. She wasn’t praying; she was hiding. He grabbed her by the arm and then nodded to the side, to tell her to climb out. He would have yanked her, but she was so tightly fit into the small space that he didn’t want to break her. Broken slaves had no value.

“Come on!” he growled. “We don’t have all day!”

Already the call to return to the longboats had been made, and the last of his men were finalizing their hoard. One leaned down to kiss one of the praying nuns, then patted her condescendingly on the cheek, before trotting off with his haul slung over his back.

 

[ScarlettFever]

The invader grabbed her slender arm with his meaty hand and nodded for her to leave the cupboard, and Celeste's gasped, her heart leaping to her throat as terror filled her eyes. Pray, she reminded herself, recalling Mother Superior's instructions, and she closed her eyes to do so, only to be met with a deep, rumbling growl in a foreign tongue. Her eyes flitted open, and recognized the ruthless dominance in his expression, and her heart plummeted.

Instinctively, she yanked her arm away from his grasp, but she cried out in pain as her elbow knocked into the hard wall behind her. She felt him tug her from the cupboard then, easing her out with surprising gentleness before he yanked her to her feet. Seeing her chance to escape, Celeste brought her foot down as hard as she could on his instep, wincing as her own foot smarted from the effort, and then she twisted and elbowed him in the stomach. His hand loosened his grasp, and she lifted her long tunic skirt to her ankles and bolted for the chapel door, only to see several of her sister nuns kneeling in prayer and a large man kiss one of them before patting her cheek and walking out of the door.

Celeste careened to a halt, looking left and right, trying to decide her next move. She heard the gigantic man coming toward her, and she jumped over the back of a pew and stood on its seat, hopping over three more pews before scurrying along another until she reached a side door hidden by a large statue of the Holy Mother. Glancing back, saw the horrified faces of the sisters, but she didn't let that stop her. She leaped from the pew and bounded for the door, clutching at the lever that opened it, but it wouldn't budge. She stamped her foot, shaking the lever, but to no avail. And then she remembered that the door led to the wine cellar that held the eucharistic wine. The older woman had begun locking it a few months ago when she found Sister Mary Clarence imbibing in the juice of the vine a bit too heartily. Whimpering in frustration, she she turned to run, but the warrior was barreling down on her. Her last chance was to break the window--a masterpiece of stained glass--and she swallowed the lump that formed in her throat. The sisters would be crushed, and they would hate her forever if she destroyed the glittering image of the Holy Family.

Steeling her resolve, she grasped the statue of the Holy Mother, its large structure too big to lift, and using every ounce of strength in her body, she shoved it against the window. The distinct crack followed by a tinkling shatter echoed in the chapel. and she shook the statue back and forth to knock off some of the jagged edges of glass. She scurried to the window and looked out. The drop was short; her biggest concern was the glass. Steeling her nerves, she hopped to the ledge, closed her eyes, and crouched low in preparation to jump.

 

[Traveler]

Silly girl; she jerked away and hurt herself. But then it seemed as if she was going to be more compliant, as she let him lead her from the cupboard. And then everything changed. She fought, wickedly so, and caught Tait by off guard. He yelled in surprise, seeing her sprint across the room towards the chapel door. “Stop!” he shouted as he ran after her. Stupid girl.

Her fleeing was almost comical. Where would she go that he wouldn’t get her eventually? She was only making him madder as she clambered over pews and then tried to open some kind of door they had missed. He turned and saw the berserker returning to the cloister. “Igor!” he shouted, waving his arm in a come quick gesture. “See what’s hidden behind that door.” He turned and ran after his prize, quickly closing the distance between them. It was shocking to see her struggling to life the statue. Does she think to strike me with it? The thought almost made him laugh. Again, quick as a rabbit in the field, she darted off, only to break the stained glass window that dominated the room.

Careful craftsmanship destroyed, in less than a second. Tait raised an arm to shield his eyes, then saw her clearing a way through the shards of glass. That crazy woman is going to jump! His arm wrapped around her waist as she crouched to flee, jerking her from the windowsill and forcing her against his hard chest. “Not today,” he growled. As she hit at his arms and kicked he dragged her away from the window.

In the other room, axes had been brought out to cut through the Holy Mother statue and reveal her hidden secrets. Cheers flowed through the rooms as the Vikings discovered the treasures within, and soon holy wine was meeting unholy lips, as they imbibed in a good share of the contents.

Tait’s prisoner was still fighting back, making their progress difficult at best. He hoisted her in his strong arms and slung her over his shoulder. With one arm he pinned her knees against his chest. The other hand smacked her across her ass. Hard. “Settle down!” He shouted, smacking her again. She was a wisp of a woman with a fiery temper, and as he walked past the praying women, he noticed several crossing their chests in their holy wardings. “She’s not one of you,” he growled, even though they could not understand his words.

Her struggles became too cumbersome. Once he got to the chapel door, he grabbed her arm and set her on her feet. Shaking her violently he told her again to stop. His hand clamped, vice-like, around her wrist, bruising her soft skin beneath.

Igor the Berserker and the others started to file past. “Got yourself a wild cat, Tait?” The long-bearded Viking taunted.

“And that wine,” he reminded his man. “I found it. You lot already drank half.” He jerked the woman’s arm again as she continued to resist. “Give me your rope,” he said to Igor. Then he wrestled the woman’s hands together and whipped the rope around them, tight enough to hold her but not enough to make her hands grow cold.

“Are you sharing that treasure too?” Igor asked as they started walking towards the boats.

Tait dragged her along beside him, shooting glares at her each time she resisted. “I think…I might keep this one for myself,” he finally answered. A holy woman who did not pray; a pacifist who fought back. What other interesting contradictions might he find under that holy garb of hers?

 

[ScarlettFever]

Celeste heard the Viking yell something in his own tongue, but she ignored him, crouching low, and just as she was about to spring out of the window, she felt a thick arm wrap around her waist, and her entire body jerked, pulling tightly against a hard chest, a low growl of fury in her ear. Angry, the girl struggled, arms flailing and hitting, her legs kicking, trying to land a solid hit against the tree that held her tightly. In the distance, she heard an unholy cheer and loud crashes, which only spurred her to struggle harder.

As though annoyed with her, the beast hoisted her into the air and tossed her over his shoulder, her breath whooshing out of her as her stomach his his shoulder. He pinned her knees, hidden by the long, thick robes of her garment, to his chest, and her arms and head swayed as he walked. Fury washed over the girl, and she fisted her little hands and battered against his back when she felt his hand strike her bottom, followed by a shouting command and another swat.

Tears filled her eyes at the sting and humiliation she felt as he carried her through her the room. her sisters watching in horror and crossing themselves and praying for deliverance. When she realized that no one else was being taken from the abbey, Celeste renewed her struggle, terrified of her fate. Why had she been selected to go with the beast, and what would he do with her. She flailed her arms and legs as best she could, but when they reached the door, he grabbed her arm, his meaty hand wrapping around it, and set her on her feet. He shook her and yelled again, and she clenched her eyes shut, steeling herself for the blow that she knew was to come.

Instead, she felt his hand clamp around her waist, and she winced at his powerful hold. Another man spoke, and hoping this would distract him, she began to pull away, only to feel him jerk her arm again. He growled at the other man and then pulled her hands together, tying them with a rope. The abrasive tug of the rope dug into her soft skin, and she whimpered, but still she struggled against it, fighting the discomfort.

The other man leered at her, and she furrowed her brow anger, tugging at the ropes as he spoke to her captor. The Viking shot a glare at her and dragged her along the path and replied to his comrade before leading her along with his men along the road.

How long she walked, Celeste did not know, but the bitter cold, the biting rope, and exhaustion soon took their toll on the girl, and by evening, she was dragging slowly, speeding up only when her captor tugged on the rope. She hadn't fought against him in hours, and her silent, unnoticed tears has ceased flowing long ago. Instead, a dull reprimand echoed in her heart as she considered all that she'd given up to become a nun, and now that, too, had been taken from her. The safe, secure, and serene life she'd chosen for herself had been ripped away, and she desperately wished she'd agreed to marry Count Villejoin and bare his children rather than this. At least she would have the comforts of an aristocrat's life, her family around her, and people who spoke her language. Her future now...was unknown, uncertain, and no doubt horrific. She swallowed a lump in her throat, praying for le Bon Dieu to save her, to give her the strength to flee when she had the chance, or to forgive her for the unforgivable sin if this life became unbearable.

 

[Traveler]

The route back took longer, and though it had seemed mere hours since they had landed on the continent, the sky had burned hot, then cooled again, and the sun was making its descent beyond the horizon. Multitudes of Vikings gathered at the ships, loading crates, bags of treasures, food, wine, and people into the great longboats. Tait shouted orders to his men while keeping his hand clamped on the end of his treasure’s leash. As he waved an arm to several men, directing them to load the crates of wine, he was approached by his younger brother, Garth.

The younger Viking had his long hair bound at his neck and wound about a braid. The sides of his head had been shorn short, and his long beard tapered at his chest. “I’ll load her with the other slaves,” Garth offered, reaching for the rope.

“Nei!” The word was spoken harshly. “I’m keeping this one.”

“Keeping her?” Garth scowled. “We split all things equally.”

“Ja,” Tait agreed, “and you’ll get your pick of the others. This one is mine.”

The other man scoffed. “Father will be angry. He doesn’t like us to keep the slaves; they don’t make us any gold when they’re kept; only trouble.”

Tait laughed. “Then by those accounts, we should have sold you long ago, little brother.” He pulled Celeste along until they came to a ship pulled into the shallow waters. As the sunlight faded, he jerked her into the sea behind him, then towards the rear. So far her demeanor had calmed, but he wasn’t sure she would stay as docile once she realized that she was truly leaving.

The water sloshed cold against their legs, reminding them that Winter had just ended, and the mountains still harbored feet of snow. The large Viking turned now to Celeste and regarded her, noticing how much she shivered. She was dressed in just the simple dress, and not much more. Her face held the tracks of her tears, and the look in her eyes was of one whose hope had long since fled. Gone was the fighter in the closet, but he hoped that it remained somewhere in the young woman. He placed a hand under her chin and pinched her cheeks enough to direct her face, turning it to the side in the waning sunlight so he could better look at her.

Convinced he still saw some life in her, he reached forward to wrap his hands around her waist and lift her over the side of the ship. He quickly followed, latching his hands over the top and springing up, then vaulting over the side. Rows of men sat along the trunks on the sides, the center stacked with the good that they had stolen. Underneath the rowmen’s seats were stored smaller goods; coins, gold and silver, bottles and food. They even had a few livestock on several of the boats.

From their vantage point the other dozen ships could be seen snaking along the shoreline. Some of the ships were already being pushed away, the oars turning in sync to move the vessel along.

Tait’s arm wrapped around Celeste’s shoulder and herded her towards the back where a stout trunk sat against a large pile of bounty. He bade her sit, then removed his cloak and set it around her shoulders and tucked it around her front before shouting orders to the men. In a matter of moments, the oars were lifted, and strong men pushed the ship from the shore before running and jumping within. The oars all dipped into the water to turn it to the right, all minds united in one goal.

Celeste’s captor held the handle of the rudder and stood as the men rowed and the sail unfurled. Soon all twelve ships were sailing to the North and the land of the Norsemen. The faces of the rowers were towards them, and many of the men enjoyed their view of Celeste. Tait continually had to tell them to put their backs into their rowing, directing them to focus on the journey, and not his prize.

He looked behind him at the woman, then took a moment to adjust the fur-lined cloak around her neck, helping to block the sharp night air from her ears, before turning back to his task.