𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐧𝐞𝐝 | 𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

ᴛᴠᴇɪʀ.

The reason she has began her provocations towards her is unknown to her but she assumes it's part to do with what feels like a life time of bitten down anger and false courtesies which she knows is rather a fickle reason. Or maybe, she imagines, it's an array of things: their shared circumstances, the memory of the bodies, Ansere herself, that makes the blood batter against her veins. "Where's you spirit now, Annie?"

"Don't use my name as if you know me," spits Ansere. "I don't want to speak to you. I wish you weren't in front of me so I didn't have to look at you."

"And if I wish to look at you?"

Ansere blushes. The nameless girl simpers.

Swallowing thickly and glaring at her, Ansere begins to bark back a reply however she is swiftly interjected by the Bearman whose glower mirrors the very worst of him—the very birse to which the savages are known for.

The axe reaches Ansere's neck without warning and the girl chokes out a snivel. "If either of you birds tweet one more time, I'll gut you before we make the boat." The giant of a man growls and Ansere gasps, antisipating the inevitable blow. But it never arrives. The Bearman removes the weapon, places it back in his sleeve then withdraws, turning his attention back to the other captives.

The mistral blows in steady currents as the girls walk on, agast, the only reminder of their interaction a bloody scar which runs across the nape of Ansere's neck. She doesn't move to catch the ichor and instead stares off ahead, her gaze melancholic and distant. They cease all talk after that, their desire to live more important than whatever they were arguing about. This moment of quietude will not last, their comradery as gaunt as a piece of string, but it is enough for now and will keep them out of trouble until their destination.

"You shouldn't have done that," Rousse says, squeezing her hand.

"I know." She brushes her hand up the girl's arm. "You're cold," she states.

"I'm always cold."

"It matters this time," she quickly replies. "I'll ask the giant if he can give you some blankets."

Rousse shakes her head. "I don't want you to get shouted at."

"For you," she says, squeezing her hand. "It doesn't matter."

♙♙♙

Wrapping Rousse in the wolf furs brought her anxious heart comfort and by the time the boat is pushed off the sand, they are already sat together, cold but content in each others company. They laugh and sing and try to distract themselves from the heavy rocking of the boat and the constant rain which batters against them. The nameless girl tries to shelter Rousse's body as best she can though it seems her shivering never ceases no matter how much body heat they share. So she does all she can to distract her from the inevitable even if it means making a fool of herself in front of her fellow captured and their captors.

She understands she is far too genial for their current situation, that she is, in reality, being kidnapped by the fearsome Norsemen, the same savages who slaughtered her fellow townsfolk and left her home in ruin. But, in truth, she doesn't think she's ever thought of Lyminge as her home. She thinks she'd be happy anywhere so long as she is with Rousse and she believes the girl feels the same as she falls asleep effortlessly in her arms.

In their small room of a world, it had only been them and that was how they had liked it. Priests came and went, all to see Rousse and never her. They would gift her with books mainly or small hair pins shaped in the image of a butterfly. It was the task of the nameless girl to teach her as much as she could and look after her without ever bringing attention to herself in front of the other priests. She was, after all, not favourable. The clergymen would visit them at specific hours of the day to check on Rousse and to aid them in prayer but the small girl seemed indifferent about their presence. The smile she used to greet them or graciously accept their alms was not the same as the one she would give her. It seemed she was already becoming very good at hiding through smiles and laughter. Even now as they sail away across the ocean, Rousse hides her fear in the nameless girls happiness.