The North Wind's (VelvetWhispers & Greg)

[VelvetWhispers]

The biting wind whipped across the sea, carrying with it the scent of salt and impending storm. The Viking longship cut through the rough waters with relentless force, its dragon-headed prow snarling defiantly at the grey sky above. Synne huddled against the cold, the heavy chain around her wrists clinking with every shudder of the ship. The other captives, fellow Saxons, huddled together like sheep awaiting slaughter, their eyes hollow with fear.

She didn't share their outward despair, though inside, she felt the same gnawing terror. Yet, Synne had always been different—an outlier among the devout, a nun by oath but a rebel by heart. Even now, as they sailed further from the shores of her homeland, she couldn't let herself succumb to hopelessness. There was always a way, and she would find it.

The Viking who led this raid, Sigurd, towered over the rest, his presence as imposing as the fierce waves crashing against the hull. His long, unkempt hair whipped around his face, and his piercing blue eyes seemed to cut through the very mist. Synne had caught his gaze more than once during the voyage, and each time, it felt as though he was studying her—trying to unravel the mystery of a woman who wore the habit of a nun but carried herself with a warrior's resolve.

It made her uneasy.

As the ship rocked violently, the other captives muttered prayers to whatever saints would listen, but Synne's eyes were on the horizon. Dark clouds were gathering—ominous, roiling masses that promised no mercy. The ship lurched again, and a few of the women screamed, clutching each other as if their closeness could protect them from the sea's fury.

But it wasn't the storm that worried Synne.

Sigurd had been watching the skies too. He barked orders to his men in their harsh, guttural tongue, and they responded swiftly, securing the oars and adjusting the sails. There was a change in the air—a palpable tension that rippled through the Viking crew. They weren't afraid of much, but even they seemed wary of what was coming.

"Storm's closing in fast," a voice rumbled close to her. Sigurd. She hadn't even noticed him approach, his silent steps betraying none of the predatory grace that belied his size.

Synne didn't respond, just met his gaze with a steady one of her own. She knew better than to show fear, especially to a man who seemed to thrive on it.

"Think your God will save you from the sea's wrath, nun?" Sigurd's voice held a mocking edge, though his eyes were serious.

"My faith is my own," she replied, her tone even. "But I don't expect miracles."

That seemed to amuse him, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest. "You're different from the others. Not like the frightened sheep who cower and pray."

Synne held her ground. "I've seen too much to be afraid of a little water."

Sigurd's gaze sharpened, his interest piqued. Before he could say more, a sudden gust of wind hit the ship, throwing several men off balance. The storm had arrived.

The next hour was chaos. The sea roared in fury, the waves rising like dark mountains around them. The ship creaked and groaned under the onslaught, its wooden frame straining against the elements. The captives screamed, clutching the sides of the ship, their prayers now desperate pleas.

Synne found herself thrown against the railing, the cold spray of the sea stinging her face. She struggled to maintain her footing as the ship lurched violently. The chains around her wrists felt like lead, dragging her down with every motion of the vessel.

"Hold on!" Sigurd's voice cut through the storm. He was nearby, his powerful frame braced against the mast, shouting commands to his men.

Another wave crashed over the deck, and Synne was nearly swept off her feet. A sudden, powerful hand grasped her arm, pulling her back from the edge just as she felt herself slipping. She looked up, her heart pounding, to see Sigurd standing over her, his grip firm and unyielding.

"Stay close!" he ordered, his voice barely audible over the howling wind.

She nodded, too shaken to argue. The storm was a beast, and in its jaws, there was little room for defiance. Sigurd released her arm but kept close, his presence a shield against the raging elements.

The ship battled the storm for what felt like an eternity, every moment a struggle for survival. Synne could see the fear in the faces of even the hardened Vikings, their bravado stripped away by nature's wrath. But through it all, Sigurd remained unshaken, his eyes focused, his movements precise. It was as if the storm only fueled his resolve.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, the storm began to ease. The waves subsided, and the wind, though still fierce, began to lose its edge. The ship, battered and bruised, held steady as the crew worked to assess the damage.

Synne slumped against the railing, her body exhausted, her mind reeling from the ordeal. The other captives were in various states of distress, some weeping openly, others silent and numb.

Sigurd approached her again, his eyes scanning her face. "You're tougher than you look, nun."

She managed a faint smile. "I could say the same about you, Viking."

He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that seemed to lighten the air around them. "I've been called worse."

Their eyes locked for a moment, and there was something in his gaze—something more than just curiosity or amusement. It was a recognition of sorts, a spark of understanding between two souls who had seen too much, endured too much, to be ordinary.

But before either of them could speak, one of Sigurd's men called out. A sharp, urgent tone.

"Ships on the horizon! To the north!"

Sigurd's expression darkened instantly. He turned, scanning the horizon where the man pointed. There, emerging from the mist, were dark shapes—ships. And they were heading straight for them.

Raiders. The storm had brought more than just danger from the sea. It had brought enemies.

"Prepare for battle!" Sigurd roared, his voice commanding and fierce. His men scrambled to ready themselves, weapons drawn, eyes narrowed with the anticipation of bloodshed.

Synne felt a cold knot of dread in her stomach. As if the storm hadn't been enough, now they faced another threat—one that wouldn't be satisfied until they were all dead or captured.

She glanced at Sigurd, who was already moving, his axe in hand, barking orders to his men. For a moment, she wondered if this was it—if fate had brought her this far only to see her life end on this ship, at the hands of marauders no different from the ones who had taken her.

But as the first enemy ship drew near, as the battle cries echoed across the water, Synne felt a surge of determination. She wasn't ready to die, not yet. And if she had to fight to survive, then so be it.

As the enemy ships closed in, she moved to the side of the ship, searching for a weapon—anything to defend herself. She could feel Sigurd's eyes on her again, but this time, there was no time for words. Only action.

 

[Greg]

The waves crashed and the sky was grey as the raiders bore down on them from the north. Two ships- longships, like theirs. Sigurd squinted through the murk to try and determine who they might be.

Friend... or foe.

Danes.

He was sure of it.

And not friendly.

They couldn't outrun them. The storm had prevented them from being seen until it was too late. They were outnumbered. Best to make for shore, sell their lives there dearly if they must. Sigurd had plunder, slaves. The Danes wouldn't pass that up.

It would come to blood.

"Make for shore," Sigurd roared. His men rowed for the nearby shoreline, unshipping the mast as the wind was blowing in the wrong direction, as the Danes gave pursuit. They were closing fast, the wind in their favor.

"Put your backs into it," Sigurd bellowed over the wind. The choppy waves splashing the gunwales as they raced over the roiling seas, Sigurd glancing ahead and then back, gauging the distance, calculating whether they'd make it.

It would be close.

The last few days flashed through his mind. Images of bloodshed, strife. A burning abbey, nuns taken prisoner. Villagers. Men slaughtered, women carried off. The autumn raids coming to an end, time to return home. Before the onset of winter. The sheep islands of the Faeroes, the Hebrides. Raids along the coast of Ireland. Now open sea, and then home.

And the Danes stood in their way.

Sigurd looked up at the sky as the longship danced over the waves, the salt spray stinging his face. He imagined, as he often did before battle, the valkyries appearing in the sky, descending to carry the valiant souls of the dead to their reward. Eternal feasting and battle in Valhalla. A man dying out his last breath as he felt strong hands lift him to his eternal destiny.

Would this be his day?

Odin... he thought to himself.

He was not a man for prayer but he often sent a silent appeal up on the eve of battle- that he not dishonor himself. That he die a man, that his kinfolk could be proud. That he be surrounded by dead and dying enemies as he breathed his last.

They were close. The shoreline approaching rapidly with each stroke of oars. He locked eyes with Aeric Olafsson. The redbeard. Aeric lifted his sword in tribute and Sigurd did the same.

Would they survive this battle?

Only the Norns could say.

The women were still crying, those that had not been cowed into submission by the storm. They had barely survived that, and only to have the raiders appear. The nun, however, was stoic. She was different from the rest. Terrified as well, he was sure, but she didn't show her fear as they did. She gripped the side of the boat, casting about for... what? A weapon?

He chuckled to himself.

They were ashore then, the longship being driven directly upon the stony shore as men jumped out, preparing for battle. There was no talk of fleeing. The had slaves, plunder... they would not give that up. Sigurd jumped into the surf, holding his sword in one hand, helping the nun down with the other. The other slaves, crying or praying, clambering or falling out, left to their own devices briefly by men preparing for bloodshed. He wondered briefly what the nun's God would intend for him if he followed her faith.

Ulfren was throwing up, as he often did before battle, but it was not to be mistaken for cowardice. When the swords sang he would be in the forefront. Aeric organized the men as the Danes closed, the first ship coming ashore some distance away, men pouring out. Axes and swords glinting dully in the pale light. Splashing through the shallows towards Sigurd's men.

Sigurd raised his sword Naðr and thought again of its rich legacy. A gift of his dying jarl, a bloody froth on his lips on the pebbles of a foreign shore, pressing it into Sigurd's hands and telling him to wield it with honor as the light went out of his eyes.

And Sigurd had.

Naðr. Adder in the tongue of the Saxons.

He hefted his shield, the weight on his arm feeling good. Wooden, with a metal boss in the middle, surrounded by a painted red serpent on black.

Jormungandr, the world serpent.

He splashed through the shallows to the nun, taking her arm roughly and and unchaining her. The other slaves he ignored. This one, though...

Looking into her eyes, taking her face and holding it so she looked up at him.

Putting a sword into her hands.

"Pray to your God, woman, if you wish. But fight. With this. Do you understand, woman? Fight.

"Stay alive."

He looked at her then. A long moment.

Then the Danes were among them and the killing began.

 

[VelvetWhispers]

Synne's heart pounded in her chest, each beat echoing the wild crash of the waves against the shore. The cold surf swirled around her ankles, but she barely felt it. Her senses were overwhelmed by the cacophony of battle, the shouting of men, the clashing of steel, and the primal fear that threatened to consume her.

Yet, in that fear, there was also a fierce determination. She had survived the storm, and now, as the Viking Sigurd forced the sword into her hands, she knew she would have to survive the bloodshed that was to come.

The weight of the weapon was foreign to her, but the feel of cold steel against her palm was not. The abbey had been a place of quiet devotion, but Synne had not always been a nun. She remembered, dimly, the feel of her father's blade, how he had taught her to hold it with both hands, to strike with purpose. But that had been another life, one she had buried deep beneath her vows.

The chains fell away from her wrists, clattering onto the stones, and Synne's gaze met Sigurd's. There was a command in his eyes, a challenge, but there was something more—a flicker of respect, of acknowledgment. He was telling her to fight, not just for survival but for something more. Her freedom, perhaps? Her life? It was hard to say, but she knew this was a test.

She nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement, but enough for him to release her. His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he turned, charging into the fray with a roar, his sword raised high, meeting the Danes with a ferocity that matched the storm they had just weathered.

Synne was left standing in the shallows, the chaos of battle unfolding around her. The other captives were huddled together, still chained, their faces pale with terror. Among them, she saw the familiar faces of her fellow nuns, women she had prayed with, shared quiet moments of faith with. Now, they were like lambs before the slaughter, their eyes wide with horror.

She couldn't leave them. The sword Sigurd had given her felt like a lifeline, a slender thread of hope in a sea of despair. She clutched it tightly and waded through the surf toward them, her mind racing. How could she free them in time? The Danes were already upon them, their battle cries mingling with the screams of the dying.

Sister Eadgifu was the first she reached. The older nun had been like a mother to Synne, always there with a gentle word, a comforting hand. Now, she was trembling, her hands clasped tightly around the wooden cross she wore around her neck.

"Synne!" Eadgifu gasped, her voice thick with fear. "What are you doing? You must run!"

Synne shook her head, gripping the sword's hilt tighter. "There's nowhere to run, Sister. We must fight."

Before Eadgifu could protest, Synne knelt beside her, the sharp edge of the blade catching the light as she tried to saw through the chains binding her wrists. But the chains were thick, and the sword was not meant for such work. The iron resisted her efforts, the blade slipping, cutting into her hand, but she did not stop.

All around her, the sounds of battle raged on—swords clashing, men shouting, the sickening thud of bodies falling to the ground. A quick glance revealed Sigurd, his great sword Naðr cleaving through the air with brutal efficiency, carving a path through the Danish warriors. His men fought with equal ferocity, but they were outnumbered, and the tide of battle was turning against them.

Eadgifu was weeping now, her hands clutching at Synne's in desperation. "Please, child, you cannot save us. Go! Save yourself!"

Synne's hands shook as she slashed at the chains, tears of frustration burning in her eyes. "I won't leave you. I can't."

But it was no use. The chains were too strong, the battle too chaotic. Just as she was about to try again, a shadow fell over them. Synne looked up to see a hulking Dane standing over her, his axe dripping with blood, his eyes wild with battle lust.

Eadgifu screamed, trying to shield Synne with her body, but the Dane was too fast. He swung his axe down with a roar, and Synne barely had time to react. She raised her sword, the blade catching the blow just in time, but the force of it sent her sprawling back into the water, her head spinning.

The Dane loomed over her, grinning wickedly, his axe raised for the killing blow. Synne's heart raced, her thoughts scattering in every direction. Was this how it would end?

But then, a flash of steel—a sword slicing through the air, burying itself in the Dane's neck. The man gurgled, his eyes widening in shock before he collapsed into the surf beside her. Synne blinked, trying to clear her vision, and saw Ulfren standing over her, his face twisted in a grimace of fury. He offered her a hand, pulling her to her feet as she tried to catch her breath.

"Stay with the others!" Ulfren barked, his voice rough but not unkind. "Keep them together. If we survive this, we'll need you to lead them."

He didn't wait for a response, turning back to the battle, his sword already swinging toward the next enemy. Synne staggered, her grip on the sword slipping as she watched Ulfren charge into the fray, his battle cry joining the cacophony. She was trembling, soaked to the bone, her hand slick with blood, but the fire in her chest refused to die.

There was no time to think, no time to grieve. She couldn't free the others, but she could protect them. She would be their shield, their sword if need be.

The thought gave her strength, and she took up her place beside the remaining captives, the sword raised in trembling hands. The battle raged on, and she knew the odds were against them. But she would not go down without a fight.

And if this was to be her last stand, she would make sure it was one the Danes would not forget.

 

[Greg]

The battle was chaos. As it always was. And after the fear, the anxiety, the anticipation... once it began it was glorious. In a way that only a man who had fought for his life- and triumphed- could understand. There was nothing else like it. Even if later you could remember almost none of it, as the adrenaline left your body and some men collapsed, or leaned on their weapon until they could breathe again, and thank their gods they were still alive. Sigurd didn't enjoy killing but at times like this, when it was that or be killed, he would sometimes lose himself in the joy of battle, of strife, of surviving.

Of killing a man who would otherwise kill him.

Sigurd was bleeding from multiple cuts but his mail shirt had saved him from blows that would have taken his life. He roared with fury and hewed about him with savage grace, dealing death and ruin, instinctively leading his men into the fray. He was not one to defend- believing always that it were better to take the fight to his foes, he leapt into the midst of the Danes, preferring to keep them off balance. Aeric the redbeard at his side. The initial rush was blunted and then it was every man for himself. Blood, spittle, screams... battle was not elegant. Every move was a second away from death, if you didn't see the blade coming from the side or from behind you, if you were to slow, if you slipped, if anything. Sigurd never stopped moving, letting his brute strength and ferocity carry him through.

Men were dying all around him.

He saw men he'd spent the season with, ate beside, pissed beside, roistered with, go down with a gurgle of blood. Aeric grunted beside him as he took a blow and severed the hand of the man who'd dealt it. The redbeard bleeding everywhere. His own blood? Or the Danes? Sigurd looked for the nun. The tide of battle shifted but always he looked for her, endangering himself by doing so, trying to stay close. She had no chance but Viking women fought.

She could too.

He saw her then and his heart skipped a beat as he saw her peril.

No

And then Ulfren was there. Hair flying as he hewed down the Dane who had been about to take her. Sigurd felt a sense of wild exaltation and his eyes sought hers over the battlefield.

Survive

He felt a stinging blow and mail links shattered and he immediately pivoted, lashing out with all his strength, feeling that satisfying and sickening crunch as he took a man, Naðr biting deep, a spray of blood, the man's shoulder ruined. Falling to a knee as Sigurd shook blood from his eyes, sweat, and kicked the man off his blade. To lie face first in the pounding surf.

Aeric was there then. "There's too many!" His eyes fierce. Face covered in blood. His red braids spattered.

The surf was rolling in crimson.

Sigurd fought his way towards the nun. Letting nothing stop him. A face appeared and he hewed it down, snarling, singing now, blood in his eyes, there was nothing like this save for when you lay with a woman. He knew Aeric and Ulfren were there without seeing them. There were men between them but he would get to her. He could see her now, sword raised, standing her ground. A fierce sense of pride rushed through him.

What a woman.

 

[VelvetWhispers]

Synne had always believed that hell was a place of fire and brimstone, of eternal torment far removed from the world she knew. But now, amidst the chaos of battle, she realized that hell was here, on this blood-soaked shore, where men died with steel in their hands and fury in their hearts.

The stench of blood and brine filled her nostrils, mingling with the salt spray that stung her eyes. Her hands were slick with sweat and blood—some of it her own, most of it not—and the sword felt impossibly heavy. Each breath was a ragged gasp, each heartbeat a hammer against her ribs. But she would not falter. She could not afford to.

The Vikings were devils, every one of them. Sigurd, with his wild eyes and savage grace, was the worst of all. He fought like a demon, carving a path through the Danes with a terrifying ferocity. And yet, he had given her a sword. A weapon. A chance to survive. Perhaps it was some twisted test of his—she couldn't say, nor did she care. All she knew was that she would not die here, not on a foreign shore, surrounded by the corpses of men who cared nothing for her or her God.

She had never asked for this life, nor had she asked for this sword, but now that it was in her hands, she would use it. She remembered her father’s lessons, the way he had shown her to hold a blade, to strike with purpose. Her blows were clumsy, unrefined, but they were driven by a will stronger than fear. She had already felled one Dane, a young man whose eyes had widened in shock as her blade bit into his flesh. His blood had splattered across her face, warm and sticky, and she had nearly vomited, but she held it down. There was no time for weakness.

Her sisters needed her. She had failed to free them from their chains, but she could still protect them. She positioned herself between them and the advancing Danes, her sword raised, her body trembling with exhaustion but her spirit unbroken.

As the battle raged on, Synne found herself glaring at the Vikings with a mixture of loathing and grudging respect. They were monsters, every one of them—Sigurd, Aeric, Ulfren—but they fought with a unity she couldn’t ignore. They were savages, but they were also warriors, driven by a bloodlust she could never understand. The Danes, on the other hand, were no different. They were cut from the same brutal cloth, and she had no illusions about what would happen if they won this battle. They would kill Sigurd and his men, take what plunder they could find, and do with her and the other captives as they pleased.

No, she couldn’t allow that. She would rather die by her own hand than be a victim of their cruelty.

She saw Sigurd then, not far from her, a hulking figure of blood and fury, his sword Naðr cleaving through the Danes with ruthless efficiency. His eyes were wild, but they locked onto hers for the briefest moment, and she saw something there—a wordless command, a challenge.

Survive.

Her heart clenched in her chest. She hated him. She hated the way he looked at her, as if she were some prize to be won, some test of his strength. But she would take that challenge, if only to spite him. She would survive this nightmare, not for him, but for herself. And when it was over, when the dead lay silent and the battle was done, she would find a way out. Away from Sigurd, away from all of them.

She would return to the abbey, or what was left of it, and start anew. Or perhaps she would flee to some distant shore, far from the reach of Vikings and Danes alike. There was a world beyond this violence, a world where she could live in peace, where she could serve her God without fear.

But for now, there was only the battle.

A shadow loomed over her, and she turned just in time to see a Dane bearing down on her, his axe raised high. She barely had time to react, swinging her sword with all the strength she had left. The blade met flesh, and the man howled in pain, staggering back. She didn’t wait—she struck again, driving the point of her sword into his chest. He fell, his eyes wide with disbelief, and she felt a sick satisfaction as his blood pooled around her feet.

Another life taken. Another step closer to freedom.

She glanced around, searching for Sigurd, and saw him still fighting, his men rallying around him despite the overwhelming odds. They were bleeding, battered, but they were still alive. Still fighting.

And so was she.

She tightened her grip on the sword, her jaw set in grim determination. The battle was far from over, but she had made it this far. She would see it through to the end.

And when the last blow was struck, when the last man fell, she would find her way out of this hell.

No matter what it took.

 

[Greg]

Sigurd blinked blood and sweat out of his eyes as he hewed a man down, his eyes on the nun. Another man slipped in the surf and went down, and Aeric brought his sword down, finishing him. The redbeard was covered in blood. Ulfren had lost part of his ear and his face was a death mask. Sigurd had a dozen cuts as he fought his way, man by man, to the nun and the cowering prisoners behind her. He couldn't hear anything over the roaring in his ears, the screams of the dying seeming so far away. It was as if he were looking down upon the battle from a great distance. Perhaps the valkyries had already swooped him away, and he was being borne into the heavens on a great winged steed...

but no, reality intuded into his fever dream as someone slammed into him and sent him sprawling, to narrowly avoid the axe that came down where he'd been. Ulfren having shoved him aside and paid the price. Ulfren who fell now, his eyes unseeing, slack jawed into the surf, his life gone as quickly as a petal in the wind.

Ulfren...

Sigurd lost himself then in a haze of grief and rage, lashing out around him heedless of friend or foe, claiming the life that had taken Ulfren, and others besides. Aeric was beside him as always. They hewed a path through the Danes, an unwavering haze of bloodlust... his old companion... once more at the forefront.

Always though... he found the nun. Seeking her out through the chaos, finding her... and always she was still alive.

He couldn't say why, of all the prisoners, she mattered. Was it her courage, her refusal to bend to her fear? He's seen grown men, stalwart companions, quail on the eve of battle, or be unmanned in the midst of it, and yet amidst the horror she held her ground.

He saw the Dane before she did, but she saw in time. Barely. He was too far, and everything seemed to slow to a standstill as she took his life, saving her very own. She struck him again and Sigurd had to smile amidst the blood, admiring her spirit. Viking women fought so, sometimes more fiercely than the men.

It would seem this wayward nun was cut from a similar cloth.

She was lost then to his sight as he fought on, his arm nearly numb from swinging. Naðr was bloody to the hilt, his grip slick from gore. Blood running down the channel of the blade. He heard the redbeard grunt beside him, looking over to make sure his friend was alive. He was. Limping now, barely able to walk, but still dealing death.

Even a wounded lion could still deal destruction.

Braids flying as someone careened past screaming. War cries replaced by screams, panting, groaning. Men in the surf, the mud, bleeding their life out or crawling for safety. People stepping on corpses and struggling to stay upright as the bloody surf rolled in. The cry of a crow somewhere nearby.

Where was the nun?

He'd lost her. No, there she was. Aeric seemed to sense his objective. There were men around them now, stalwarts who had rallied around their leader as Sigurd bellowed them to him. Whether it had been minutes or hours no one knew. The sun was fading, sinking into the western sea in a wash of blood not unlike the carnage unfolding on this nameless shore. Perhaps only the gods, in all the world, aware of what was transpiring here.

Naðr almost wrenched from his grasp as he shattered the mail shirt of a man almost as big as he, blood spraying in his eyes. Passing the man before he was even down, he and Aeric and a few bloodied others all that was left. It was enough. He was so close.

And then he was there.

The nun stood unbowed. Unbroken. The prisoners behind her screaming or silent in shock. Their world had no place for this. Peaceful, solitude. A world away from this madness.

Part of him pitied them.

One moment chaos reigned and the next moment it was over. Sigurd looked about for enemies, toweing over the nun, only to find none. The nearest Danes were splashing back to their boat, pushing it out to sea, clambering aboard. So few of them left. And even less of Sigurd's men. But the price to be paid for victory was too steep.

Sigurd's blood was racing as he glanced about, taking stock, the battle madness still raging through his veins. Barely able to breathe from the storm coursing through him. One of the nuns was dead, her head stove in from a wayward blow during the melee, who knew? Lying grotesquely in the surf. Dying men crawling for help.

No one near left to kill.

He turned to the nun, his mouth and beard full of blood.

No words were initially spoken. But something... passed between them. An acknowledgment, a passing of respect from him to her.

Survive, he had told her.

She had.

 

[VelvetWhispers]

Synne's hands trembled as she stood there, the sword still clutched in her grasp, the weight of it now alien and wrong. The battle was over. The screams had died, the roars of rage and pain replaced by the rasping breaths of the dying and the distant crash of the waves. Yet, she felt no relief. No victory.

Her body was numb, her mind distant, still trying to comprehend that she had survived. That she had killed. The sword in her hand was slick with blood, the blade notched and dulled from the chaos. She wanted to throw it away, cast it into the sea, but her fingers wouldn't let go. Her muscles had locked, frozen in place, as if the blade had become an extension of her.

She stared down at the Dane she had felled. His lifeless eyes stared back, wide and unseeing, fixed on her with an expression that would haunt her for years to come. The blood on his neck still oozed into the surf, mixing with the crimson-streaked water lapping at his body. It wasn't the first time she had seen a dead man, but it was the first time she had made one that way. Her heart pounded in her chest, but there was no going back now.

She had fought for her life. She had survived.

Synne's gaze lifted, surveying the battlefield that had become their grim theatre. Men lay in twisted heaps, bodies broken and battered. Vikings, Danes… it no longer mattered who they had been. They were all the same now, just lifeless figures being slowly claimed by the sea. Her fellow captives huddled together, some weeping, some in shock. A few women knelt beside the dead, their trembling hands clutching at rosaries or bits of driftwood they'd fashioned into makeshift crosses.

One of the nuns was dead, her skull cracked, blood pooling beneath her fragile form. Synne had tried to reach her during the chaos, tried to free the others, but she had failed. The moment she had taken up the sword Sigurd had given her, the battle had swallowed her whole. She had been cut off from them, forced to fight for her own survival. A deep, gnawing guilt twisted in her stomach as she looked at the bodies strewn across the shore. It hadn't been enough.

And yet… here she was. Alive.

She looked down at the sword again, wondering what strange fate had brought her to this moment. Her habit was torn and stained with blood, the black fabric heavy with the weight of the sea and death alike. She wasn't meant for this. She had taken vows, sworn her life to God, to peace, to prayer. But what did that mean now? What did any of it mean, standing here with a weapon in her hands?

Her eyes drifted to Sigurd. He stood nearby, surveying the remnants of the battle with the same fierce intensity he had carried throughout the fight. His mail shirt hung in tatters, and he bled from more than a dozen wounds, yet he seemed untouched by fatigue. His eyes were still wild, still filled with the bloodlust of battle. He had been watching her, just as he had throughout the fight.

She had seen him cut his way through the Danes with savage grace, carving a path of destruction to reach her. Always looking for her, always fighting his way toward her. The Viking seemed indomitable, unstoppable, a force of nature as brutal as the storm they had just survived. And now, he was here, towering over her, bloodied and feral.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, there was nothing but silence between them. The world narrowed to just the two of them. Synne felt the weight of his gaze, felt the raw energy that still pulsed off him like heat from a forge. He had fought for her, perhaps even killed for her, but she couldn't forget that he had also been the one to chain her in the first place. He was her captor, her enemy, no matter the fleeting sense of protection she had felt.

The blood in his beard, the fire in his eyes, it reminded her of the stories she had heard as a child—of the devils that lurked in the wild, of the Norse gods who demanded sacrifices. Sigurd was no devil, but he was no saint either. He was a man who lived for the sword, for the thrill of battle. She was a nun who had sworn to forsake such violence.

And yet, standing here, with death all around them, Synne realized something she had been denying. In this moment, Sigurd had given her something she hadn't had since the day she was captured: a choice. He had handed her a sword, told her to fight, and she had. She hadn't cowered behind her faith like the others. She hadn't prayed for rescue. She had saved herself.

But she wasn't free.

Not yet.

Synne's jaw tightened. The rage she had pushed down for days surged back, burning through her numbness. This wasn't her world, these weren't her people, and she refused to become one of them, no matter what Sigurd saw in her. She could feel his silent approval, the way he looked at her now—as though she had passed some unspoken test. But she wasn't fighting for his respect. She was fighting for her life. For the chance to escape.

Synne straightened, the sword still firm in her grip, though her arm ached from the weight of it. She would bide her time, play the part if she had to, but one day, she would be free of this nightmare. Free of the Vikings, the Danes, and most of all, free of Sigurd.

The only question was how much blood she would have to spill before that day came.

 

[Greg]

The great fire blazed in the night, sparks crackling as they rose into the sky, as if to herald the wayward souls being freed from this place. Sigurd stood grimly before the fire, gazing deep, mourning his lost. Men he'd fought beside and drank beside, men he knew. Men who would no longer return to their women, their families.

Men taken too soon.

And most of all... Ulfren.

The pyre was for Ulfren.

The other bodies were being burned as well, of course, but Ulfren was all that mattered.

The crows were already at the bodies as they were hauled through the pebbles to the fires. The crows had to eat too, he supposed. The Danes he would have left to them, but they had to camp here tonight, and he wouldn't suffer to sleep among corpses. They would stay here overnight and set out the next morning, those few that were left. The captors almost outnumbered by the prisoners now. He'd taken a silent count. He had fifteen men left, including the redbeard who could hardly walk. The men would be so sore and stiff tomorrow it would be agony to set out, but it must be done.

They couldn't stay here.

His eyes sought out the nun as the smell of burning flesh and woodsmoke rose into the sky. She had met his gaze unflinchingly after the battle, covered in blood, her sword raised in defiance, itself smeared with gore. Her eyes fierce. There was something about her... something unwavering. The other prisoners naturally deferred to her, she had a presence. And he suspected she'd had training with a blade. She knew how to hold it. That training had served her well. That and her own indomitable spirit.

He found himself approaching her before he knew he was doing so.

"Nun." He towered over her but she had showed no fear of him throughout the time he had known her. Oh, perhaps a healthy fear... he was her captor, after all... but not the terrified cowering the other women showed. Fear was natural but she didn't bend to it. He reminded her of some of the northern women he knew.

"You fought well." He'd allowed her to keep her sword. Why take it? She couldn't fight her way out alone, and he knew she wouldn't try. Or if she did... well, he'd been wrong about women before. But he didn't think so. She needed him to find civilization, even if it was far north of where she belonged. Sadly, she was meant for a slave market. All the women were. She was intended for Kaupang, or perhaps elsewhere, her eventual fate very possibly far to the east. Her life as she had known it no longer hers.

Unless...

It was not unknown for captured slaves to be thralls. He found himself considering what it might be like to keep her. She had spirit and was fair to look upon. To have her at his hearth... but what would she do? She wasn't suited for farm work. He had men for that. She was educated, a woman of the Saxon God. A God of peace. A God who demanded forgiveness of one's enemies. He looked about at the recent carnage. A God who did not condone this, he imagined. He wondered then how she would adapt to life in the north. Even now these Christians had come north, some brave souls, to preach the gospel of their strange god. Runestones already proclaimed some villages having converted to the new ways. Not many yet, but it was happening. It was all very odd to him.

"Your God has seen fit to spare you, it would seem." He looked with some contempt at the other prisoners, some still weeping, with their rosaries. "Unfortunate that He did not save you from us at the outset."

He did not intend to taunt her, but he was genuinely curious of her ways. How did one reconcile a God who counselled peace but expected sacrifice and often martyrdom in His service? Could she reconcile that with taking a life?

Why did he care?

Shrugging, he went on. "We will stay here tonight. Our dead must be honored. We will rest and in the morn set out again. Keep that," he waved dismissively at her notched blade. "It may chance that you will need it again, although the fates grant that that not be the case."

 

[VelvetWhispers]

The heat from the pyre licked at Synne's face, the stench of burning flesh turning her stomach. She had tried not to look at the bodies—Vikings, Danes, the nun who had fallen—but the fire's glow illuminated them all. Death was everywhere. She had been surrounded by it for days, but this… this was something different. The crows were already at the corpses, picking at the dead, just as Sigurd and his men had picked at the spoils of war.

Ulfren. The man whose life Sigurd mourned above all others. Synne could hear it in his voice, see it in the way he gazed into the flames. Ulfren's pyre was for him alone, a tribute from the living to the dead. Viking custom, she supposed. Her fingers gripped the rough hilt of the sword Sigurd had let her keep. It was not the weight of the blade that bothered her, but the memory of what she had done with it. The life she had taken.

Her stomach twisted with nausea, not from remorse but from the knowledge that it would happen again. More blood. More death. She would have to fight again.

Sigurd's heavy footsteps crunched in the pebbles behind her, and she braced herself as he approached. He always sought her out after the battles, always had something to say. There was something unsettling in his eyes when he looked at her, an unspoken curiosity or perhaps admiration. She didn't know what he saw in her, but she hated it. Hated him. Hated that she had to rely on him for anything.

"Nun," he said, towering over her. She didn't flinch, didn't look away. She had learned quickly that showing fear only encouraged men like him. "You fought well."

The compliment was laced with a truth she couldn't deny, and that only made her hatred burn brighter. She had fought well, and that sickened her. What had she become, wielding a sword like some shieldmaiden of old? Killing in the name of survival, just as the Vikings did. She wasn't supposed to be like them. She wasn't supposed to be them. She was a woman of God. But here she stood, her hands stained with the blood of men, her soul just as marred.

"You let me live because it serves you," she said, her voice low, steady. "I fought because you forced my hand." She didn't bother hiding the venom in her words.

Sigurd shrugged, as if it didn't matter. Of course it didn't. He had his own reasons for keeping her alive, and she knew they had little to do with mercy. Perhaps he saw her as a prize, something to tame or break. The thought made her fists clench. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. If she had to fight again, it wouldn't be for his amusement or approval. It would be for her freedom.

"Your God has seen fit to spare you, it would seem," Sigurd mused, his eyes flicking over to the prisoners, some still clutching rosaries in desperate prayer. He spoke with contempt, and Synne felt a familiar surge of rage. "Unfortunate that He did not save you from us at the outset."

Her jaw tightened, the fury rising in her throat like bile. How dare he mock her faith? How dare he look at those poor souls—broken, terrified, and clinging to the last remnants of their belief—and speak of God as if He were some feeble deity? But what could she say in return? She had been spared, yes, but at what cost? She had killed a man, and there was no redemption for that. Sigurd's words cut deep because, in some ways, he was right. If God had intended to protect her, why had He allowed her to fall into Viking hands in the first place?

Her faith was being tested in ways she never thought possible. She had prayed for deliverance, for salvation. And yet, here she stood, the sword in her hand telling a different story. Maybe Sigurd could see that. Maybe that's why he mocked her God—because she had already failed Him by succumbing to the savagery she had vowed to renounce.

"Your gods require blood," she said quietly, coldly. "Mine requires something else. I don't expect you to understand."

She turned her gaze to the fire, watching the sparks rise into the night sky like wayward souls. Somewhere, beyond this nightmare, there was peace. Synne knew she had to survive, but it was more than that. She had to escape. She couldn't stay with Sigurd and his men, couldn't bear the thought of being their prisoner any longer. Every moment she spent with them was a reminder of her captivity, her powerlessness. She had killed to stay alive, but she wouldn't live as their thrall.

The sword in her hand reminded her of the choice she had now—the choice to take her own destiny back. She would play her part for now, bide her time. But when the moment came, she would leave them behind. She would escape this madness. The fire had taken enough souls for one night. Hers wouldn't be among them.

Sigurd waved at her sword, granting her permission to keep it. "It may chance that you will need it again, although the fates grant that that not be the case."

Synne gave him a hard, unreadable look. "I don't rely on the fates."

She turned away from him, clutching the sword tightly. She would escape. She had to. And if more blood was spilled along the way, so be it.