Chapter Text
A Vikings Fanfiction
***
Summary
A young Englishwoman serving in King Ecbert's court has a chance encounter with a particular Priest. From that moment on, her life is never the same as he tells her everything she ever wanted to know about the Northmen, and leads her to a choice: stay in England as a serving maid, or leave with the Northmen to find her way as a Shieldmaiden. (Athelstan/OC or Rollo/OC or maybe even Bjorn/OC.)
***
Hey, we'll see where this one goes. I just started spontaneously writing it one day, and already have most of it planned out in my head. Will likely be a short one. NOW ON HOLD! With the events in Seasons 3 and 4 messing with my muse on this one, I need to reconcile things that happened with the story in my head...
So thins one's likely a long, long way off....
***
Opening Excerpt
The first time she saw him he seemed so quiet and unassuming in his monk's habit, his hair tied neatly back. He didn't see her. She thought little of it then beyond a passing curiousity. What was a man who looked a monk but didn't doing in King Ecbert's court? It was a mystery, but she had duties to attend to. So she pushed thought of the Monk-but-not aside and continued on with her work.
The next time he was not so unassuming. There was a quiet power to him; an assurance and strength in his stance that she could only guess at its origin.
It began as a common enough situation for her. She was a mere servant of the Court, but she was pretty enough to look at, with her dark eyes and darker hair, and her figure was something men seemed to find appealing, for hardly a week went by without some noble or soldier or other, higher-ranking man trying to take advantage of her or sweet talk their way beneath her skirts. It was common enough. All the young female servants dealt with it regularly, whether they were pretty or not. This time, though, the noble, or whoever he was, was far more insistent than she was accustomed to. To the others, it was a game, one that they absently or halfheartedly played for distraction. If they succeeded in their seduction, all the better, but many shrugged off rejection as through it were nothing and would move on to the next girl.
This one was rough, grabbing her arm, causing her to drop the basket of linens she was carrying, the soft white fabric billowing across the cold stone floor. She could feel her anger building within her, her body beginning to quiver with aggression and desperation. She knew the look on his face; he did not like being refused. Well, he was about to learn that she fought back.
But then he appeared. The Monk laid a hand on the noble's arm, his knowing blue gaze fixed upon her attacker. The nobleman took one look at the monk-but-not, his eyes taking in the simple habit and his un-priestlike hair in one appraising glance before recognition dawned. Scowling, he dropped her arm. He then stalked away, the set of his shoulders showing his irritation that his game had been spoiled.
The Monk turned to her then, and she had to suppress a shiver. There was something wild to this quiet man. There was also shadow of longing in his eyes as he took a deep breath, the tension flowing from his body. She realized with a start that part of this man had been yearning for a fight. That look had been one she had seen over and over again in the eyes of soldiers who'd had too much ale or nobles too much wine. But surely, as a man of the church, that couldn't be.
"Are you hurt?" His voice was as quiet and as unassuming as his appearance. She could only shake her head no. There would be vivid bruises on her arm tomorrow, but that was nothing compared to the injury she likely would have endured...especially if she had fought back.
He had helped her gather the linens without so much as another word, a faint smile on his lips when he nodded his head goodbye and continued on the way he had been going, his gait hitching every few steps, as though walking pained him.
"Thank you," she said after him, barely in control of her voice. She was still stunned by what had happened. But she was grateful; very grateful. She was strong for her size, thanks to the back-breaking work demanded of her, and fierce, as she had proven in fending off unwanted advances in the past, but she was still a just a serving woman. She was not like the ferocious North Women she had heard stories about; women who joined their men in battle, strong and capable as any warrior. "What's your name," she blurted out as he turned back to her for a moment, that small smile still on his face.
"Athelstan," he bowed his head ever so slightly, showing her a level of respect she rarely got.
"I'm Della," she blurted out in response. He smiled again, and turned away. This time she let him go without another outburst.