|
Saga
Feb 5, 2019 1:34:11 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Feb 5, 2019 1:34:11 GMT
The word, marcach, was not familiar to him, but it was clear from the slave’s explanation as to what it meant. Not for the first time, Fell looked curious. He himself had no gift with horses, in fact there was one horse he had been fighting to tame for weeks. The coincidence of Arlan’s arrival was not lost on the warrior, and it seemed clear to him then that that had been the Gods intentions. The pieces just all fit too well for it not to be.
He didn’t muse with these thoughts aloud, however, standing and moving away from the table. He returned moments later carrying a small wooden chest. As he lifted the lid, he pulled out strips of fabrics and set them on the wooden surface- the bandages he would use. A small clay bowl came next, and then a small parcel, which, when unfolded, revealed crisp green leaves. “And what should I call you?” Came the next question. Placing the leaves in his mouth he began to chew, the function of which not yet obvious, but would become clear soon.
|
|
|
Saga
Feb 5, 2019 1:44:57 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Feb 5, 2019 1:44:57 GMT
Arlan was curious as the Viking went to fetch the box, then proceeded to chew the leaves. It was similar enough for him to guess, but from his treatment by the English, he wasn’t quick to assume anything from this man in terms of actually caring for his property. But he stiffened at being asked his name. The one thing he had been avoiding…!
For a moment he considered repeating marcach as if it was his name, but his mind flitted back to the monks. They wouldn’t know what a marcach was, and were very likely to reveal his name by mistake. Lying now got him nowhere. Neither would telling him to just call him slave. His gaze dropped, tense, but finally giving in, his eyes focused instead on the table rather than Fellbjorn.
“Arlan.”
|
|
|
Saga
Feb 5, 2019 17:36:06 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Feb 5, 2019 17:36:06 GMT
Judging by the way the slave tensed and dropped his gaze, he wasn’t happy, or comfortable with giving his name. Again, Fell found this strange, what had the monks called him? Or maybe that was just it, he didn’t want his captor calling him by the same name. Fell lifted the bowl to his mouth, spitting out the now thick green paste, then he motioned to Arlan to approach, “Come here.”
|
|
|
Saga
Feb 5, 2019 21:42:08 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Feb 5, 2019 21:42:08 GMT
Arlan’s hands had been rubbing at his wrists, keeping his injured arm away from the Viking. The motion was slow, trying not to draw attention to itself, but it stilled at the command to approach. Again, he had to consider the value of fighting now, fortunately only taking a moment’s hesitation before moving as ordered, knowing that if he was to attempt escape he’d have to bide his time. So he stepped forward, remaining tense even as he did as told, his gaze not meeting that of his owner’s.
|
|
|
Saga
Feb 5, 2019 22:15:10 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Feb 5, 2019 22:15:10 GMT
Arlan’s compliance only served to make Fell suspicious, sure that he had not seen the last of the man’s defiance. But he certainly welcomed the lack of a struggle; it would make it easier for him to treat his wounds. Untying the makeshift bandage he had made earlier, he was pleased to see that the wound had clotted somewhat. Taking the towel he wet it in the water, cleaning the wound with a touch that was surprisingly gentle for the warrior. Next came the paste, which he smoothed over the wound carefully, before taking the clean strips of clothes and bandaging Arlan’s arm all over again. Then, without warning, he reached his hand up to turn the man’s face towards him, looking over the wound on his forehead. It was a small cut but was surrounded by a blooming purple bruise. Although it had been necessary at the time, Fell’s brow furrowed in concern, for this was the first time he had looked at it properly. Apart from cleaning it, which Arlan had already done, there was little he could do with it, so then his gaze dropped. “And how are your wrists?” He asked even as he reached for them.
|
|
|
Saga
Feb 5, 2019 23:29:01 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Feb 5, 2019 23:29:01 GMT
The pull of the fabric from his injury made Arlan wince for a split second before he controlled his expression, his eyes flitting to the other’s hands as he worked. Surprised at the Viking’s gentle touch, Arlan found his eyes once more going over the space they were in, the weapons on the walls… the woodwork on the table…
That had probably surprised him the most of the house, to see the carvings. From the smile in the midst of battle, Fellbjorn had seemed a bloodthirsty barbarian. Not a man who would find pleasure in working with his hands in such a way.
Before he could ponder on it for too long, his head was suddenly pulled towards the man, the anger flashing in his eyes alongside the surprise at the move. He dropped his gaze as his face was being carefully studied, the sudden jerk of his head making the bruised area throb in protest. To have such close scrutiny from the same man who caused that injury was awkward, especially given that look of… no, no it wouldn’t be a look of concern.
His defiance came back as Fell began to reach for his wrists, Arlan pulling his hands back sharply. “They’re fine,” he managed to say without much of a growl, his eyes remaining downcast in an attempt to remain “compliant.”
|
|
|
Saga
Feb 6, 2019 0:15:51 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Feb 6, 2019 0:15:51 GMT
Somehow, Arlan was managing to be to some degree both compliant and defiant at the same time. At his refusal, Fell studied the slave for a moment, before deciding to let it go. Instead, he walked away towards his bed, grabbing a few of the pelts, moving to the other side of the fire to lay them down. “Have some food.” He stated, but despite the tone it was more of a suggestion than an order. Instead of joining Arlan again at the table, he approached his sleeping area again. With his back to the slave and appearing to be quite at ease with his presence, he casually pulled his tunic over his head, to reveal a strong, toned back. Scars crisscrossed his flesh, but they were faded with age. He hooked the tunic onto the small wooden holder above his bed, and stretched his arms, weary with the day’s events.
|
|
|
Saga
Feb 6, 2019 1:12:50 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Feb 6, 2019 1:12:50 GMT
Arlan watched Fell warily as he offered, rather than ordered him to eat, moving furs to form some sort of makeshift bed on the other side of the fire. His eyes moved over the scars as they became visible across the Viking’s back, but all he saw was another sign of how weak he had to be in the man’s eyes. A slave, left unbound with easy access to all these weapons, and not even clothes to shield his body? He was a cripple, true, but the thought made the warrior in him seethe.
Despite knowing it was probably a good idea to eat, given he wasn’t sure how long he had gone without, Arlan went to his bed on the floor with empty hands, leaning against the wall rather than laying down fully. This meant he had to tug the furs a little on the floor, to try and hide the fact that he was moving his appointed sleeping space, but he didn’t want to sleep. So as the other settled down, he watched from the floor, taking occasional breaks to look about the room before resuming his study of the other. It would be a long night.
---
In the end, blood loss and injury had won out. As his eyes slowly opened, Arlan found himself waking with a start, startled to discover he had fallen asleep after all. He stretched a little, unhappy to find that he felt even worse than he did the night before. His back was stiff from his seated position for hours, his old injury was aching, and his head was throbbing from lack of food as much as anything. The only thing that was feeling any better was his arm, to his utter annoyance, given that it was the Viking who was responsible for that.
It was still fairly dark in the space, but under the edge of the door he could see a faint glow from the encroaching dawn. The embers of the fire were still glowing, shining an inviting red light on the weapons that decorated the walls, the silence deafening. Maybe it was his lightheadedness, or maybe it was resurrected resentment of becoming slave to a new master again. Maybe it was something else altogether, but Arlan found himself rising to his feet, as silently as he could manage, to walk towards the wall. His eyes had lit upon something he hadn’t seen before, for amongst all the swords, axes and other massive, impressive weaponry, were some daggers. Some might have been used for the wood carvings that had perplexed him, some for hunting, but they were far more accessible and far easier to carry.
Drawing one out as slowly as he dared, to avoid being heard, he looked back towards the quiet figure in the bed, pausing before taking a step. His eyes drifted to the table - the one with the offered food, where the box still sat out that had been used on his arm… but he took a quiet step forward, dagger held with a white-knuckled grip down by his side. As he approached the bed, the Viking hadn’t stirred, even though as he raised his arm Arlan half expected those pale eyes to flash in the dim light. Though keeping his breath quiet, he took slow, deep breaths to steady himself.
But he didn’t move.
Was it because the edges of his vision were blurry again? Was it because he found the act of killing an unarmed man cowardly? Or was it the confusion at being shown kindness after being taken hostage so aggressively? Arlan wasn’t sure, coming up with a dozen reasons to kill the man in the bed, so he could escape. And yet his arm remained still, raised but not striking, even though he knew he should.
|
|
|
Saga
Feb 6, 2019 1:35:41 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Feb 6, 2019 1:35:41 GMT
Fell had slept lightly, if at all. He too had gone to the furs without touching the food, tiredness overtaking hunger and eventually winning out. And yet, he was restless, and although his limbs were grateful for the horizontal position, he had found it difficult to let sleep claim him. He was musing over the day’s events, mainly, the moment when Earl Eirik had announced his plans for the treasure. Fell had known there would be some repercussion for going against the Earl, but it did nothing to lessen the sting. The man must know how the morale of his men was weakened, must sense the dissent running through them, and yet, his actions had only proved to worsen these things. And for what? To punish the men that had brought back riches? He would have done better to praise the men despite their insubordination, for although they had gone against his wishes in attacking the West rather than the East, he could have twisted it and made out that this had been his plan all along. As a leader, he could then have looked inward as to why the warriors had gone against him, and worked towards resolving the issues that had led to that point. Instead, the Earl had made himself out to look dishonourable, in not rewarding the men as he should.
It was these thoughts running through his head that chased away any hope of sleep, even if his eyes were closed and his breathing was heavy, as if in slumber. It seemed to be a blessing in disguise, however, as he heard the gentle sound of metal on leather as a weapon was drawn out of its scabbard.
Fell found himself feeling disappointed rather than surprised; as he listened to the soft, slow footsteps approach him. He did not want to have to shackle the man if he could help it, but of course, if he could not trust the slave in his home he may have to do just that. But he didn’t move straight away, waiting till Arlan was close enough, and…
But then he had paused.
By the sound of his footsteps, he must be standing over him now. Fell was lying on his back, chest and neck exposed and vulnerable, one arm tucked under his head.
“If you’re going to try to kill me…” Fell’s voice arose then, eyes still closed, his tone merely a murmur but seeming loud in the silence of early morning. For a moment, it appeared as if he might be talking in his sleep… but then he opened his eyes, staring right into Arlan’s. Even in the gloom, the blue of his eyes were unmistakeable as he growled, “You better not miss.”
|
|
|
Saga
Feb 6, 2019 2:06:02 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Feb 6, 2019 2:06:02 GMT
If he had had the dagger back at the monastery, he wouldn’t have hesitated to use it. But Arlan found he couldn’t strike an unarmed man, even if it would give him more time to escape. He could come back for Ruald and the others later. Right? His mind was full of fog, still trying to sort out the pieces, still trying to find that reason to kill the man… but he found that he didn’t have a reason. Not at that moment. So his arm began to lower, his grip loosening.
It froze at hearing the voice.
Arlan’s eyes widened as his gaze met squarely with the Viking’s, hesitating. But the growl had been a challenge, and his eyes hardened as he took it, trying to strike. It was unclear if Fell would notice that the dagger was aimed at the bed rather than at his throat, but the Viking’s reaction was fast, and better prepared than Arlan’s defiant but halfhearted strike.
Fell grabbed Arlan’s wrist, but instead of trying to stop the Celt’s other hand from going for him, he twisted Arlan’s arm back. With a short cry of having his already injured arm twisted behind him, Arlan let go of the dagger unwillingly, blindly grabbing for it with his free hand. Suddenly he was shoved into the bed, bending his arm and making it easier for Fell to grab his other wrist, yanking it behind his back as well. Arlan cursed as he realized he was now pinned to the bed, the other’s bulk keeping him from moving. He tried to use his one leg that was off the bed to push the other off or kick back at him, but his old injury crippled him, unable to put the needed pressure on it to even try to shift the larger man off. Arlan could feel the man changing his grip so one hand held both his wrists, high enough on his back that the Celt had no leverage to fight back even as the Viking regained a free hand. He kept struggling defiantly, at least for a short while, before the wear and tear of the last few days caught up with him again, raggedly breathing into the bed in an attempt to muffle his own sound, a soft whimper escaping into the furs as the Viking shifted his weight back, putting pressure on Arlan’s old spear injury.
|
|
|
Saga
Feb 6, 2019 12:06:27 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Feb 6, 2019 12:06:27 GMT
His movements were meant to subdue, not hurt, but as Arlan struggled Fell had little choice but to increase the pressure, using his heavy body as well as his grip around the slave’s wrists to still the other. “I don’t want to hurt you!” He had managed to growl, but his words went unheeded, the slave trying to kick back even as he must know it was hopeless. With his free hand, the warrior had grabbed the fallen dagger, sending it skittering across the room and out of reach. There was nothing to do now but to hold on and wait until Arlan exhausted himself, which didn’t take long, the slave already greatly weakened by injury and the subsequent blood loss. As the other stilled, Fell became suddenly starkly aware of his own heartbeat pounding in his chest. There was a heat between them, and he swore in that moment he could hear Arlan’s own heart, racing with exertion, just about audible between breathless gasps. Then, as they both began to calm, something suddenly stirred within the warrior, a heat of desire in the pit of his stomach at the feel of this man’s body pressed close to his own… Had it really been that long since he had been with a woman, that this excited him?
Then he heard Arlan whimper, merely a murmur of pain but enough to break Fell from the feeling that had overcome him. Abruptly, he loosed his grip, pulling himself away from the slave and the bed. Standing and simultaneously backing up, he stopped only when the back of his legs hit the wall of the fire-pit. He let himself fall back against it, glad for the support, and closing his eyes and furrowing his brow, ran a hand over his face, weary from lack of sleep and the sudden exertion. He was surprised to feel, of all things, guilt. Guilt at the hurt he had caused Arlan, even though he knew it had been necessary, even if it had been in self defence. It hadn’t escaped Fell’s notice that Arlan had paused at the moment he should have struck, and as the dagger came down, he knew it would have missed. If the slave had meant to strike Fell, it was a sloppy attempt at best. The warrior had stared into the eyes of many whom wished him dead, and Arlan had simply not had that look. His heart wasn’t in it. He may have gotten out of bed with the intention to dispatch him, but for some reason, he hadn’t been able to do it. Fell was sure that if he had said nothing, the slave would have moved away, either to escape or return back to bed.
That was why he didn’t retaliate. By rights, he should drag Arlan up and make him face punishment, at best a hiding, at worst… He had known others to kill slaves for far less. But instead, he found words.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” He found himself repeating. Turning his attention back to the slave, anger flaring in his eyes, he demanded- “And what would you have done afterwards? If you did manage to steal a horse, which is highly doubtful, how did you plan to get past the mountains? You would have been captured again, and this time put to death.”
|
|
|
Saga
Feb 6, 2019 17:43:18 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Feb 6, 2019 17:43:18 GMT
Even though he had been released, his arms coming back to his sides and ready to push away, Arlan didn’t immediately move from the bed. It was clear that his leg was giving him problems, as when he tried to stand it wouldn’t stretch out, finally causing him to slip from the bed and onto the floor in an awkward sit, one arm still reaching up and grabbing at the furs. Not unlike on the ship, he tried to fight through the delirium, unwilling to simply accept whatever danger loomed before his eyes. But the Viking’s repeated desire to not hurt him was enough to make him pause, which was all the weariness needed to keep him down, leaning against the side of the bed, still breathing heavily, still unable to properly draw in his injured leg.
“I should have died already!” he managed to growl, but not fully at Fell, eyes closing as he kept speaking. “I should have died… with Fechin, the others… I should have…”
Finally, he grew subdued, the head injury and lack of care for himself taking over, even as his mind was clearly elsewhere. Another battlefield, where scars ran far deeper than the one on his leg that still pained him.
|
|
|
Saga
Feb 7, 2019 5:08:17 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Feb 7, 2019 5:08:17 GMT
He had remained unmoving as Arlan tried to stand, but as the man unceremoniously slid from the bed, Fell had automatically stood as if he meant to help. Instead, the slave’s words gave him reason to pause. Words… that Fell could relate to all too well. As they sunk in, he did approach Arlan then, the slave too weak in both body and spirit to even try to fight as Fell hooked a hand under his un-injured arm, lifting his weight easily with one hand and directing him back onto the bed. As soon as the slave was seated, Fell had reached over to grab his tunic from where he had hung it up the night before, walking away and giving the man space as he thought over what he had said. “It’s not your time to join them.” He mused quietly as he pulled the tunic over his head, his gaze directed elsewhere even if his full attention was on the red-head. He retrieved his boots and began to pull them on too as he continued. “The Gods must have plans for you, yet. One day, you’ll join them all in Valhalla.” Lastly, he pulled a heavy cloak from the back of one of the chairs, resting it on his shoulders in anticipation of the cold that would greet him as he stepped outside. “Just, not yet.” The words were meant to be comforting, but the Viking had never been good at such things. With nothing more to say, he stepped towards the wooden door. “Try to rest, and eat something, if you can.” Evidently, there would be no punishment for what had transpired, and strangely enough, no return to the bonds that had shackled the slave before, at least not at the moment. Whether this was due to the warrior still considering Arlan of little threat even with easy access to weapons, or whether he had simply reasoned that the slave was unlikely to try again when so weak and with such repercussions as had occurred, was unclear. Perhaps it was a gamble on the warriors part, an unspoken statement that he was willing to give the slave another chance to be trusted.
|
|
|
Saga
Feb 7, 2019 17:13:55 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Feb 7, 2019 17:13:55 GMT
The most Arlan managed when Fell lifted him was to grab his shoulders and lean into him for balance, wincing again as his leg was straightened. As he was seated back on the bed, his eyes lifted to watch the Viking prepare to leave, his confusion clear. While he didn’t understand what was meant by Valhalla, the rest… was he not going to be punished for his actions? Why wasn’t Fellbjorn chaining him up again? For once, he didn’t immediately jump to the negative conclusion of being regarded so poorly. Of course, he had nothing at that moment to indicate such an attitude.
He remained sitting for a few minutes after the Viking left the building, looking to the table yet again as he recalled the “command” to try to eat. Instead, his eyes growing heavier still, he started to lean, finally collapsing into the bed a moment after passing out again.
---
As Arlan’s eyes opened again, the dim room was brighter for the light coming in under the door, but he didn’t know what time it was. Laying in the furs, he breathed in a familiar scent, but how he wasn’t sure. In fact… he wasn’t sure how he got there. Sitting up again, looking about the room from an unfamiliar perspective… how did he end up in the bed? He remembered drawing the dagger, the struggle… or was that just fever dream? Surely it had been, since he was still unbound and alone. But then why was he on the bed?
As his eyes landed on the food on the table for the third time, finally hunger overcame pride, drawing him to his feet. The limp was more pronounced, the ache still hindering his step as he hobbled over, but it had faded from the sharp pain he recalled. Or thought he recalled. The whole situation was getting far too confusing, with his head injury.
Things began to clear a little as he sat down and tore into the food, not caring that it was cold, downing water with a cough from his speed. Well, some things did. His memory cleared, and he knew he had attacked the Viking. Why had he hesitated? Why wasn’t he being beaten for the attempt? As the burn in his stomach subsided from finally receiving food, his chewing slowed and allowed him to grow thoughtful, looking over the carvings on the table beside him, as if maybe they held some key to understanding the strange warrior who had captured him.
|
|
|
Saga
Feb 7, 2019 22:32:36 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Feb 7, 2019 22:32:36 GMT
Fellbjorn had been happy for the distraction of the crisp air, and as he shut the door behind himself, he paused to draw in a deep lungful of it before moving on. Finally, pushing himself away from his doorstep, he began to walk slowly through the village. At this time, there were very few people out and about, and he drew a few curious glances from a slave or two, who had arisen early to see to their animals. Fell headed to the forest’s edge, which was something he did when he needed room to think, only feeling at peace when he was within the protective shade of its emerald canopy.
***
He had returned not long after, opening the front door softly so as not to startle the slave. As it happened, he needn’t have bothered. Arlan had collapsed back down on the bed, and Fell approached hesitantly, but was gratified to see that the man’s chest rose and fell steadily, not catching in pain as it might have done. His eyes drew to the cut on the man’s forehead, and again, Fell found himself frowning. Of course, his aim had been to knock Arlan out, and he had hardly thought about what would come after. He hadn't expected it to have had such an effect on the man, but it had been clear by the way the man had swayed that it was causing him trouble. If the slave did not improve after another day or two, Fell would take him to Dag.
He moved away, approaching the table. Gathering a number of tools, he placed them in a leather rap, rolling it up and tucking it into his waistband. Next, he took an axe from it’s hold on the wall, weighing it in his hands, before leaving the house again, this time, disappearing for the rest of the day.
***
“Rabbit?” The voice offered, suddenly cutting through to his attention, pulling him momentarily away from his work. Fell glanced up with an absent expression, with the look of one whose mind had been elsewhere. But when he saw the dark-haired man before him, he paused, his gaze refocusing. The man’s hair was gathered up into a messy bun at the back of his head, a few long strands falling free, and he sported an impressively thick beard. His dark eyes seemed to dance with amusement at the open study. Then Fell had grinned, slapping the floor besides him, motioning for the man to sit. “Halvar! It’s good to see you! What’s this talk of rabbits?” The man grinned back, raising his arm, in one fist he was clutching three dead rabbits by their long feet, and this he offered to the warrior. Fell looked confused, but took them anyway, and only then did Halvar drop to the floor a foot or so away from his friend, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees. Idly, he picked up a piece of shaved wood from the pile that littered the floor, fiddling with it in his hands as he spoke. “I know my wife paid you for the crib, but I have not yet had chance to thank you personally.” Understanding lit in the warrior’s eyes then, and he set the rabbits down beside himself. “When did you get back?” “Yesterday, but I wanted to hunt for them before I came to see you.” Fell shook his head with a smile, turning his attention back to the wooden frame before him, skinning off a long, thin chunk of wood with one of his tools. It was Halvar’s turn to speak next, and when he did so, the wariness was clear in his voice. “I’ve heard that things are not so happy here.” He began, carefully. Fell did not immediately reply, only a slight pause in his motions showing that he knew exactly what his friend was referring to as he continued his work. Halvar glanced about himself first to make sure no-one was close enough to overhear, before continuing. “Earl Eirik is making enemies every time he moves, breathes and shits.”
“So I hear.”
Fell’s tone was clear, it was blunt and firm, an attempt to put an abrupt end to the conversation. But Halvar was not one to be put off so easily,- “People speak of you highly, Fellbjorn. There are even those that suggest that you should step up, and…” “I have no intention to be Earl, Halvar.” This time he did stop in his work, and he motioned towards it as he spoke. “Look at what I’m doing, this is the life I choose. I want to live in peace, with food in my belly, work in my hands…” He paused then, jokingly hitting his friend in the shoulder with a playful glint in his eye as he continued, “…and a woman in my bed.” Halvar’s mouth began to open in protest, but Fell cut him off before he could continue, “I notice these men that speak against Eirik do nothing to offer themselves up to be Earl.” He challenged, leaning back against the barrel behind him, resting the tip of the blade against his leg lightly, spinning it idly. “That is because they want you to lead them, Fellbjorn, just as you do in battle.” Fell met Halvar’s gaze, looked away again, looked back at him… and sighed, chucking the tool onto the floor before him, leaning forwards again. “Lets not fight, Halvar. I haven’t seen you for years… lets talk about your travels. What have you seen?”
Halvar tipped his head to the side slightly, knowing that Fell was merely trying to change the subject. Even so, he succeeded, for Halvar was as eager to tell him of his travels as the warrior was to hear them. He leant forwards too, conspirationally, his voice low. “I found the edge of the world, Fell. I saw towers of bone twisting up to the sky like bleached skeletons of giants. I met a woman with many eyes and many arms, and in each arm she held an axe, and in her eyes I felt I could see into the great halls of Valhalla itself…”
Fell listened with interest, eyes widening in awe. But then he smirked. “You’re lying.”
Halvar grinned. “Not lying, merely... stretching the truth, perhaps. But wouldn’t that make a great story?”
|
|