.・。.・゜✭✫・゜・。.

UNSPOKEN
WORDS

Year: 878
Location: Onhripum, Northambria

.・。.・゜✭✫・゜・。

.・。.・゜✭✫・゜・。

Ryphere was not lying when he spoke of Onhripum and its religious aspects. A monastery sprouted from the center of a field, reaching for the clouded skies. Clergymen, and holy men alike littered the steps and gut of the building. A dozen men in wool robes, dotting the inner wall of the Christian building, and a few paced beyond the gate itself. It was a marvel, no matter the Dane or Saxon. For even Ragni had gawked, and stared wide-eyed.

But such a fascination died, as the hours drew by. The Holy Army camped at Onhripum, the monastery itself giving Guthred, and the host of clergymen shelter. The army was close to six hundred men, at least that is what Clappa had told Ragni. She had no doubt the army grew to such a size, for the fields around the monastery were lit with a dozen campfires. Each fire was surrounded by tents and a heap of Guthred's men.

As a member of the household troop, Ragni camped closest to the buildings, shadowed by the monastery itself. She was not alone, forty other men and women pitched tents and laid idle or slept against the walls. They were to be close to Guthred, and his holy choir. Prepared to protect the King and those that he found precious. Ragni didn't foresee much of a need to be so close, for the sea of swords and armor below would surely be enough. Ivarr's army was broken, and Kjartan would not lead an attack out of Dunholm. It would be too risky and would leave Dunholm defenseless.

But Ragni did not argue the matter, had been good at keeping her tongue stilled. Ragni stood guard with Clapa and a Saxon for the first part of the first night, ordered to watch the distant hills and keep an eye on the North. Luckily, Clappa wasn't Ragni's only source of entertainment. Be it for the best or worst, Sihtric and Uthred accompanied the watch.

"You have the heads safe?" Uthred asked aloud after a bit of silence, his eyes bouncing across the men that surrounded Ragni. The commander did not speak much the first hour, at least not to the group as a whole. He kept to Sihtric or the unnamed Saxon. Never once acknowledging Ragni, not even at a glance.

Perhaps, that was for the best.

"You can smell them!" Clapa protested, his boisterous voice beaming from beside Ragni. The brute of a man accidentally rammed his elbow into her upper shoulder, with the outburst. His name proved factual, he was a clumsy beast.

Clapa had been right nonetheless, the heads smelled much worse than any man. The air reeked of decay and death. The unappealing smell pervaded around them, crawling into Ragni's flaring nostrils, and crawled down her throat. It was the heads of Tekil's men and Tekil. Rotted, and lacking flesh. It had been a month and a couple of weeks since the heads were severed. The smell alone is creditable for such a fact.

"No, worse than you smell Clapa." Uthred retorted, sending the man a smile.

Ragni turned to watch Sihtric, as he twisted sideways for Uthred to view the land behind him. "They're safe, lord." He claimed as he nodded toward two filled sacks that lay against the wall.

Lord. The title sickened Ragni, especially coming from Sihtric's lips. But she understood why Sihtric branded Uthred with such a title, had known of Sihtric's personal service to Uthred. But Ragni would be damned if she addressed him as such, had been good not to throw an insult in his direction when she spoke to him.

"I should have eight heads," Uthred moved toward Sihtric, his hand capturing the bastard's throat. "Pretty skinny neck, Sihtric."

The simple action spurred Ragni closer toward the pair, her fingers instinctively curling around the hilt of her blade. But Ragni had but made it a single step, for Clapa's hand was quick to engulf her shoulder. "It's fine." He whispered, as stoned her in place.

"It's a tough neck, Lord." Sihtric smiled, his teeth glistening against the moonlight.

Ragni watched closely, unable to wiggle free of Clapa's iron grasp. It was a reasonable reaction, was it not? The action Uthred possessed at that moment could be considered visibly aggressive, and his words a threat. But it was a moment of teasing, for Sihtric turned his head ever so slightly to give Ragni a grin of reassurance.

Just as Uthred parted his lips to reply, the doors of the monetary threw open revealing Guthred's sister. If memory served right her name was Gisela, or something similar. She looked like Guthred, soft features, and a bony figure. But her hair was dark, the color of fresh-turned soil. She wore a black cloak, her hood raised to conceal those dark locks.

"You should be asleep, lady." Uthred chided her, releasing Sihtric with a retreated step.

Gisela stared defiantly at Uthred with eyes of blue, her jaw setting with a tilt of her head. "I can't sleep. I want to walk." Her lips remained parted, her face illuminated by both the moon and flickering flame of the nearby fire.

"Where do you want to walk?" Uthred asked, leaving Sihtric's side to approach the cloaked woman.

Ragni shrugged off Clapa's loosened hold, stepping away from the brute and toward the bastard. "Someone should take his hand." She murmured, blue eyes burning through Uthred's backside.

Sihtric frowned, as he leaned down toward her. "And it will be you, once this is over." He whispered, his breath caressing the crown of her head. "After Dunholm." He tried desperately to soothe the tension that furrowed her brow and set her teeth together. A simple few words, ones that Ragni could only imagine.

"I'll leave you in charge, Clapa," Uthred called out, pointing at the brute of a man. "If Ivarr comes, kill the bastard." He ordered, encouraging Ragni's vision of his death further.

"Yes, Lord," Clapa responded, giving Sihtric an aloof grin.

As Uthred and Gisela began to walk away, Clapa and the Saxon began to snicker. Their whispered words littered with their childish simper, while their eyes roamed across Uthred and the lady's fleeting figure. "They're lovers," Sihtric informed Ragni, as he slowly wrapped his fingers around her wrist. "He will be gone for some time." He explained, pulling her hand from the hilt of her sword.

With the fingers coiled around her wrist, the fantasy of Uthred's death fled, inklings of anger following. "Very inconspicuous lovers, it seems." She murmured, sarcasm laced through her tone of indifference. She did not care who Uthred slept with and certainly did not care for the gossip.

"Only to us," he explained, releasing her wrist. "Guthred does not know, and neither does Hild." He urged Ragni back toward the fire, and Clapa with a wave of his hand.

She thought about protesting, keeping herself on her feet. But what good would it serve? "That is for the best, she is the sister to a King and Uthred a warrior." She noted, making her way back toward the fire, Sihtric's hand guiding her by the small of her back.

"You do not believe they could marry?" He questioned.

Ragni gave him a tight-lipped frown, her head rolling in his direction. "And you believe they will?" It was not possible, at least not in a way that would guarantee Uthred would be alive to enjoy it. Gisela was a peace cow, a woman to be married to a rival. A tool used to bring peace, amongst blood-stricken families. And Uthred was not a rival, or anyone of concern to Guthred. He was Alfred's lapdog, a sword in Guthred's hand.

"He could carry her off," Sihtric pointed out, as they sat before the lapping flames of the camp's fire. "Like the old way."

Ragni knew what he meant, just as she knew it would only bring trouble. It was the old Danish way of taking a bride, one that involved the kidnapping of a woman, and the raiding of a household. It had been done occasionally in Ragni's time, but it was softer. The raids were replaced by negotiations, and the bride knew of the horsemen that would carry her off. An old tradition, one that was dying for the better or worse.

"Guthred would call for his head." She stated.

"I doubt Uthred is concerned about the consequences," Sihtric grinned, his sharp features cast in both shadow and light. The orange hue of the fire illuminated the sharpness of his cheekbones and jaw, the cloak of nightfall draped across the softer points of his visage. "He is blinded by love."

Ragni rose a brow, the last few words catching her by surprise. "Sihtric," she began, a smile forming along her lips. "You sound like a romantic." She jested, averting her eyes back to Clappa who stood occupied by the Saxon.

"And if I was?" He bumped into her shoulder with his own, regaining her attention.

"I would call you a fool, or a Saxon."

Sihtric's grin grew, his head tilting upward ever so slightly with the expression. "Then call me a fool, but do not call me a Saxon." He beamed, seemingly proud of his truth. "You cannot deny that there is more than lustful humping, and inconspicuous moments of flesh against flesh."

Ragni shook her head, turning back to the fire. "We are human, Sihtric," she began, drawing her knees closer to her chest. "We justify our lust through romantics and the word love."

"We are human," Sihtric repeated, his voice lacking its bubbled joviality. "We do not need to justify something ingrained into our souls."

Ragni looked to him then, her tongue caught against the back of her teeth. His eyes were warm, hotter than the dancing flames that sought out her skin. Eyes of green and brown so intense upon Ragni, she swore to Loki that he could read all of her thoughts. Feared he could see the unspoken words written across her pupils, and etched into her heart. Words of how she felt, and thought about him.

"Sihtric," the Saxon broke the moment, giving relief to Ragni's impending fear. "We should check the wall."

Sihtric cleared his throat, his gaze slowly drawn to the dwarf of a man. "Scared of the dark?" He mused as he rose to his feet.

"No," the Saxon waved off as they began to make their trek toward the southern half of the outer wall. "I just know I can outrun you if we get in trouble."

Once their words drew incoherent, Clappa clapped his hands together. "Well, wake me up when they get back." He hummed, dropping down to the earth below. "Or if Ivarr appears."

.・。.・゜✭✫・゜・。

It was morning when a messenger appeared before Guthred, escorted by the morning guard. "Ivarr has been found," the messenger exclaimed as he dismounted from his horse. "Kjartan's troops were scouring the hills in search of him." The man breathed, his words directed toward Guthred and the household guard that ran to the King's aid.

It wasn't but a few hours when the hundred horsemen who left Eoferwic in search of Ivarr rode through the army, and into the inner walls of the monastery. A movement that provoked the household guard into a scrambling mess, their booted feet driving them in haste to the monastery itself. Amongst them a wounded Ivarr, carried on the back of a shield by the surviving members of his army.

Ragni stood with the household guard then, opposing Sihtric in the two lines that were formed before the monastery's double doors. Guthred was between the lines, centered a few paces from the middle. Alongside him Uthred, the man scowling at the rival troops and Ivarr. The abundance of them looked on the verge of death, wounded, and on the verge of exhaustion. But it was Ivarr who ordered his men to stop once he saw Guthred, his hand raising in defiance.

Ragni watched then, as her kin rose from the shield he was carried in on shoving aside his son who offered a helping hand. "I will be on my feet," Ivarr spoke through the silence, his words coarse and ragged with a heaved breath. "I will be on my feet." He repeated as he moved from the shield, grabbing his son's spear as a crutch.

Ivarr did not look at the household guard, or even Uthred. No, he starred at Guthred. Green eyes pierced through the usurper of the Northambria's throne, his face drawn in anger. He walked to Guthred, limped toward the King with a head held high. But Ragni could see it, notice the pause he made every few steps to lean into the spear. He was in agony, his lips pursing together in an effort to conceal such pain.

He flinched with every step, and on his third pause, he was before Ragni. Eyes of anger drew upon her, his thin lips loosening as if he prepared to speak. It had been years since he peered upon Sigurd's kin, a decade since he saw Ragni. But he did not speak, instead, he pursed his lips back together and made his way to Uthred.

He was exactly how Ragni remembered, minus a few stress-induced wrinkles. Ivarr was tall but at the same time small, his skeletal figure being of stringed muscle and bone. With his skull-like face and sunken eyes, Ragni could almost compare him to Sigurd. His yellow hair was drawn to the nape of his neck, knotted and bloodied from his battle with the Scots.

Once he passed through the lines of the household guard, he stopped before Guthred. The King no longer accompanied by Uthred alone, but rather his chief men and the abbot. Ivarr faced Uthred then, leaning against his spear as he consumed the commander with a scathing look. "Are you the boy who calls himself King?" Ivarr demanded, his eyes glued to the Dane Slayer.

"I am the boy who killed Ubbe Lothbrokson." Uthred answered, speaking the name of Ivarr's uncle. A man Ragni had never met, but had been familiar with his name. She knew Uthred killed Ubbe, for it was his mark to fame just as his killing of Sigurd had been.

Ivarr jerked with the taunt, his green eyes constricting into slits. "And you are?" He demanded once again, his finger curling tighter around the crutch he leaned upon.

"You know who I am," Uthred stated.

With those words, Ragni looked to Sihtric, the bastard quick to meet her gaze. She was worried then, prayed his half of their barter was not a failure. He was to persuade Guthred to keep Ivarr alive, tempt him to find reason for such an act. But had he? She did not ask him prior, didn't want to be consumed by the possibility of his failure. And Sihtric had not told her, didn't share any news of his success.

"Lord Ivarr," Guthred spoke, drawing Ragni back to the small group. "I am sorry to see you wounded."

"You should be glad," Ivarr sneered, his words bitter. "And only sorry that I am not dead. You're Guthred?"

"I grieve that you are wounded," Guthred continued, grinning at Ivarr. "And I grieve for the men you have lost and I rejoice in the enemies you have killed. We owe you thanks." He stepped back and looked past Ivarr to where his army had gathered about the road. "We owe Ivarr Ivarson thanks!" Guthred shouted. "He has removed a threat to our north! King Aed has limped home to weep over his losses and to console the widows of Scotland!"

Ragni's eyes widened, her head snapping toward Sihtric. The bastard was grinning, the corner of his eyes wrinkled with the toothy expression. He had succeeded, Ivarr would to live. Would be saved from Guthred's wrath, and Uthred's sword. And around Ragni, the army cheered, and shouted their praise for Guthred's grace. Naturally, Ragni followed unable to resist her own joy.

"Ragni Sigurddóttir," A masculine voice mused from her left. "Is it truly you?"

Ragni turned, her eyes landing on Young Ivarr. He was grown, no longer the child she had teased and bossed around. He was a man, a spitting image of his father. Green eyes, and yellow hair. "Ivarr." She laughed, lunging forward to wrap her arms around her cousin.

He flinched with the impact, but hugged her back all the same. "We were told you died," he whispered, his arms tightening around her waist. "I am sorry we did not come." He lamented, his face burying into her shoulder.

"Do not be sorry, be happy we're here." She replied, giving her cousin one final squeeze before releasing him. "Will your father be well?" She asked, glancing toward the broken and wounded Ivarr the Older.

"You know father," Ivarr the Younger laughed, withdrawing a step from Ragni. "To mean to die, and too stubborn to die by the hand of the Scots."

.・。.・゜✭✫・゜・。.

INDEX

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