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synintheraven · 6 months

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✵pairing: sihtric kjartansson x fem!reader

✵summary: the crew goes raiding in an attempt to gain riches and reader keeps taunting Sihtric as he's still reluctant to her being there at all.

✵tw: mentions of blood/violence, violence, fire (as in provoked fire, burning stuff?)

✵word count: 1,5k (note: will try to keep chapters about this long so I can divide the story into many chapters hehe)

characters info | part one | part three

It was raining. The air smelt of wet grass and damp earth, filling my nostrils. Watching as water drenched the timber of the floor, or how drops fell from the thatched roof over our heads.

It was a cold, dark night and I missed the warmth offered by fire and a dry cloak over my shoulders. But everyone was sleeping and no one suspected a few wolves were quietly wandering among sheep.

We had managed to find a small village, still safe from the clutches of the Great Army’s Danes. It lay on the Black Bourn River, hidden behind willow trees and yellow reeds: looking like no more than an old ruin from afar, but with enough riches to fill our ship.

The place was scattered with small houses going inland, following the road through empty fields and skinny farm animals, stopping where a sad tree marked the entrance. There were no guards, no fighters; only a few old hounds and a single rusty bell to the far side of the village, near the deserted docks.

Yggr was standing by the entrance of the hut, peering outside as we waited behind him. The place smelt like animal dung and water was passing through the holes in the thatch. But we had swords in our hands and eyes sharp, ready to surprise sleeping Saxons.

—Sihtric, Y/N: you two, go. —He beckoned towards the thegn’s house, whose position was given away by the bigger size of its estate.

We went fast, but quietly. Keeping hold of our weapons and avoiding puddles, walking carefully through the bushes.

Sihtric went first, guiding me through the village as he avoided the light from torches and bonfires. Searching for a way into the hut, for doors creaked and we couldn’t risk getting caught, at least not until we had seized the thegn.

We had managed to find an uncovered window, revealing a small area with a table and leftovers from supper still scattered around. It was our way in, though we needed to remain unnoticed.

I jumped through, and scooted the room to ensure there was no one else around, looking for spying eyes before Sihtric came through. Yet the darkness of the room hid no one, not even when thunder brought some light through the wooden window.

The man we were searching for was resting only a few steps away from us, a poor straw wall being the only thing in between us and the four of them; two children, the man’s wife and our target. I moved slowly, approaching his wife and kids, while Sihtric stood behind the man.

He held his short sword to the man’s throat, awakening him with a soft blow on the chest before speaking. —Where’s the silver? —He said in English, but to me it sounded like he was making up words.

The Saxon’s answer was decisive, for it was up to him whatever we were to do next: he could either scream, therefore have Yggr burn everything and everyone to the ground, or he could stay calm and save everyone by giving us a simple answer. Yet by the Dane's reaction, I suspected his answer wasn’t the one we wanted.

—You lie! —He bellowed with a frown, awaking the man’s family. —Tell me where the silver is or she will kill them.

The man remained calm, despite the cold steel threatening the flesh from his neck. His wife, however, looked around with eyes wide open and sat on the furs determined to cry for help, though my sword pointing towards the kids made her reconsider.

—Burn in hell, heathen. —The thegn snarled back, spitting on Sihtric’s face while his kids and wife felt nothing but terror.

Whatever he had said set the Dane’s eyes ablaze and, all of a sudden, there was nothing but rage in his face. Stumbling on his own feet and with his eyes fixated on his poor wife’s worried expression, the man had his wrists tied together and was then forced out of the hut.

Rain drenched their clothes as they stood in the front yard, both facing the burning huts and Yggr’s warriors as they looted the place.

—You chose your pride over your people, now you’ll see them burn! —He spoke loudly, kicking the man’s legs and forcing him on his knees. Then, I suppose, proceeded to repeat what he had said in English, causing the man to twitch around and try to get rid of Sihtric's hold.

But there was no way back. Yggr and his men had heard us and set the thatched roofs ablaze.

It was quite a sight; fire burning bright in the dark night, as the storm and the villagers tried to stop it from spreading. Some men attempted to go after our crew and tried to use hooks, small axes or whatever they could find to defend their belongings, their land. And they died or got seriously injured, fighting with skilled warriors and not mere farmers like them.

Yggr was standing only a few steps from us, stopping his frenzy for a moment to look at the thegn. The light from the fire lit his blonde hair and the fresh blood running down his axe, which he pointed towards us. —Is this what you want, Saxon? —He said with a deep voice, loud enough to be heard despite the heavy storm and screaming warriors around him. —Show me the silver and I’ll spare your life and those of your people.

Sihtric held the man’s head, forcing him to look at our Jarl. He must have been trying to seem strong and unbreakable, looking somewhere into the sky while murmuring unknown words; but a man’s pride has limits, and we had pushed his too far.

—Enough! —He pointed with his head, sighing as my Dane companion forced him to stand once again. —It’s inside the well, there!

The formidable Norse swung his axe around, allowing the water rain to wash the blood from the steel as he moved it towards the startled Saxon. The man was brought closer to the well, which was covered in mush, grass and a few rocks, a subtle cover for the hoard hidden inside.

But as the men searched for treasure, I remained next to the house; still pointing my sword at one of the kid’s throats, his sobbing mother watching as her husband surrendered what little wealth they had to us.

One full bucket of trinkets and the few horses we managed to steal, that was all. Merely enough to buy dirty furs or grain, far from Yggr’s dream to become a proper lord on his first week raiding East Anglia.

The Ragnarsson’s Army had scourged Britain and rid it of the bigger, wealthier riches, and there was nothing we could do about it. We had too little a number to fight them, let alone to try and invade the only territory that remained Saxon and clean of Danes: Wessex.

That was the country’s jewel, the only one that couldn’t be taken. A kingdom that promised the dreamiest treasures and plenty of big, fertile lands for each and every warrior following the brothers.

There was word that King Alfred’s kingdom was stronger since the King’s brother passed, but we Danes and Norse thought the bastard was only lucky; for there were more ships navigating the rivers each day, all of them coming from their homes in the North.

I was sitting next to Sihtric, silently watching the dancing flames in front of us as he sharpened his sword. While Yggr sat near the crumbling wall on the far side of the camp, staring somewhere into the foggy land around us.

It was a dark cold night, without a single star in the sky. The thick fog covering the land around us and the heavy rain falling on the river, deafening every other sound.

Our hiding place now had a timber wood floor and a poorly built thatched roof, along with a small bonfire to warm us. Though we still had no walls, the tall pillars built by giants being the only kind of cover against wandering strangers and the autumnal weather.

—Those tall buildings with old men in dirty robes. That’s where the good stuff is at. —Said a man sitting behind us, loud enough to be heard despite the storm. —We won’t survive long here, trapped in these muddy ruins like a hare surrounded by wolves.

—Soon, hare, you’ll become the wolf. —Sihtric paused, his eyes fixed on a deep nick over the sword’s blade. —But there’s nothing left for us in those places, or here in East Anglia.

—Where are we going, then? —I interrupted, taking the weapon from his grip. —To put this big boy knife of yours to good use, I hope.

Sihtric barely showed a smirk, but I could tell he wasn’t happy sharing his belongings with me, nor with my teasing jokes. —Until the scouts come back, nowhere. —He slowly took his sword back then cleared his throat awkwardly, but kept his bold, mismatched look on me.

—You’re going spying. —Said Yggr, joining us to stand beside the fire, his hands hovering over the warmth. —I can’t sit and wait for them to return, so you’ll join Ivar Ragnarsson in Mercia. Just the two of you.

#sihtric x reader #sihtricxreader #sihtric x you #tlk fanfiction #tlk fanfic #sihtric kjartansson x you #sihtric kjartansson x reader #my writing #rtv #road to valhalla

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capricorn-0mnikorn · 1 year

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I love my disabled body ...

In the same way I'd love a family member

As by the old Norse/Anglo-Saxon (Viking Age) principle of friþ*: unconditionally, pledging to protect and defend, and avenge, no matter what.

I also get angry and frustrated by my disabled body

In the same way I'd get angry and frustrated by a family member

As in: "Give me a Break!" and "Why does that old habit of yours pop up now, when I am trying to do [_X_]?" and "Can you not?"

I rejoice in the company of my disabled body

In the same way I rejoice in the company of a beloved family member

Every sensual pleasure and every emotional high is something we've shared together. And I wouldn't trade my memories with my body for anything.

So any suggestion (even hypothetical) that

I (or worse, Society™) would be better off if I traded my body for a different one

Just awakens my inner avenger. You have been warned.

*That's a "Thorn," not a "Pee"

#life with a disability #ymmv #old Norse words #Wikipedia link #no friþ for fascists BTW #body autonomy #body acceptance

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icarusignite · 7 months

Note

Hey! I don't know if this is the proper format (still kind of new here) but I'm sending in this prompt for an Alfred × Reader fic. There's this idea for him that was stuck in my head a couple months ago. So…

It's set either S2 or S3 but it fits better in S3 or the break between 2 and 3. Alfred is really ill which isn't unusual for him, but this time he's taking a lot longer for him to heal and he's deteriorating more seriously than he normally would.

People in court start looking around for new healers and remedies. Alfred is also kind of desperate because he doesn't want to die before England is complete or Edward is ready to take over.

Reader, who is a healer, comes to court with the intention of helping Alfred. She's neither Dane nor Saxon, if you're comfortable with it she could be of Asian or African origin/descent (eg Father Benedict in S5). She's either Muslim or Christian, either way she's well read and a bit of a scholar (if you've seen Vikings: Valhalla S2, there's a female character that might ring a bell). She's also able to reassure him, like Iseult, that she's treating him with nature's bounty and nothing sinister.

Because she's a scholar (also maybe a Christian), Alfred is comfortable that she's not practicing witchcraft so this helps him accept her more easily. It also helps them bond and they become really close friends over the course of the months she spends treating him. They have fun banter and he's able to feel like Alfred, the man around her instead of King Alfred. Then he realizes that he has feelings for her.

At this point it could go any way really. Does Aelswith factor into it much or not? Does reader reciprocate his feelings or not? If she does, would she be comfortable giving into them and being a mistress? Is Aelswith even in the picture or is this a slight AU? Do they have a sad, happy or bittersweet ending? Idk

For extra spice, Reader could also be good friends with Uhtred or Finan which makes Alfred a little jealous but also sad because he thinks that she'd probably prefer the charming, handsome, potentially single, strapping man to whatever measly affection he could offer her.

Ideally, it would be fluff or smut but whatever you're comfortable writing is fine! Sorry if this is too long but I wanted to be as clear as possible 😅. I also understand if this is too much for a oneshot and you forego the idea entirely

Alfred the great x POC! Fem! Reader

Word Count: 4.6k

A/N: Heyy, so sorry this took literally eons to finally write. Thank you for your lovely request and also thank u for your patience <3 Hope you enjoy what I've done with your idea, and dw this will have another part where I'll explore their chemistry more. I watched a bunch of Alfred edits to get in the mood and ngl I'm lowkey in love with him now lmfao.

Disclaimer: there might be some (a lot) historical discrepancies because I didn't line up the dates exactly but I did find out that the Golden Age of Islam overlapped significantly with the dates that the last kingdom spans so the reader is a prominent scholar from Baghdad. Also, Aelswith is dead (I'm sorry T_T) cuz I don't love a cheating trope even when it is sort of historically accurate. So we have single dad Alfred lol.

The only heaven I'll be sent to is when I'm alone with you

Entering King Alfred's throne room, your senses were immediately awakened by the unfamiliar sights, sounds, and scents of Wessex. The room itself was a stark contrast to the opulent palaces and grand courts of Baghdad that you were accustomed to. The room was spacious, yet its decoration was surprisingly humble and simple, adorned with rough-hewn wooden beams and modest tapestries that depicted various scenes of English myths and prominent events. With a flash of triumph, you found that you recognized some of them from your studies of the English culture. A faint scent of burning wood from the hearth permeated the air with an earthy aroma.

You observed the nobles in attendance, or the ealdormen as they were called here, their attire markedly different from the splendid silks and jewels of Baghdad's court. Here, the people wore simpler garments made of sturdy wool and linen, in the dark colours of the earth as opposed to the the vibrant clothing the people of your home favoured.

Your gaze then turned to the throne itself. It was a robust wooden chair, its design austere yet imposing, lacking the grandeur of the magnificent thrones you had imagined English kings liked to occupy. King Alfred's regal figure atop the throne created a dignified presence. His clothing, matched the style of his ealdormen, long simple robes of a dull grey. The seat next to him was empty and you briefly wondered about his family. The chronicles you had read stated that a king's wife usually took her place beside him when he held court, but you did not know much of Alfred's wife.

Your fingers itched for your writing instruments, yearning to document all your observations and the happenings of the court. You seldom went anywhere without them, but now they remained tucked away in your satchel as you waited for the king to acknowledge your presence. You knew he had seen you enter, his eyes briefly meeting yours, even as he conversed with his ealdormen. Eventually, your thoughts began to wander and you couldn't help but reflect on the stark contrast between the scorching heat of Baghdad and the chilly bite of autumn in Wessex. your flowing linen tunic and trousers, so comfortable in the sweltering desert of your homeland, felt inadequate against the cold English air that seeped through the cracks in the stone walls.

You discreetly rubbed your tingling fingertips together, trying to generate some warmth, as the fire blazing at the hearth did little to banish the chill that had settled in your bones. Your longing for the warmth of the caliphate's sun was keenly felt in this unfamiliar and frigid environment.

Impatience welled up within you as you glanced around the chamber, noting the courtiers' stoic expressions and hushed conversations. The king's deliberations seemed to stretch on endlessly, and you found yourself yearning for the moment when you could finally present your credentials and seek the audience you had travelled so far to obtain.

King Alfred's voice finally called out your name, his voice echoing through the chamber.

"Esteemed lady, I welcome you to the court of Wessex."

The ealdormen, accustomed to the formalities of their court, were taken aback when you did not bow or curtsy as was expected. Instead, you offered a polite smile and tipped your head in a gesture of respect.

A murmur of surprise and disapproval rippled through the assembled courtiers. Some whispered that your behaviour was disrespectful, a breach of protocol. They exchanged curious glances, wondering how their king would react to this departure from tradition.

However, King Alfred took no offence. With a gracious nod, he signalled for you to speak.

"Thank you, your grace. It is an honour to be here."

Your accent was soft, lending your words a foreign intonation, and each syllable was carefully enunciated. You had spent months learning the language, and you weren't about to embarrass yourself now by messing up your pronunciation.

"I extend my deepest gratitude to you for undertaking such a long and arduous journey at my request. I hope the discomfort of the voyage did not prove too taxing."

"Your Majesty," you replied, "it was a journey of great honour for me, and I hope to make myself useful here."

King Alfred nodded appreciatively and then turned to a servant standing nearby.

"Please, ensure that the lady is provided with comfortable quarters and all the amenities she may require during your stay in Wessex."

The servant bowed in acknowledgment and stepped forward to escort you to your residence within the royal palace. You thanked the king once more for his hospitality and assistance before following the servant out of the chamber.

As you left the throne room, your observant nature couldn't help but take note of King Alfred's condition. Despite his attempt to appear at ease in his chair, you had perceived the subtle signs of discomfort. His favouring of his left side, indicating pain or injury to his right, and the unusually pallid complexion for an Englishman raised concerns in your scholarly mind. That was your purpose, after all, to try to diagnose and hopefully cure the ailing monarch.

Just when you were gone, the noblemen of King Alfred's court wasted no time in flocking around him, their curiosity piqued by the arrival of the enigmatic woman. They bombarded the king with questions and voiced their concerns about the unfamiliar customs you had displayed.

One nobleman, his voice dripping with skepticism, remarked, "Your Majesty, did you see that? She didn't bow or curtsy as she should have! It's as if she has no respect for you."

Another, eyeing your unusual attire and complexion, chimed in, "And her clothing, Your Grace! It's unlike anything I've ever seen in Wessex. She's clearly not from anywhere near England. What could she possibly want here?"

The murmurs of disapproval and suspicion spread among the courtiers, as they exchanged perplexed glances. To them, your arrival was an anomaly, and your behaviour had raised eyebrows and questions.

King Alfred, his countenance calm and measured, raised a hand to quell the growing unease.

"I understand your concerns, but there is nothing to worry about" he began, addressing their concerns. "The lady you have just met is a prominent figure from Baghdad. She has travelled from a distant land to be here and she is not here to defy our traditions or customs. She is a scholar seeking to further her studies in Wessex. Her journey to our land is a great honour, as it reflects the recognition of the importance of our own intellectual pursuits."

His tone left no room for further skepticism. He also did not mention the other reason you were there, as he did not wish to reveal the truth of his declining health. As the nobles filtered out of the room, somewhat still unsatisfied by his answer, Alfred couldn't help but remain still, his mind going over the recent developments. When he had first written to the Abbasid Caliphate to request that he be allowed to host a medical scholar at his court, he had to admit he was not expecting a woman, and certainly not one so beautiful.

The next day, Alfred summoned you to his private chambers for a consultation regarding his health. As you entered the room, he couldn't help but notice the change in your attire. Gone was the flowing linen tunic and trousers, replaced by a sturdier, more practical woollen English dress. The deep blue gauzy veil, however, was still draped around your head and flowed down your back.

The English clothing seemed to complement you, accentuating your elegance in a way that was both unexpected and captivating. The king, not for the first time, found himself admiring you, though he kept such thoughts to himself, mindful of the formal context of your meeting.

You, ever the professional scholar, maintained a polite and formal distance as you began your examination of the king. You inquired about his symptoms, listening attentively to his description of the pain and discomfort he had been experiencing. Your deep knowledge and keen medical insight were evident as you asked probing questions and conducted a thorough assessment.

After a careful evaluation, you began to discuss your observations and your initial diagnosis with the king. You explained your thoughts on the potential causes of his discomfort and suggested a course of treatment. King Alfred was grateful for your expertise, and couldn't help but be struck by your intellect. He had a thirst for knowledge himself and he appreciated the quality in others when he saw it. In you he recognized a passion for learning and documentation, one he held himself as well. After the medical examination, he extended an invitation to you to remain in his chambers and share a cup of tea. Initially hesitant, you eventually agreed, recognizing the value of the opportunity to engage in conversation with the English monarch.

Seated in the warmth of the chamber, Alfred began to share with you the rich history of England, its struggles, its triumphs, and its cultural tapestry. He spoke of the challenges of the Anglo-Saxon period, the battles against the Danes, and the enduring spirit of the English people. As he narrated the history of his land, Alfred couldn't help but notice how your eyes lit up with a deep fascination, even though you attempted to contain your enthusiasm. Your questions flowed naturally as you probed deeper into the history and culture of Wessex. You asked about the Anglo-Saxon kings, the legends and folklore, and the development of the English language.

You kept diligent notes in your little notebook, your hand swiftly capturing every detail of the conversation. Your keen intellect and insatiable thirst for knowledge were evident, and your genuine interest in Alfred's words warmed his heart. It had been quite a while since anyone had paid such rapt attention to what he was saying, and he found himself rejuvenated by your exchange.

As a lull settled over your conversation, Alfred's curiosity got the better of him. With a twinkle in his eye, he leaned forward and said, "My lady, I must admit, I'm quite curious about the contents of that notebook of yours. What sort of information have you been documenting to take back to your homeland?"

You smiled, your demeanour more relaxed than when you had first come in, "Your Majesty, you need not worry. I promise you, I haven't written that the English are fire-breathing trolls."

Alfred felt a grin tug at his lips, but he suppressed the urge, keeping his hands folded placidly over his stomach.

"Well, you know, if we English could breathe fire, we might have an easier time dealing with our enemies!"

"There is a trick that performers back home use, to give the illusion of breathing fire. The science behind it is quite fascinating. Perhaps I shall explain it to you sometime."

"Ah yes my lady, you have filled your book with our tales, but have yet to share yours. Do you have any secrets from the East that you'd like to share with us humble English folk?"

You couldn't help but smirk at his words, "I'm afraid some secrets are best left in the lands where they belong, your grace. We wouldn't want you to start brewing Persian tea incorrectly, now would we?"

"I doubt it can compete with our tried and trusted English tea."

"You only think that way because you haven't tried Persian tea yet. Trust me, once you have, there's no going back."

"I suppose you make a fair point! Although, I must admit, the thought of trying to decipher the intricacies of Arabic calligraphy is rather tempting."

You paused, your light-hearted nature urging you to make another joke but you strictly reminded yourself that you were in the presence of a king. It would do you no good to offend him with an ill-timed statement. You were already apprehensive about your earlier comment about the Persian tea, although you were grateful that he chose not to see it as a slight. As if sensing your hesitation, Alfred sat up in bed and leaned forward.

"You are free to speak my lady, do not hold yourself back on my account," he reassured with a wave of his hand.

Still, you settled for a polite smile, "I was just going to remark on the difficulty of calligraphy but I am certain that if anyone would be able to master it, it'd be you, Your Majesty."

A small furrow appeared between Alfred's brows as if that wasn't the answer he expected from you. He could see you pulling away, going back to your polite, almost cold professionalism. Eventually, he nodded thoughtfully at you.

"I would be ever so grateful if you could perhaps show me the technique someday, my lady."

You breathed a sigh of relief and nodded with a small smile.

"Now, about that notebook, if you would allow me to take a look?"

"Ah yes, of course," you handed over the small leatherbound journal to him quickly without further complaints. "But I must warn you, my handwriting isn't at its most legible."

Alfred accepted the notebook with a nod of appreciation. As he leafed through its pages, his eyes quickly fell upon your meticulously written notes. Your thoughts were inscribed in your native language and although he did not understand the words, your elegant looping script impressed him.

He raised an eyebrow and turned toward you expectantly, pointing toward a specific passage, "And what does this say right here?"

"It is a description of the English weather, your grace."

Alfred leaned closer, his finger tracing the inked lines on the page.

"Ah yes, English weather. It was raining when you first arrived, wasn't it? What do you think of our English rain then, my lady? I've heard it has a certain charm."

"Well, I believe your rain can be quite persuasive. It insists that one should stay indoors and read a good book."

Alfred's lips twitched again, fighting back a smile. It seemed that the new scholar shared his interests as well.

"A wise perspective, indeed. Perhaps our English rain is simply encouraging a literary lifestyle."

"Yes, your grace."

"My lady" he continued, a note of genuine admiration in his voice, "I must tell you, your handwriting is truly exquisite. Tell me, just how many languages have you learned."

You felt a blush creep into your cheeks at his compliment. There was something sincere in his eyes as he waited for your answer, looking at you like your accomplishments were the greatest thing in the world. You opened your mouth to respond but then a loud knock sounded on the door and a priest entered.

"Yes, Father Beocca," Alfred seemed irritated at the interruption.

Father Beocca's eyes glanced from you to the king, and despite the fact that you were sitting in a chair quite some distance away from him, you felt a strange flash of awkward embarrassment run through you.

"My king, Uhtred is here to see you," the priest finally stated.

Alfred sighed and turned toward you with an apologetic smile, "Shall we continue our conversation another time then, my lady? It seems that I am needed elsewhere."

"Yes, of course, your grace."

You quickly took your leave then, choosing to take one of your books and go read in the garden. You had just settled yourself into a comfortable nook when loud boisterous laughter caught your attention. Turning your gaze towards the source of the commotion, you spotted three men, two of whom were dressed in the attire of warriors. Their boisterous behaviour was evident as they playfully teased and shoved the third man, who was clad in robes that resembled those of Father Beocca. However, a leather breastplate adorned his monk's attire, hinting at a surprising duality of roles – priest and fighter.

The two warriors were engaged in a lively exchange with the monk, their laughter echoing through the garden. You couldn't help but smile as you watched the scene unfold. Their camaraderie and jesting reminded you of the Caliph's sons back home, when your father would take you to visit the palace.

One of the warriors, a bearded man with broad shoulders and a hearty laugh, clapped the monk on the back.

"Come now, Osferth," he said between chuckles, "surely your devotion to the Lord could use a bit of levity now and then."

The monk, Osferth, grinned in response, "Aye Finan, it is said that laughter is the best medicine, is it not?"

The other warrior, a lean and quick-witted fellow, joined in with a jest, "Well, if that's the case, Osferth, then Finan here will live to be a hundred and you shall die tomorrow!"

Osferth elbowed the tall man in the ribs, "Not before I knock some sense into you Sihtric."

Their jovial banter and good-natured teasing continued, creating a lively atmosphere in the serene garden. You couldn't help but be amused by their antics and the familiarity of their interactions, watching them for quite some time.

The trio of men eventually noticed your presence, and with their laughter dying down, they made their way over to you. As they approached, their expressions revealed a mixture of curiosity and surprise.

The broad-shouldered warrior, Finan, whose eyes twinkled with mischief, was the first to speak. "Well, what have we here?" he said with a grin. "A traveller from foreign shores, I presume?"

"Yes, I am from Baghdad, my lord."

The warrior, clearly taken with you, couldn't resist a flirtatious remark.

"Lady, I must say, you are a wondrous addition to our English garden."

You snorted at his attempt at flirtation.

Meanwhile, the monk with the leather breastplate maintained a more respectful demeanour.

"Greetings, lady, I am Osferth," he said with a nod. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. May I ask what brings you to our humble Wessex?"

You found the monk's polite curiosity quite refreshing.

"Greetings to you too, Osferth. I've come to further my studies here. Wessex has much to offer in terms of knowledge and history, and I hope to make the most of it."

"Well, my lady, if ever you wish to explore our English shores, I'd be delighted to be your guide," it was Finan who spoke again and you could not help but laugh at his words.

"Thank you, kind sir. Your offer is most gracious."

“Call me Finan, my lady.”

Your change continued as they asked more about you and your hometown and you asked about theirs. You found out that they were a band of warriors who followed some fellow named Uhtred, the very same Uhtred who was currently speaking to King Alfred. As the conversation flowed, you discovered that you enjoyed speaking with these men. Their witty banter and friendly demeanour made you feel at ease, despite the foreignness of your surroundings. You shared stories of your travels, your scholarly pursuits, and the cultural nuances of your homeland. The men, in turn, regaled you with tales of their own adventures.

As you continued to engage in playful banter with the warriors, you remained oblivious to the presence of King Alfred and Uhtred, who had ventured outside and were observing the lively exchange.

Eventually, with a confident stride, Uhtred made his way toward your group to make his introduction and Father Beocca approached the king with his concerns.

"Your Majesty," he began cautiously, "I must admit, I have reservations about entrusting your treatment to a foreigner, especially one from so distant a land. We must be cautious of witchcraft and unfamiliar practices."

King Alfred turned to Father Beocca, his expression thoughtful but resolute, "Father Beocca, I understand your concerns, but the lady is no ordinary foreigner. She hails from Baghdad, a city known for its innovative medical advancements and a center of learning in the Islamic world. She comes as one of their finest scholars, sent by the Caliph himself."

"I see, your grace."

"I have read extensively about the great Islamic civilization, and its contributions to science, medicine, and philosophy. I believe we have much to learn from her, not only about medicine but also about fostering understanding and collaboration between our cultures. They have succeeded in uniting several lands under one caliphate, so perhaps we might learn how we may unite England as well."

Father Beocca, though still cautious, nodded in understanding, "Your Majesty, I trust your judgment. It is my fervent hope that the lady's presence here will indeed lead to beneficial knowledge and that she will uphold the values of wisdom and compassion."

"Thank you, Father Beocca. Let us have faith in this unique opportunity for cultural exchange and enlightenment. Her presence is a bridge between worlds, and I believe it is a path toward a brighter future for Wessex."

Over the course of the next few months, you became familiar with the routines of the Wessex palace. King Alfred allowed you to shadow him throughout his day, believing that you could provide valuable insights into his own activities. It was a decision that would lead to a profound connection between the two of you.

Every day, you diligently prepared poultices and medications for the king’s ailments, and often you’d recite the recipe to him and explain the purpose of each herb and plant that went into it. He found that he trusted you completely but he was still comforted by your transparency and the efforts you took to explain things to him. Sometimes he would insist on accompanying you on walks and you would point out the various native English plants and their counterparts back home. You also documented the king's activities and observations in your notebook. At times, he would request to see your notebook, often just to admire the beauty of your script. He marvelled at the graceful lines of your writing, and the intricate calligraphy that adorned the pages.

Your interactions went beyond the formalities of your initial meeting. King Alfred, always eager to learn, would occasionally ask you to translate certain passages from your native language and over time, your bond grew stronger. King Alfred began to look forward to each day, eager to see your bright and colourful veil, a striking contrast to your plain English gowns. He would wonder which hue you would choose, and it became a delightful anticipation in his daily routine.

Your conversations transcended the realm of duty and scholarly pursuits. The two of you shared your favourite books, discussing the nuances of various works and debating the merits of different translations. Your insights challenged Alfred's own understanding, and he cherished these moments of intellectual stimulation.

As the days turned into weeks and then months, Alfred realized that you had become an important fixture in his life. your presence was a source of inspiration, a reminder of the power of knowledge, and a testament to the potential for understanding and collaboration between different cultures.

He found himself thinking of you when he was apart from you, reminiscing about how your eyes would dance with mirth as you argued with him about the inaccuracies of translated works, or how your laughter would fill the palace corridors. You had not only enriched his pursuit of knowledge but had also touched his heart, becoming a cherished friend and confidante in the process.

Alfred could still vividly recall the way you had looked at him with genuine wonder and appreciation when he had shown you his humble library. He knew that compared to the great libraries of Alexandria and Baghdad, his collection was modest, but you had delighted in it all the same. Your eyes, filled with curiosity and admiration, had swept over the numerous scrolls and manuscripts, taking in the wealth of knowledge contained within those walls.

In that moment, as you softly murmured your thanks, Alfred felt his breath catch. He was struck not only by the beauty of your physical presence but also by the grace with which you carried yourself and the genuine enthusiasm you displayed for learning. Your voice had a melodic quality that lingered in his memory. It was a voice that seemed to breathe life into the ancient texts that surrounded you and the king found himself quite enamoured with you. The two of you spent many a late night pouring over scrolls together, and although he always kept a respectful distance, Alfred found himself wanting to brush away the stray strands of hair that fell across your forehead, having escaped the tightly bound coil you usually kept your hair in.

Tonight was one such night as the dim light of the candle burned low, and after a lively discussion on herbal medicine, you had fallen asleep on one of the ancient manuscripts. Alfred, his mind still buzzing with the echoes of your conversation, fought against the pull of sleep. Instead, he watched you slumber, his heart filled with a mixture of admiration and tenderness.

In the soft candlelight of the library, you appeared even more enchanting. Your thick eyelashes brushed against your cheeks as you slept peacefully, your features serene. Your form rose and fell with each gentle breath, a rhythmic reminder of the tranquil cadence of sleep. Alfred couldn't help but be captivated by your beauty in this unburdened state. The play of shadows and light highlighted the delicate contours of your face, and the soft glow of the manuscripts around you lent an almost ethereal quality to the scene. You looked like a vision from a dream.

As he watched your slumber, a sudden, unexpected urge welled up within him. He was struck by the temptation to lean in and kiss you, but he quickly banished the traitorous thought. What an absurd thing for a king to do, to force his affections on a guest in his home. Especially when he had no way of knowing if you returned his feelings. He would have to content himself with the simple act of watching you sleep, his heart filled with a deep and unspoken longing.

He also found himself wondering if you were betrothed, for you couldn’t possibly be married and still be here. What man would not accompany you or let you out of his sight if you were his wife? Although you had discussed many things, you did not stray close to personal topics such as family. You were only a few years younger than him and surely you had to have someone in your life. And even if you didn’t, what could you possibly want with an ailing man like him when a woman as accomplished as you could have anyone in the world?

Such melancholy things plagued him as he eventually drifted asleep on the table across from you, his final thoughts fixating on what it might feel like to have your lips against his.

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talonabraxas · 1 year

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April: Pink Moon April has the Full Pink Moon, from the pink phlox wildflowers that bloom in North America in the early spring. The Native American names referred to the spring thaws and the return of growth, including Breaking Ice Moon and The Moon of the Red Grass Appearing.Common names in Europe also referred to the budding and birth of spring: The Anglo-Saxons called it Egg Moon, the Celts had names like Budding Moon, New Shoots Moon, Seed Moon, and Growing Moon. A Neo-Pagan name is Awakening Moon.The sun watches what I do, but the moon knows all my secrets.

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nitro9th · 3 months

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genuinely enthralled to know who wins this

#rooting for tish and Liz 10!!! Jabe & the vampires always in my heart ❤️#doctor who #dw #polls #dw polls

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chernobog13 · 7 months

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Ted Cassidy as Isiah, John Saxon as Dylan Hunt, Janet Margolin as Harper-Smythe, Christopher Cary as Baylok.

The main cast of Planet Earth (1974), Gene Roddenberry's second attempt at a science fiction television series: a man awakened after being in suspended animation for 150 years finds himself on an Earth trying to rebuild itself after a devastating world war.

Like Star Trek's two pilots, The Cage and Where No Man Has Gone Before, this proposed series had two pilot television movies: Genesis ll (1973) and Planet Earth. And like the Star Trek pilots, these two films had the same trappings but almost completely different casts. The main hero, Dylan Hunt, stayed the same: portrayed by Alex Cord in the first film, and John Saxon in the second.

Unfortunately, neither of these telefilms, nor Roddenberry's other two pilots - Spectre and The Questor Tapes - were able to find any love at any of the three networks, and series were never ordered.

Back in the day, long before the Star Trek films and The Next Generation, a lot of us Trekkies liked to think that Genesis ll and Planet Earth fell into the Star Trek timeline, the world war mentioned maybe being the Eugenics War. As far as I know, that speculation was only that, and these two films were never incorporated into the official Star Trek canon.

#Planet Earth #Ted Cassidy #John Saxon #Janet Margolin #Christopher Cary #Gene Roddenberry #science fiction #failed TV pilot

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marshmyers · 1 month

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The acclaimed author of Sistersong transforms the story of Herla and the Wild Hunt into a rich, feminist fantasy in this stunning tale of two great warriors, a war-torn land, and an ancient magic that is slowly awakening.

Britain, 60AD. Hoping to save her lover, her land, and her people from the Romans, Herla makes a desperate pact with the king of the Otherworld. But years pass unheeded in his realm, and she escapes to find everyone she loved long dead. Cursed to wield his blade, she becomes Lord of the Hunt. And for centuries, she rides, leading her immortal warriors and reaping wanderers' souls. Until the night she meets a woman on a bloody battlefield--a Saxon queen with ice-blue eyes.

Queen Æthelburg of Wessex is a proven fighter. But when she leads her forces to disaster in battle, her husband's court turns against her. Yet King Ine needs Æthel more than ever. Something dark and dangerous is at work in the Wessex court. His own brother seeks to usurp him. And their only hope is the magic in Ine's bloodline that's lain dormant since ancient days.

The moment she and Æthel meet, Herla knows it's no coincidence. The dead kings are waking. The Otherworld seeks to rise, to bring the people of Britain under its dominion. And as Herla and Æthel grow closer, Herla must find her humanity--and a way to break the curse--before it's too late.

PURCHASE

#yabooks #youngadultbooks #yabookstagram #teenbooks #yalit #laughing boy books #historical fiction #historical romance #ancient britain #ya fantasy #fantasy novel #fantasy books #lgbtq books #gay books

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itsthestutterforme · 1 year

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Pyrlig’s Spy (Sihtric x black!reader)

Summary: Father Pyrlig is your adoptive father and raised you as his own in the church. You had became a spy for King Alfred and now became a spy for his successor, Prince Edward. Father Pyrlig asks you to help Uhtred to take down Cnut and you hesitantly agreed.

Notes: GIF is not mine, all mistakes are my own, sexual themes (oral sex - fem receiving), minors DNI, this is a long one sorry not sorry

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Uhtred went to Durham to rest his men and buy some time to figure out what to do next. As of now, him and his men were traitors to the Saxon crown. He will forever be tethered to Wessex and the Saxons. All he ever wanted for this life was to reclaim his birthright to Bebbangburg. Without an army, there was no way he could take back Bebbanburg.

“Lord,” Finan says, nudging his head in the direction of a familiar face. Uhtred’s face fell when he saw Father Pyrlig sitting at a table, reading the scroll in his hands. Uhtred stands from his table and Finan follows.

“You plan on telling Edward where I am, Father?” Uhtred asks, snapping Pyrlig out of his thoughts. “Uhtred,” he says, closing his scroll and tucking it back into his satchel. “No, I’m here on other business.” “Is that right? And what business may that be, Father? A whorehouse?” Finan teases, making Uhtred chuckle.

You heard the tail end of the conversation and didn’t like what you heard. “Mind your tongue, Dane.” You say from behind him, rounding the table. You wore a cloak with a deep hood, making it nearly impossible to reveal your features to the men before you. “Not a Dane,” Finan corrects.

“And who might you be?” Uhtred asks. “None of your business,” you snap. By this point, Osferth and Sihtric were by Uhtred’s side and Father Pyrlig stands to mediate. “Easy boys. This is my adoptive daughter, Y/N. She can be protective.” He explained. “Daughter?” It’s okay to show yourself. They are friends.” He adds.

You waited a moment before pulling back your hood as you looked at the group. “She’s beautiful,” Osferth whispers to Sihtric, warranting an elbow to his stomach. “She has a sharp tongue,” Uhtred says in a amusement. “She has a sharp sword to match,” you snark.

“Y/N, play nice.” Pyrlig states, your gaze softening when you looked at him. “It’s good to see you, Father. I have news.” You start, not wanting to debrief him in front of strangers. Sihtric in particular caught your attention, his darkened gaze awakened something in you no one else did in a long time.

“Do you trust them?” You ask Father Pyrlig. “With my life,” “Very well. There’s much to discuss. We should go somewhere private.” You stated.

Since the day you first met Sihtric in Durham, he’s creeped his way into your head. You can still see his gaze when your eyes are closed. Even when you are under another man, all you could think about was how it would feel to be under him.

Your cover was being a healer for the Danes. Thankfully Haesten has taken a liking to you, which further protected you in your cover. You spaced out your visits to Durham to brief Father Pyrlig to avoid suspicion. Uhtred and his men were stationed there until you gave them the window to attack and take over Cnut’s army.

You were training with Pyrlig when you felt eyes on you. You looked over your shoulder to see Sihtric glancing over at you while he brushed his horse. Pyrlig nudged you with the back of his sword, causing you to stumble. “Eyes up,” he instructs. You turn your attention back to training and crouched down into defensive position.

“Why do you stare at her and don’t say anything?” Osferth asks, brushing his own horse. “I.. always find myself at a loss for words whenever she’s near.” “What worries you, Sihtric? That she may not like you?” Sihtric spares him a glance, brushing the hay off his horse and walking to where Finan and Uhtred were sitting.

“She’s captivated by you, Sihtric.” Osferth states. “Drop it, Osferth.” He states. “Drop what?” Uhtred asks. “Nothing, lord.” Osferth spares Sihtric a glance and follows his gaze to you walking back to your hut for a bath.

Uhtred, Osferth and Finan turned in for the night. Sihtric decided to stay up late, hoping to catch you before bed. You were walking back from talking to Father Pyrlig when Sihtric caught your eye. He takes a sip of his ale and held your gaze. You’ve had enough of the stares and no talking. Your legs had a mind of its own as they strided over Sihtric.

“Is there something you wish to tell me?” You asked. “N-no, my Lady.” “Something keeping you awake?” You asked after a lengthy pause. “I’m afraid so,” “Would you want some company then?” His cheeks reddened at your words and he set down his cup. “How do you mean, my lady?”

You didn’t respond to his question. Instead, you pulled off your cloak and loosened the ties on your dress. His eyes fell to your the swells of your breasts before meeting your gaze. You gathered your cloak in your hands, walking up the steps to your hut.

You tossed the cloak on the table and pulled your gown off so your entire back was exposed before closing the door. You placed the gown on the table next to your cloak, smoothing your hands over your night gown. Sihtric contemplates what he should do next.

He hears a small voice in his head. It’s Finan’s voice saying, “Move it or lose it, idiot.” He stands from the table and made his way to your hut. He opens the door to see you sitting on your bed patiently for him. He closes the door behind him but doesn’t move from his spot in front of the door.

“Do you.. like me, Sihtric?” “Yes, I do.” “Well it doesn’t seem like it,” you stood from the bed and you could see the confliction behind his eyes. “What’s holding you back? Is it another woman?” You ask as you slowly walk around him. “No, my Lady. I am unmarried,” he answers.

“Mm, then what is it?” “You make me nervous like a young boy and his first crush. I.. can never think straight when you’re around.” “Do you wish for me to leave?” “No, lady.” “It’s Y/N,” your face was now inches from his but you only met him half way. “Y/N,” he whispers against your lips and you hummed softly.

He pushed his anxious thoughts from his head for a split second and pressed his lips to yours. He pulled away for a moment, holding your chin to deepen the kiss. Your hands fell to his biceps, take a step backward to lead him to the bed.

You pulled away from his lips and held his gaze as you sat on the bed, pulling him close by his belt. His hands covered yours, smiling at your confused expression. He pulls off his armor and shed his tunic and weapons onto the floor soon after.

He follows your lips until you laid down on your back, kissing your passionately and warmly. Taking the bottom of your night gown and lifting it over your hips. He pressed a peck to your lips before moving south, propping your legs on his shoulders.

A soft sigh leaves your lips when he licks up the stripe of your folds, lingering on your clit. He laps up your juices and circles your clit softly with the tip of tongue. You gently rolled your hips against him, groaning when his beard scratch brushed your folds. “P-please,”

He nips at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh before taking the bundle of nerves between his lips and sucking harshly at it. Your eyes rolled back, the arch in your back deepening. “Fuck, Sihtric. That feels so- oh,” he suctions and kitten licks at your clit, following the pearl with every motion of your hips, not stopping until he felt your body seize.

One of your hands gripped the sheets and the other rested on the back of his head. Your eyes screwed shut when your legs shook along with your orgasm. He pulls away from your legs, kissing your neck and rubbing his knee against your throbbing clit.

He swallowed your quiet sobs and whimpers. “Would you like me to do that again?” He asks, you moaned at the taste of your salty essence. “Is that a yes?” You held the side of his face when he moves to go back between your legs. “I-if you do that, I’ll fall unconscious before you can hump me,” you explained.

“I’d much rather lick you again, lady.” He says softly, pressing a kiss to your palm but he waits for you to nod before returning to his place between your legs. You never met a man that enjoyed giving you pleasure, let alone seek your pleasure before his. He could tell you were close to another orgasm from the intense shaking on your legs.

He kitten licks as quick as his tongue allowed. You twisted your body away from him but he wrapped his arms around your hips. You chanted his name through your orgasm, whining when he doesn’t pull away from your cunt. “No more. Gods, please!” You cried out from the overstimulation.

He pressed a kiss to your cunt before pulling away once again. He gathered you in his arms and cradling your body as you laid on his chest, smiling proudly when he sees your eyes fluttering closed.

“Lord Uhtred suggested I become a spy for him as well. Pretend to offer my sword to Cnut.” He breaks the silence, dragging his finger tips up your back. “Have you ever been a spy before?” You asked, slowly peeling your eyes open. “No,” “Then you have to be very careful,” “You worry for me already, lady?” He jokes. “Things can go wrong very fast so just promise me you’ll be careful,” you explain, holding his gaze.

“I promise,” you sighed when he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. “I haven’t heard Lord Uhtred talking about sending another spy,” you pondered, noticing his heart race in his chest. “It was your idea wasnt it?” You lifted your head from his chest and sat up next to him.

His heart continued to race when he saw a look of amusement in your eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he defends, his eyes never leaving yours as you straddle his waist. “Mm, looks like you need something to jog your memory,”

You gave Sihtric basic pointers on how to not give yourself away as spy. But all of that went out of the window when he noticed how bold Haesten was. How his hand lingers on your waist and slides down below your lower back. One night, you spent the entire night on Haesten’s lap to make up for Sihtric’s staring.

In your cover, you were only attracted to Haesten and that was one thing that came to mind. Sihtric wanted to break Haesten’s neck at the sight.

But no matter how hard you tried to divert attention from Sihtric, he was caught listening to Cnut’s conversation with Haesten and Bloodhair. “Seem like we have a traitor in our midst,” Bloodhair says, dragging Sihtric from outside their tent to the center of the ground for every to see, including you.

“Oh no,” you said to yourself. “Behold! An eavesdropper! Chances are he works for the Saxon scum, King Alfred! He wishes to tell him of our plans! Whatever should we do with him?” The camp circles around as Bloodhair forced Sihtric to his knees. “Kill him!” One man said, others murmured in agreement.

Bloodhair sheaths his sword and your heart sank in your chest. “Have him fight for his freedom!” You announced, moving closer to the crowd. “He doesn’t deserve that! Kill him!” “He is still a Dane,” “A Dane that betrayed his own people for the Saxons is hardly a Dane,”

You sighed, watching as Sihtric glares up at Bloodhair. “She’s right. He’s still a Dane.” Brida tells Cnut. “Have him fight for his freedom. But not now. We need to make a new plan.” Cnut tells Bloodhair. He grips the back of Sihtric’s collar and pushed him through the crowd.

“Bind him and keep his mouth shut,” Bloodhair tells his guards. You walked back to your healer tent, not wanting anyone to see your relief that Sihtric is still breathing. “Why did you defend him?” Your heard Haesten ask from behind you.

You turned to face him and he closed the space between you. “I’m.. not like you guys. I heal people, I don’t kill them. I don’t like seeing death either.” It was a lie obviously. This wasnt your first spy mission He stared at you a moment and you looked at him with sad eyes. “You’re too pure for a place like this, love.” He finally says, holding your face in his hands.

“Come by my tent tonight?” He questions, but you took it as a statement. “Okay,” he nudges his nose against yours before pulling away from you. You returned to your tent, never glancing in Sihtric’s direction. You kept an ear out for when the supposed fight but it never came.

It was close to sunset and you decided to take your chance. You tucked your knife under your gown as you made your way to the stables to get your horse. You brought it the edge of the the forest line, letting it feed on the grass there.

You waited until most of the men were eating or talking amongst themselves to approached the tent that Sihtric was held in. Two guards were outside the tent. You took the knife from his clapped a hand over one’s mouth and slit his throat. Dragging him behind the tent, you waited until the remaining guard rounded the corner.

He gripped his neck as you severed his corrotid. You glanced around before entering the tent, pressing your index finger to your lips when Sihtric’s eyes cut to yours. You quickly cut through his bindings and cut a hole through the back of the tent.

You peeked your head through the hole you made and ran like hell towards your horse. Brida caught movement in the corner of her eye, her jaw clenched when she saw you and Sihtric running towards the forest. “The traitors are getting away! Archers, kill them!” Brida orders.

Some archers rushed to their horses. You and Sihtric already mounted your horse. You took the reigns into your hands, turn the horse to move south when you felt a pinch on your arm. “Ah, fuck!” You looked down to see an arrow piercing straight through your arm.

“Y/N,” Sihtric says worryingly. You snapped the reigns and your horse dashed through the forest. You and Sihtric ducked to avoid anymore arrows while your arm throbs. When you cut through a path and lose the archers, your adrenaline slowly dwindled away and the pain took over.

“We should stop. Get you help.” He suggests. “We can’t. We need to keep moving. It’s fine as long as the arrow is still in my arm. The second you take it out, the bleeding will worsen.” “I’m sorry. This is all my fault.” “Stop that. Just.. hold me until we get to Durham.”

He nods in agreement, wrapping his arms around your and took the reigns into his hands. He places a kiss behind your ear. The peace of the forest, your horse’s soft clicks of her footsteps and chirps of the birds calmed your nerves. You closed your eyes for a moment, leaning further into Sihtric’s chest and thoroughly enjoying his warmth. “Why did you sacrifice the cover you’ve built for weeks, to save me?” He asks after a few paces of silence.

“I’ve seen enough death for a lifetime.. I didn’t intend to see another.” You explained softly. He cupped your chin and turned your face until you were looking over your shoulder. He rested his forehead on your, brushed the tip of his nose against yours.

“Thank you,” he pressed his lips to yours, humming into the kiss. “You saw what Haesten did, didn’t you?” You asked with a pained laugh. “I wanted to break his hands. You’re mine. Not his.” you let out another laugh, wincing when your arm flexed unintentionally. “So I take it, my cover was convincing?” He hummed in response, kissing behind your ear again.

#sihtric #sihtric x reader #the last kingdom #osferth #Uhtred #Finan

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will-o-the-witch · 2 years

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"Easter first started out as a celebration of the Spring Equinox: a time when all of nature is awakened from the slumber of winter and the cycle of renewal begins. Anglo-Saxon pagans celebrated this time of rebirth by invoking Ēostre or Ostara, the goddess of spring, the dawn, and fertility."

Why add quotations if you're not going to say what you're quoting lol

All it takes is clicking the link I literally just posted to find out why that's ahistorical bullshit

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melaniem54 · 8 months

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Review: Just Friends (Never Just Friends Book 1) by Saxon James

Rating: 3.75🌈 This book has so many interesting elements to offer plus an author I’m a fan of. Just Friends (Never Just Friends Book 1) by Saxon James has a best friends to lovers trope, a bi-sexual awakening low angst romance with characters that have several different aspects to their lives that makes this a tad different from the usual contemporary fiction. One of the main characters, Roo,…

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#A MelanieM Review #author Saxon James #Best friends to lovers #bisexual awakening #character w/epilepsy #dyslexic element #gay fiction #LGBTGIA contemporary romance #Review: Just Friends (Never Just Friends Book 1) by Saxon James

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saxon-official · 4 months

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You're my gay awakening say something sexy for me Mr Saxon

I don't think I want to respond to this.

#Saxon's Tumblr #Saxon's asks #Harold Saxon #The master

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grantairescurls · 9 months

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i dreamt that Athelstan built a super tall, tower-like church entirely out of wood with the help of other Saxons who were taken to Kattegat as slaves, just like him. he was so incredibly happy, he spent most of his time painting the walls and making it look pretty.

at night while he’s sleeping in his humble and tiny little hut he is awakened by screams and people banging on his door, as he steps outside he can smell the smoke in the air, and he turns around to see that the curch was burning with all the artifacts he had stolen on raids. and he completely loses it. he screams and cries desperately, he’s literally inconsolable, not even Ragnar is capable of calming him as he watches all his hard work crumble down.

now, guess who was the one to start the fire? of course it was Floki y’all. last thing i remember is Floki grinning as he watches Athelstan on his knees cry out to God

#wtf #athelstan #vikings

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its-all-or-nothing94 · 11 months

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Ravenblade - Part 4 // Ivar Lothbrok x OC

Summary: A tremendous wounded Liv is being cared for after the battle by a surprisingly soft Ivar, so she needs to get the advice of her big brother

Warnings: Language, war wounds, blood

Pairing: Ivar x OC

Tags: @liebgotts-lovergirl, @menari

A/N: Whoooo here I am back from my little Tumblr break!

The following day Liv is awake early. She keeps thinking about the sex with Ivar, and a smile creeps onto her face.

"Well? Did someone have a good night?" asks Sven, who has just come to stand beside her.

"Didn't I tell you it was none of your business?" asks Liv, annoyed, as she laces up her bracers.

"The cripple seems to be in high spirits," he says then and Liv rolls her eyes. She knocks Sven against the shoulder.

"Don't challenge me, Sven!" she grumbles, but Sven continues.

"What? It's like that. And your face is always graced with a smile too. Was he really that good?" he says, and Liv has had enough.

She gets up and stands in front of her friend. Behind her, the sons of Ragnar are just coming out of their tent.

"You asked for it," she hisses then and pushes herself off a tree trunk so she can reach him better. Sven, however, avoids her and grabs her around the waist. He pushes her back, but she manages to stay on her feet. Anger, however, spreads through Liv. She attacks again and has now taken her dagger. She lets it slide through her fingers, and Ivar's eyes grow big when he sees her fighting like this.

Liv does a pike roll, kicks Sven in the knee so that he sinks in and then wraps her legs around his upper body. With a swing, she drops backwards and pulls him with her. Sven lands on the floor and Liv is quickly back on her feet.

But Sven has also had the same training as her, so he too is quickly back on his feet. She tackles him a few times before he grabs her arm and pulls her over him. Liv deftly rolls off and lands a matching punch to the area of his stomach.

The air is forced out of Sven, and he becomes careless so Liv can hold her dagger to his neck.

"Don't you ever do that again! Do you hear me?" she hisses so that only he can hear. A real crowd has slowly formed around them.

Sven exhales shallowly and then nods. Liv slowly takes the dagger from his neck and turns away. But then she twists around again and gives him a small cut on the cheek.

"Don't forget who's in charge here," she hisses, stomping angrily.

As she passes her brother and his brothers, she looks briefly into Ivar's eyes but immediately moves on. She angrily throws her dagger into the nearest tree when she is out of earshot.

"Fucking hell!" she yells, ruffling her hair.

She hates having to discipline her people like this. Sven is ahead of everyone. They are friends, but even he has his limits, which he should not cross. But maybe she was overreacting a little. Could it be that Ivar is to blame? That she becomes so sensitive? Behind her, Liv then hears hooves stomping. Of course, it's him. Slightly amused, he sits in his chariot and looks at Liv.

"Are you okay?" he asks, crossing his arms.

"Why wouldn't I be?" she asks sarcastically. Furious, she stomps towards the tree and pulls out her dagger. "What are you doing here?" she asks, turning to Ivar.

"The others want to go. We're just waiting for you. Your people won't come without you." Liv takes a deep breath before joining Ivar on the chariot. He slaps the reins, and they drive off.

"What happened there before?" he asks suddenly, and Liv is surprised that he even cares.

"What do you do with people who cross their line?" she asks back, and Ivar thinks momentarily. Then he shrugs.

"Then I guess he's lucky you like him."

Again and again, Liv thrust her sword into Saxon soldiers. She has been with the first troop, with Björn, Ubbe, Hvitserk and Sigurd and is now treading through the mud. Her face was splattered with blood after only a few minutes, and her thirst for blood had awakened.

Even her long blond hair, tied in several braids into a high ponytail, has already turned slightly red. She ducks, strikes and draws her sword through the bodies. Despite the effort, Liv cannot suppress a smile. This is what she was made for. To fight.

Again and again, she raises her shield to ward off blows and slashes. She doesn't feel the minor cuts inflicted on her because of the adrenaline. Whether it's minutes or hours, Liv can't tell, but it wouldn't make any difference either. And then another Saxon runs towards her.

He manages to take the shield from her, but she is no less dangerous without it. She draws her sword across the soldier's stomach, then stabs him in the chest. Satisfied, Liv watches him go down.

She stands in the middle of the battlefield. Her bloodied face looks around. Liv's chest rises and falls rapidly, as does her breathing. Then she sees the prince. Aethelwulf. Liv has met him several times, as his father has used her services.

He looks at her in surprise, and she can only grin. But then he raises his bow and shoots an arrow at her. It hits her shoulder. Enraged, Liv breaks off the shaft and tries to raise her arm, making it complicated.

At that moment, Aethelwulf raises his bow again, and the second arrow lands in Liv's stomach. She is too slow to deflect it somehow. She looks down at herself in disbelief, and at that moment, the rest of the large army comes running behind Aethelwulf, forcing him to retreat.

Liv, however, can barely hold on and then goes down. Unable to say anything, she lies there in pain. She has carelessly dropped her sword on the ground.

Satisfied, Ivar sits on his chariot and watches his army slaughter the Saxons. Screams and groans and the smell of blood fill the air. He feels superior to everyone now as if Odin is tapping him directly on the shoulder and rejoicing. He is so full of pride.

Defeated, the Saxon army retreats and flees from the heathen army. Slowly Ivar leads his chariot across the battlefield as his brothers meet him. They all laugh proudly and congratulate the youngest on his victory, for it was his doing.

Then he notices the slightly worried look on Björn's as he looks around. It doesn't take long for Ivar to realise what it's all about. He looks around too, but he can't see Liv anywhere either. Then Björn sees Sven. He stomps towards him.

"Where is she?!" he shouts, and Ivar didn't think Björn cared so much about his sister. "Where is she?!" he shouts again, and the other brothers look around too.

"I don't know!" Sven returns, and Björn grabs him by the collar.

And then Ivar sees her. She is lying in the dirt, surrounded by Saxon corpses.

"There!" shouts Ivar, and slight panic can be heard in his voice.

He throws himself from his chariot and crawls towards her. Björn, of course, is faster.

"Liv!" says Björn once more and throws himself on his knees beside her. Still panting and barely catching her breath, Liv looks at her big brother. Relieved that they have finally found her.

"Björn?" she stutters tonelessly.

"Shhh ... Shhh ... It's going to be all right. We'll get you a healer," he says, looking at the arrow still lodged in his sister's stomach.

"Get a healer now!" Björn shouts angrily, and Liv grits her teeth.

Before Björn realises what she is about to do, Liv unceremoniously breaks off the arrow shaft. A small cry of pain passes her lips. Ivar has seen this too. She is so brave and tough, he thinks to himself, yet the sight of Liv in the dirt with an arrow in her stomach shocks him. He can't lose her. Not now.

"Liv," he breathes when he's almost at her. "No!" he mutters to himself.

When he is finally beside her, he sees that her whole body is covered in dirt and blood. He can't tell which is hers, but it doesn't look good.

"Liv..." he says again, and Liv looks him in the eye before letting out a pained moan.

"Ivar," she breathes then and reaches out for him.

Her head rests on Bjorn's legs, but Ivar also sits beside her. He takes her hand in his and caresses it gently. Then he kisses her hand and presses it against him.

"It's okay, Liv. It's going to be okay," he whispers and touches her cheek.

Björn looks back and forth between Ivar and Liv and then at Ubbe, who stands beside him, shrugging his shoulders. They have never seen their brother like this before.

"It's okay," she stammers now. "I'm not scared."

"You're not going to die, do you hear me?" hisses Ivar, continuing to stroke her hand.

Sven has reached her now, too and rummages in his bag. He takes out a small vial and then kneels to her.

"What is this?" asks Björn immediately, and Sven takes off the cork.

"It will help her," he says, looking at Liv, who nods. He dribbles a little of the liquid into her mouth, and she swallows it. Then her eyelids grow heavy, and her body limp.

"What have you done to her?" exclaims Ivar immediately.

"She's just sleeping. This is for the pain. It will help her," he defends himself, and Hvitserk puts a hand on Ivar's shoulder.

The wound won't stop bleeding. New drops of blood keep forming in it. But Ivar patiently cleans Liv's wounds. It's not only the wound on her stomach that the healer has stitched up well, but she also has several cuts and bruises on her arms.

"You could have died today," he grumbles after a while.

"And yet I'm still here," Liv says, a little more cheerful again. "I thank the gods for that. But I can take care of myself, Ivar."

"Doesn't look much like it to me," he says, showing her the blood-soaked piece of cloth he's using to clean her wounds. "What if you're not so lucky next time?" he asks.

"Then I will die honourably in battle," she only says. Ivar doesn't want to hear something like that. He looks her in the eye momentarily, and Liv returns the look. He puts the scrap of cloth away and takes her hands in his.

"This must not happen, do you hear? Liv... I... I love you, and I want you by my side," he says then, and Liv's eyes widen in surprise. No one has ever said those words to her before.

"What? You don't even know me," she says, turning away from him.

She knows that love is a weakness. And she doesn't want weaknesses.

"It's not just you who can observe Liv. Even the first time I saw you, I knew you were special. And everything I've seen is enough for me to tell you that… I love you."

Ivar looks closely at Liv, and the otherwise strong warrior that he is suddenly seems vulnerable.

"I want you to stay by my side. I want you to be mine."

Liv looks at him. Light tears well up in her eyes as she averts her gaze.

"I can't..." she breathes and stands up. "I have commitments, Ivar. I can't stay with you. As soon as Ecbert is dead, I have to go." She takes another step towards him.

"Please, Liv. You felt it too, I'm sure of it. We belong together." Liv wipes a tear from the corner of her eye.

"Please, Ivar... Don't make this harder than it already is," she pleads with him shaky.

"I just don't want you to lie to yourself. Your place is by my side!"

He takes her hand in his and caresses it. Again she looks into his eyes. His beautiful blue eyes. She would like to say yes to him, but Liv can't. She has the Ravenblade, and she can't let it down. Hesitantly, she pulls her hand away from Ivar.

"I can't," she breathes, "I'm so sorry." With those words, she grabs her tunic, pulls it over her head, walks out, and leaves the tent.

When she gets outside, the sun blinds her. Still struggling with tears, Liv is even more confused because this usually never happens to her. She has been trained to be tough and keep her emotions to a minimum, but Ivar brings them all out.

"Liv!" she then hears someone call out. She turns and sees Björn coming towards her. "How are you?" he asks immediately, but as she stands before him, he notices that Liv is struggling with something, so he hugs her.

Liv lets it happen and presses herself against her brother. It is her first time in years to hold her brother in her arms again. And Liv has to admit, it feels good.

"What's wrong with you?" he asks, and Liv sniffles briefly before running her sleeve over her eyes.

"Nothing," she then says quickly.

"Hey, you can talk to me," he says, looking her in the eye.

It's eerie that when Liv looks at Björn, her own eyes look back. Then his gaze wanders to the tent from which Liv has come.

"Is it Ivar? What has he done?" Björn then asks quickly.

"He hasn't done anything," his sister assures him.

"He seems very fond of you, Liv."

"I know, that's the problem. I can't stay with him. I...". Her voice breaks off.

"But you like him?" Liv lowers her eyes and then nods slightly.

"I can't, Bjorn. Love is a weakness that could endanger me and my people."

Björn considers for a moment. "In the end, you must know what you want, Liv. I know the Ravenblade have a pact, but if it makes you unhappy..."

"You don't understand. I'm the fucking leader. I can't just turn my back on them because I fell in love. It doesn't work like that."

Björn notices that his sister is visibly struggling with herself. She is still so young and has committed herself for life. She should be happy, even if that means wanting to be with his psychopathic brother. It shouldn't be like this.

"You know what? Just forget about it! It doesn't change anything anyway," she says. Then she reaches out and puts her hand on his arm. "Thank you, Björn," she now says softly, and to experience such an action from his sister, he would not have thought possible.

#Vikings #Vikings Fanfic #Ivar x OC #Ivar x Reader #Ivar the Boneless x OC #Ivar the Boneless x Reader #Ivar Lothbrok x OC #Vikings Fandom #Ivar the Boneless #Ivar Lothbrok #Ivar Fanfic #Ivar the Boneless fanfic

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