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Saga
Oct 20, 2019 21:20:55 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Oct 20, 2019 21:20:55 GMT
It was Fell’s turn to look desperate, the expression of wariness melting almost completely away into one of desire as Arlan teased him, first with words and then with touch. Even so, Fell’s movements were hesitant, almost as if he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. After everything that had happened, with Arlan pushing him away, and the warrior’s shameful, weak admission of his feelings… it seemed too good to be true that the man seemed to be falling into his arms now, and it seemed much more than he deserved. As a result, Fell’s response was somewhat stilted. Though the look of want was clear in his eyes, something was holding him back. As Arlan teased Fell’s lip, his hands came up, moving to cup the man’s face, and hold him in place, his grip gentle but firm. He pressed his lips against Arlan’s, the motion maddeningly soft and excruciatingly slow. With lidded, yet searching eyes he pulled away again, regarding the other with a conflicted look. He wanted to believe that Arlan was his, but his mind spun with the events between them leading up to this point, questioning everything.
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Saga
Oct 21, 2019 2:26:19 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Oct 21, 2019 2:26:19 GMT
Arlan hadn’t expected Fell’s kiss. His expression betrayed his surprise as, instead of the usual passionate, possessive force the Viking would use, Fell’s touch was anything but. The Celt had felt his heart quicken at having his head held, certain he knew what was coming next… but instead it was a subtle move that kept him from following Fell’s lips, the confusion clear in his eyes as he watched the other pull away again. The warrior looked so… defeated, even with the desire in his eyes.
Before Fell could pull too far back, Arlan’s own hand came up to stop him, not so much cupping his cheek as holding him, as if willing him to come in again. His other hand was already on the Viking’s waist, gripping at the fabric of his shirt. For now, the fire in his blood was softened, but it still burned as he pushed in for another kiss, ignoring the hands that seemed to hold him still. But as he pulled his lips away, he didn’t withdraw. Instead, with Fell already so close, he found his forehead pressed against the other’s, his eyes closed as he finally spoke, a need surfacing that he hadn’t experienced for some time. When had he experienced it before? He wasn’t sure. He might not have ever felt this before… but…
“I want this,” he said, huskily, softly pleading, unable to look into those uncertain, hesitant eyes.
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Saga
Oct 26, 2019 22:28:40 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Oct 26, 2019 22:28:40 GMT
The last thing the Viking had expected was the gesture, familiar and yet novel when coming from the slave. It was an incredibly intimate motion, one that Fell used himself, reserved only for those he felt very deeply for. It was a sign of great affection when words would just fall short, and receiving such a gesture from Arlan stilled the Viking for a moment, his heart somersaulting in his chest. After a tense and breathless pause, he suddenly pushed in, the passion that the slave had come to know from the warrior finally reigniting. His touch was needy, their lips crashing together with a force that pushed Arlan abruptly back until he was pressed against the wall; Fell’s hands planted either side of the man’s head and caging him. One hand came up to cup the man’s cheek just as the man had his own only seconds before, guiding Arlan into a deeper kiss, his other arm wrapping around Arlan's waist and pulling him in close, flush against the heat of his own body.
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Saga
Oct 27, 2019 19:11:28 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Oct 27, 2019 19:11:28 GMT
Arlan had been on the verge of withdrawing and running, his gut twisting hard from the guilt and desperate need for freedom. He had to be able to escape when he could… but it was hard to let go of the image of Fellbjorn, such a fearsome warrior and dangerous enemy, looking so broken by Arlan’s simple push away. He seemed genuine, something the Celt wasn’t sure how to handle. All that was keeping him there was the fire, a want, a need for the other’s touch. But if it wasn’t to be given…
Fell’s push was just in time, and so fully unaware of how much his claim to Arlan’s body was needed in that moment. He found himself pushed into the wall, initially stiff with his mixed feelings, but he coaxed himself out of it, silently repeating the words he had spoken just a minute before, half in need to convince himself to keep going, that he did want this. This life, this moment… If he wanted to seduce the other, he had to pretend he’d been seduced himself. Had to believe it, even if only for a few months, long enough to establish a routine that would enable his escape.
But as Fell guided him back into a kiss, his eyes that had snapped open in surprise of being pushed to the wall slowly closed again, and for the first time, there was no resistance melting into acceptance. His own hands came up to keep Fell’s face from pulling away, gripping the back of his shirt to pin him close. And as they went on, clothes being shed and a move to the large bed made, Arlan continued to accept rather than rebel, only resisting when Fell would try to pull back even for a few moments, often with a move that would catch Arlan’s breath.
Wanted this, indeed.
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Saga
Nov 2, 2019 0:21:47 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Nov 2, 2019 0:21:47 GMT
For some reason, waking up with Arlan in his arms just felt… right. Again, as Fell was drowsily roused from his slumber, he was first struck by how whole he felt. The slave fit snugly against the curve of his body, and as sunlight filtered through the gaps in the wooden walls, the warrior merely hid his face in the crook of the man’s neck, breathing in the warmth and the scent of him and willing away the morning. He didn’t want to move, especially as Arlan was clearly still asleep, his breathing slow and calm and his body still. But, eventually, Fell did, slowly and clearly reluctantly unwrapping his arms from around Arlan’s form, taking care to disturb the man as little as possible as he slipped carefully from the bed. Standing in the dim light of the hut, he stretched, letting out a deep, but soundless yawn, still trying to be quiet so as not to disturb the other. Retrieving his clothes from where they had been discarded the night before, he was just pulling on his tunic when sight of Arlan made him pause.
He was suddenly struck with such a feeling of longing and dread that it was almost a physical ache in his chest, the shock of it taking his breath away for a moment. Longing, because he realised then it was not just lust, he truly wanted Arlan with all his being… and dread because he was not certain that the man felt the same way.
Composing himself, he continued to dress, a little more eager now to leave than he had been moments before.
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Saga
Nov 2, 2019 2:34:39 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Nov 2, 2019 2:34:39 GMT
Waking up this time wasn’t quite so painful, as his head wasn’t throbbing as consciousness returned, but Arlan was well aware of how worn out he felt. In a good way, but he’d wonder later if the alcohol that first time hadn’t helped end the night more quickly. Or was it because it had been weeks of tension between them, with their argument just before Fell went on a raid?
Despite Fell’s best efforts, moving away had made him begin to stir, although all he did was let out a soft moan at being shifted a little to pull limbs free. Fortunately he had missed the look of longing and dread, instead his eyes opening to mere slits and watching Fell getting dressed, a sick feeling slowly building in the pit of his stomach.
Last time he had been the one to leave the bed. This time Fell had slipped out. He almost seemed eager to leave, in fact. The well of fear of having failed didn’t make him jump, a part of him almost convinced that there was no way he could have succeeded. He was just a slave… how was he supposed to seduce his own master?
“Leaving already?” he finally mumbled, just clear enough to be understood around the furs that made up the bed, his eyes opening enough to be seen. His gaze and tone leant towards his fear, inadvertently making him seem even more vulnerable lying in the bed as he was. It was accidental in that it revealed how he genuinely felt, exposed in much deeper ways than he had let on before.
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Saga
Nov 2, 2019 10:59:24 GMT
via mobile
Post by Kelathi on Nov 2, 2019 10:59:24 GMT
So, Fell hadn’t been successful in avoiding rousing his bedmate, after all. The vulnerable, almost coy tone caught him off-guard, his gaze drawing back to meet Arlan’s. Instead of looking guilty at having been caught attempting to sneak away, he looked surprised at the man’s question. “Do you want me to stay?” He asked, trying to keep his tone steady and not give away his true feelings, not just yet. Before, Arlan had been anxious the next day for things to return to the way they had been, pushing Fell even further away in the aftermath of their night together. Were they not to simply fall into the same pattern this time?
Also... was it just his imagination, or did Arlan suddenly look so vulnerable, lying there? Fell wanted nothing more than to just return to the bed and hold him, but just as the evening before, he was guarding himself, refusing to let onto his full feelings before he felt on more solid ground with the other.
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Saga
Nov 17, 2019 4:37:40 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Nov 17, 2019 4:37:40 GMT
In spite of his fears reading Fell’s surprise as disinterest, Arlan clung to the fact that the Viking hadn’t simply left. He missed the irony that he himself had done the same the last time. But of course, Fell had no long-term plan reliant upon his slave wanting him…
Rather than sitting up fully, Arlan pushed up to prop himself up on one elbow, red hair circling his shoulders in messy waves. The sleep was still clinging a little, the weariness keeping the vulnerable edge to him even as he almost sounded challenging. Not one for honeyed words and platitudes, even if he was trying to seduce the other. “What do you think?” he asked in response to Fell’s question, the challenge in his words and not his voice, which had grown soft, as if Fell had asked something silly and the Celt was responding patiently to him, simply willing him to come back.
Arlan might have blushed in embarrassment if he had been able to see himself in that moment, looking so needy… and so lost himself.
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Saga
Dec 28, 2019 15:08:32 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Dec 28, 2019 15:08:32 GMT
Fell smiled then, a genuine smile that was gentle but held an edge of sadness. As he approached the bed again, it became clear why as he spoke. “What do I think?” He echoed, sitting on the edge of the bed and regarding his bedmate. Then, he leaned over to plant a soft kiss to Arlan’s lips, his eyes closing as he did so, only opening as he pulled away, yet remaining lidded. “I think... that I don’t deserve you.” He answered quietly. His mind flitted back to the time they had first met, and for the first time, he felt guilt twist his gut. Before, he hadn’t really put any thought into what he had done. Raiding and taking prisoners was the Viking way, and was not something he had ever questioned or thought too much on. Now he knew Arlan...
Well, he couldn’t change the past, but perhaps he could make it up to the man in time. If Arlan really did want him as he seemed to, Fell could give him a good life, perhaps even better than it had been before at the monastery. The thought ignited in him hope for the future, and a determination to make his desire a reality.
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Saga
Jan 1, 2020 2:53:58 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 1, 2020 2:53:58 GMT
Arlan managed to hide his uncertainty as Fell returned to the bed, given the odd smile. This meant he was able to accept the kiss easily, a moment away from pulling Fell in when the Viking pulled back again.
He wasn’t able to hide his reaction to Fell’s answer, however, the surprise widening his eyes as he regarded the other. Fell gave him the time needed to respond, the few moments to relax again, a little of his challenge coming back the same way it had the night before. Arlan leaned forward a little, well aware of how he was dressed, a smirk dancing on his lips.
“Try.”
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Saga
Apr 30, 2020 1:09:20 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Apr 30, 2020 1:09:20 GMT
“Fellbjorn!”
Fell jumped at the sudden shout, especially as it was so close to his ear, his hand leaping down to the axe at his belt as he half-spun round, ready to face whatever danger was upon him. But instead of an incoming threat of some kind, he was met with Baldur, who was grinning from ear to ear at the reaction he had caused. Fell sighed, allowing the tension in his shoulders to unwind again, removing his hand from his weapon and relaxing somewhat. “Odin above, Baldur.” He muttered in annoyance, rubbing his forehead, feeling a niggling headache coming on that felt as if it were behind his eyes. “You look like Hel.” The giant commented unhelpfully, hoisting himself up onto the fence next to where his companion stood. “Where were you? You seemed away with the spirits.” “Nowhere, I’m just a little weary.” Fell merely responded, his thoughts flitting back to what he had been thinking about. He had been pondering his situation with Arlan, of course, it seemed to be a common occurrence nowadays. He was still puzzled as to his own feelings towards the man. Never before had he felt this way, and he had bedded his fair share of men and women before now. It was confusing, worrying, and exciting all in one. Sometimes he felt closer to Arlan than he ever had before, as if he had finally broken down the barriers between them. Then all too soon, he seemed to feel the chasm widen. Fell was perceptive, but patient, so he didn’t press Arlan about this feeling of distance, reasoning that the man had more reason than he to feel conflicted considering their dynamic. It was something that would ease with time. Or at least, that was what he hoped.
“Well, I’m growing weary with your moping! If it’s a girl wont you just bed her already and be done with it?” Fell shook his head with a mirthless smile at Baldur’s comment… if only things were that simple. The two were like brothers, but Baldur was about emotionally deep as a puddle, so there would be little point in trying to explain what was really on his mind, not to mention the fact that Baldur had never had his head turned by a man, and was therefore unlikely to really understand it. “Come on.” Baldur delivered a hearty slap onto Fell’s back then, before dropping off the fence, kicking up dust as he did so. “The day is young and there is much wine to drink!”
***
Alcohol might not solve Fell’s problems, but it certainly helped distract him. After an hour or so of filling their bellies with good food and wine, the warrior was looking much more himself, the easy smile returning, the tension flooding from his body, if only temporarily. So, he was in a good mood as he stumbled outside for a piss. Finishing his business, he stepped back out from around the corner, intending to walk back into the tavern and rejoin his friend, when he heard his name being called. “Master Fellbjorn?”
Curious as to what a slave could want with him, he turned to seek out who was asking for his attention, his gaze falling on a skinny man on the other side of the street. One of the monks, Fell recalled, helped along by the fact that the little man still wore the same robes he’d been taken in, although they had been patched up and adapted, an odd and amusing amalgamation of Viking and stranger. Pausing, Fell considered the man, amused at the way the monk seemed to shrink under his gaze, as if after calling for the warrior’s attention he had immediately regretted it. Fell approached casually, even at just a few paces away he towered over the stranger easily. “What do you want, slave?” He drawled with his grating tone, resting his hand on the hilt of the weapon on his side, a casual movement but one that clearly echoed his dominance, as if his towering frame wasn’t enough. The man’s eyes focused on the movement, he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down nervously as he tried to gather the courage to say what he had wanted to say. He straightened up slightly, and Fell was amused by the slave’s effort to look slightly less pitiful. “I know.” He uttered conspirationally, eyes initially downcast. When they flickered back up to Fell’s, there was suddenly a cunning twinkle in his eye that the warrior didn’t much care for. It took Fell a moment to reply, mostly because he was surprised that the slave had managed to grasp some of their language, however rusty he was when speaking. “You know what?”
“I know you with Arlan. I know you do.” Even if the language was being butchered, it was clear what the man meant with his accusatory tone- and what he intended to do about it. Fell regarded the other, for just about long enough to cause the man to start to falter in his conviction. Then, suddenly, he had grasped the slave by the scruff of his tunic, dragging him an inch off the floor as he yanked him closer. The man had immediately paled, merely a squeak leaving his lips as he stared wide-eyed and fearful into the piercing blue eyes of the Viking. Fell let him drop back down to the ground, but didn’t loosen his grip, dragging the slave out from the shadows and into the crowded tavern he had just left. He didn’t stop until he was in the centre of the room, climbing onto a table and dragging the man with him, having already drawn the attention of quite a few people, who regarded with amusement the horror-struck expression of the half-dangling slave. Alcohol, arrogance, and being enraged at the slave’s meager attempt to blackmail him, all combined to fuel his next actions.
“I’m fucking Arlan!” He bellowed, pretty damn loud, proclaiming quite openly what the slave had wrongly thought he would want to hide. It wasn’t exactly Fell’s intention to advertise it this way, but to Hel would he let someone try to blackmail him! The slave had severely misjudged, judging the Vikings by their own morals. Here, most people didn’t care, it was not unusual for the same sex to lie with each other, even if it was usually treated more discreetly and with more tact than it was now. “If anybody has a problem with that, they can come and let me know, right now!” He finished with a growl, shoving the priest away so roughly his terrified form fell to the ground in a heap. A few people cheered and raised their flagons, and it was not clear whether they were cheering for what Fell had said, how he had treated the slave, or just merely because Vikings love nothing more than to celebrate, regardless of the reason. Either way, the crowd became raucous again, moving on smoothly once it became clear the momentary excitement was over, and there wasn’t going to be a punch-up. The slave scrambled away, faint with the knowledge that he had been let off incredibly easily.
Fell stepped heavily off the table, his boots hitting the floor with a bang, and he grabbed a flagon from a nearby table, with no care as to whom it had belonged to as he downed it. Finishing and slamming the empty vessel back down onto the table, he met Baldur’s puzzled gaze, the man clearly still trying to figure out the logistics of what he had just heard, brows knitted together in confusion. “Don’t ask.” Fell merely growled in response.
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Saga
May 1, 2020 3:31:52 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on May 1, 2020 3:31:52 GMT
Arlan’s attempt at seduction had worked far beyond his expectations. He finally found his method, the irony being that he was more successful in issuing challenges that Fell met rather than pitiful attempts at pillow talk. One particularly bad attempt had ended with Fell laughing, and Arlan gave up on the whole notion. Fell was more than happy to rise to every challenge issued, often for several nights in a row.
In spite of the success of his plan, Arlan didn’t let himself dwell too long on what he was doing. Fell was unexpectedly patient during these pauses, moments where guilt and unease twisted his stomach so hard it hurt. He was not a natural liar, and he found it harder and harder to pretend that things were fine, that he wasn’t just using Fell’s feelings for him in order to give him leash to escape. Arlan had been quick to try and make up for those pauses, to keep up the illusion.
Because that was all it was… just an illusion.
Just an illusion.
Then, there had been the incident at the tavern.
Ironically, Arlan didn’t actually hear about it until a few days after, but it explained a few lingering, odd looks, chuckles and whispers, mostly from the other slaves. Runa was the one who finally explained all, giggling as she remembered how she was told the story of Fellbjorn dragging a terrified monk up onto a table, announcing quite loudly what he was doing with Arlan. The biggest surprise was primarily that Arlan, known as the red-head who was so defiant against the Vikings during the raid on the monastery, had ended up in the bed of the very Viking who had captured him.
It didn’t take much to learn it was Brother Robert who had tried to blackmail Fell with the scandal, as he had seemed overly shaken after the ordeal. That, and he had gone back to muttering prayers against the “Celtic heathen” whenever their paths crossed. But Arlan was about ready to kill Fell for the proclamation, especially the manner in which he had made it. Hard enough to go through with this plan without the whole damn village watching!
Despite his paranoia, it had now been a week since he had heard about it, and Arlan was finally beginning to believe that Fell’s announcement hadn’t actually changed anything. Aside from a few surprised looks from expected quarters - Baldur and Ruald, for a start - the incident seemed to fade almost immediately. Praise the gods.
As the twilight rolled in, Arlan walked his usual way home from Magnhild’s paddock - Epona’s, he sharply corrected himself, not for the first time. A flicker of realization at just how often he would correct himself made Arlan pause, letting his head fall back as his closed eyes basked in the moonlight. His thoughts were far from peaceful, however, a weary line visible as he struggled internally. As much as he had thought to reclaim the mare as Gaelic, he knew it was just an echo of reclamation he wanted for himself. No longer identified as an English slave or Viking slave… but as a Celt, a marcach, a real warrior. As free as the waves racing across the shore. But just like those waves, he kept getting sucked back into darkness, overwhelmed by all the rest.
His head tilted down again, his eyes slitted open just enough to see the path a few paces in front of him. At this time, most were either in the tavern drinking, or at home eating. The streets of the village were quiet, sleepy, filled with shadows as the fiery warm light of the day began to melt seamlessly into the cool evening glow. Another moment with closed eyes, a steadying breath, and he began to walk again, his limp affecting his pace as it once more began to ache. Of course, he’d been reckless with Magnhild that day, and she’d actually managed to throw him. Totally by accident, and she wouldn’t stop nuzzling him afterwards, but luckily no one seemed to have noticed. At least, no one had been laughing at the horse trying to make amends for spinning her rider off.
Arlan was lost in thought as he walked, but he wasn't alone. A shadow in an alleyway suddenly moved, Arlan’s distracted gaze sharply refocusing as his pace slowed. The figure pulled away from the darkness to reveal Torsten, a more wiry figure than his usual companions, but always with a still face with cold eyes that seemed to pierce the soul. Arlan’s hesitation with the man was less due to dealing with another freeman, but rather that Torsten was a favorite of Ove - a man more than happy to have someone kill the Celt. Wanting to simply get out of the awkward situation with Torsten’s sharply focused gaze on him, Arlan pulled a little to the side, reverting to old habits to appease and leave. “Pardon, master,” he noted softly, but found his path suddenly cut off.
Torsten quickly stepped in front of Arlan, in a smooth way that was beginning to make the Celt wary. Had he been armed the confrontation would have gone far differently, but Arlan had already seen from the many, many examples of fighting how good these men were. He didn’t want to go up against an armed man without a weapon himself. But then the man reached out for him, not quite fast enough to make Arlan defensive, but it was enough to catch him off guard. With a light touch, almost tender, Torsten lifted Arlan’s chin a little, seeming to study him. Arlan stilled at the touch, an involuntary shiver of fear running down his spine. Something was wrong… he could feel it.
“I like how you say that,” Torsten unexpectedly rumbled, his voice soft but deep. The tone made Arlan’s chest tighten, increasingly worried but not in a position to do anything. “Do you call Fellbjorn that? When he’s fucking you?” Arlan tried lifting his chin a little to pull out of the other’s grasp, his breath slowly growing short as he tried to think of a way out. But Torsten’s hand shifted quickly, grabbing Arlan’s chin to help pin him in place. It took a lot for the Celt to not simply strike out and escape, but maybe this was just mind games. Maybe this was-
“I want the same as you give him.”
Arlan needed several moments to process what Torsten said so bluntly, finally shoving the hand away. “Then talk to him about it,” he growled, recalling how Fell had once described who slaves could and couldn’t sleep with. Torsten stilled at this, the only movement being his hand returning to his side. Arlan controlled his expression as he began limping around the Viking again, realizing his lip had been curled. He’d been ready for a fight, even if it was likely to get him killed.
What he didn’t expect was a coward’s strike.
All he heard was the sound of something moving quickly through the air, and something hard collided with the back of his skull, dropping him instantly. He didn’t even feel the ground as he landed.
---
Arlan was next aware of his weight shifting into a prickly pile of hay, being dumped off of a shoulder. His eyes struggled to open, seeing only blurred shadows in a dimly lit space. What he felt was different, and it was this he began to struggle against, a well of panic bubbling up inside as the fear of being pinned crossed his mind.
A hand shoved him back into the straw, half choking him with the pressure on his throat. Another hand was working at his belt, tugging at the shirt before hungrily starting to explore his body. Despite the choking hold, Arlan struggled to stop the roaming hand, pushing up and against his assailant. Only the feeling of gravity was a constant he could rely on, pushing against it to simply get up and away.
“Get off-“ he began to curse, hoarsely, clearly disoriented, when lips suddenly shoved into his, silencing him. The kiss was possessive, but not passionate. Lustful, greedy… Arlan made a face against the kiss, trying to push away, but the hand was again trying to choke him, the lack of air again weakening his resistance. It was the flitting between consciousness and non that made him far more compliant to his assailant, only able to meekly push back, only aware that he wanted away… but couldn’t.
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Saga
May 2, 2020 23:34:40 GMT
Post by Kelathi on May 2, 2020 23:34:40 GMT
Something wasn’t right.
Fell cursed so loudly that anyone passing by outside would have heard. It was a shallow cut, but as small cuts often are, it was all too eager to bleed. Grabbing a discarded tunic, he wrapped it around his hand quickly, stemming the flow, his cursing dying down as he regarded the mess that he’d made. He was incredulous that the injury had even happened at all; he had been carving since he had been old enough to pick up a knife and put it to wood. He was confident in his skill, his hands could fly over a sculpture without even needing to think, barely paying attention whilst it took shape in his hands, seemingly of it’s own accord. And yet, tonight, he’d slipped, carelessly gashing himself across the palm. For a moment, he’d simply stared at his hand dubiously, surprise stilling his movements before acting, and uttering forth the onslaught of curses.
With a sigh, Fell let himself fall back down heavily onto his chair, holding the cloth tightly and staring into the waning fire. Not for the first time, he found his gaze straying to the door. Arlan was not back yet, which was not particularly unusual. He often spent his evenings at the stables, with Magnhild, or Epona, as Fell found himself subconsciously automatically correcting. Still, for some reason, tonight the warrior had found himself feeling ill at ease. He had been in the tavern with Baldur when the feeling had started, and it had only seemed to grow the longer he stayed. Excusing himself early, he’d returned home. He wasn’t sure where this wariness was stemming from, but he felt on edge, as if something was deeply wrong. He had tried to ignore it, getting on with sculptures that had needed to be made, but after cutting himself and staining the wood with blood, he knew now he could not just carry on as if everything was fine. Something very clearly was not, and be it a sign from the Gods or not, he could no longer ignore it.
Tearing a strip from the tunic, he threw the remains onto the table, and haphazardly bandaged his hand. Then he stepped out into the night, in search of the slave.
*
It was a cool evening. The moon was already visible in the sky, waxing and almost full, and the sky itself was a deep, royal blue, darkening steadily. Only a few stars were visible so far, but soon they would blanket the great, dark expanse. They always made him think of Arlan now, of that night that they had talked of Viking lore. It seemed an age ago, and the memory usually warmed him. But tonight, he felt cold, that gnawing anxiety draining away any warmth he might have felt. He found himself walking quite fast, anxious to get to the stables, pretty sure that he would find Arlan perfectly safe and well, but quickening his step nonetheless. As the stables gradually came into sight, the feeling of unease still did not wane, but instead, it only intensified as Fell's gaze fell upon Epona… sans Arlan.
Where the hell was he?
Fell’s heart was racing now, thudding painfully in his chest as he approached the paddock. Epona was alone, but she was not happy. She looked stressed, her nostrils were flared and she was champing the grasses underfoot earnestly, waving her head about and snorting. Fell scanned the area, but could see nothing out of the ordinary. He was just about to call out for Arlan when he heard a noise. It had been faint, the sound of rustling that could have just been from livestock, but it didn't matter, because he was already running towards the sound. As he came upon the small-lean-too where they kept bales of hay, he heard another sound, and this one made him go cold all over.
A struggling gasp for breath, a plea silenced.
The next few moments Fell would only recall later in a blur. As his gaze had fallen on Arlan, his clearly weakened form trying and failing to fight back against the unidentified man above him, the assailant's hand wrapped around the red-head’s neck… Fell had blacked out. He would not later remember grasping the man by the hair, tearing him from Arlan and launching him halfway across the barn. Fear for what was happening, and what might have been done, had formed with an all-consuming rage, and once the slave was free from his attacker’s grip, all Fell wanted to do was hurt. The man had tried to fight back, an elbow colliding with Fell’s jaw at one point, but he didn’t feel it, didn’t even notice it as he pummelled the other mercillessly into the ground. It felt as if no time had passed at all when he felt arms wrap around him, yanking him away, too soon, it felt. Someone was shouting but Fell had gone deaf, the adrenalin redirecting function to where it was needed- his rapid heart, his fists. He was vaguely aware in the back of his mind that it was Baldur who was pulling him away, but then suddenly he was walking, Arlan gathered in his arms, with no memory of even lifting the man up. And now they were back home, and Fell was gently setting him down. Setting down the one who owned his heart... the one who was hurting. Arlan was bloodied and Fell was not sure who it belonged to, whether it was Arlan’s, his own or the assailant's. Sound and feeling were gradually returning to his grey-tinged world, and the rage had quietened, overtaken by his concern, his need to help, to unmake what had been done. Fell immediately began rummaging about the dimly lit room, moving automatically to do what needed to be done, the same words repeating in his mind, the only things keeping his terror temporarily at bay. Water. Cloth. Blood. Medicine. Wash it away, find out where Arlan was hurt, stop him from hurting.
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Saga
May 3, 2020 0:44:20 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on May 3, 2020 0:44:20 GMT
His attacker had tired of his lips, and with one hand keeping Arlan subdued, had started on exploring again. He could recall a sting at one point, but with phantoms growing large in his ever darkening gaze he wasn’t even able to gather the strength to do more than simply push. And a push wasn’t enough to stop anything. All he could manage was the start of a struggle, a simple sound.
“St….”
Then, suddenly, he could breathe. The weight was off him, and he found himself nearly gagging on air, rolling to his side as colors and sounds began to return, not having noticed them fading.
Right about then he noticed the throbbing in the back of his head, reminiscent of another blow to the head. As his ragged breath finally began to catch and even out, the phantoms took over, swallowing him in darkness. He was out before Baldur even arrived.
---
As Fell began to examine the Celt’s wounds, the two biggest concerns became immediately apparent. The bloodied blow to the back of his head, matting his hair, and the quickly forming bruises around his throat, would need time and attention. His breath would grow ragged until it could catch again, eyes trying to open but struggling past the initial crack.
Arlan’s other injuries were minor at least; a thin line against his stomach where a dagger had cut through his shirt, nicking him in the process, and a split lip from being bitten hard. These were light marks, only made to look worse by the smearing and open flow.
It was as Fell began to work on the back of his head that Arlan came to, flinching at the sting of the medicated cloth and coughing hard, bringing him back round. All he saw initially was a shadow, reaching out to him from the darkness… he immediately fought back, weak, his aim off again. But there was a difference this time, a look on his face that even in the midst of everything he had been willing to withstand hadn’t crossed once.
It was a look of fear. Fear, until his eyes finally focused on the hands that grabbed his own, finally making out the details of the face even as reassuring words were repeated. The dizziness from the sudden fight laid Arlan out flat again, but not before confusion took hold, and not completely able to replace the fear.
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Saga
May 3, 2020 1:01:02 GMT
Post by Kelathi on May 3, 2020 1:01:02 GMT
“Arlan! It’s me!” Fell’s voice was urgent, laced with concern as he grabbed the man’s flailing arms, trying to still him; worried he would hurt himself further. “It’s me, it’s okay, it’s me.” He rumbled as the man’s disorientated movements became subdued. Whether from exhaustion, or finally recognising that Fell was not his attacker, Arlan lay still again, although his chest still rose and fell quickly in distress, his eyes alight with something Fell never wanted to see, and vowed he would do all he could to never have to see again. A pained look encompassed the warrior’s features, and he pulled away. The last thing Arlan needed right now was to be pinned down. Fell’s eyes lingered on the man’s lips, but instead of the look of lust that normally accompanied such a focused gaze, there was remorse as he studied the wound, the blood. “Please, Arlan, let me help you.” His voice was pleading.
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