† in which a young girl has been saved by the one and only, Uhtred Ragnarsson, which leaves her to be indebted to him. while serving by his side, love begins to blossom, and families are formed and born. she finds herself not only falling into t...
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❝ i hope you know, this has nothing to do with you ❞ °✦.° ( damage gets done — act one ) °✦.° 『 chapter seven 』 ▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃
"Narcissa."
The deep, familiar voice rings out across the campsite, gentle yet commanding, cutting clear through the soft murmur of conversation spread out across the multiple campfires. It carries an edge of minor authority that demands attention, leaving no room for dismissal. The black-haired teenager halts mid-step, her fingers hovering just shy of the flap of her tent. She momentarily closes her eyes, inhaling deeply through her nose as irritation prickles at the edges of her composure. After such a long and grueling day, she has been yearning to retreat into the quiet shadows of her tent, to disappear into the fragile peace that solitude might offer. The suffocating weight of the camp — the tension, the low hum of voices, the unspoken worries that seem to hang in the air — has been pressing heavily on her shoulders all evening. Her tent is so close, a sanctuary where she can finally escape her whirlwind of emotions and let herself breathe.
She hesitates for a moment, her fingers still resting on the flap of her tent, reluctant to turn and face him. The gentle murmur of the voices from the camp slowly fades into the background as she stands, hoping for a moment of peace. She can sense who stands behind her; it is Guthred — the king. Ever so slowly, she turns around to meet his gaze. There, ahead of her, he stands a few paces away, his small silhouette flickering against the campfire. The torch placed beside her tent casts a flickering glow that emphasizes the soft angles of his face, deepening the shadows that frame him and amplifying the air of new authority that seems to envelop him like a second skin.
Holding in another heavy sigh, "What is it?" She asks, attempting to keep her voice even, though her irritation simmers just beneath the surface. "I was heading to bed."
"I wish to speak with you." Guthred clears his throat before speaking, his voice unwavering as he gestures toward an empty table near the edge of camp. Although his tone remains gentle, it still leaves no room for argument. As he takes a small step forward, the weight of his presence seems to press in on her, making the distance between them feel smaller. He softens his voice as he speaks again, the edges of his command fading slightly. "Privately." The word lingers in the air, a quiet insistence that leaves little room for refusal, as though he expects her to follow without question, into whatever conversation he has planned.
Her eyes narrow as defiance slowly begins to flicker across her face, and for a brief moment, she considers refusing outright. But there is something in the way he stands — not so demanding, but instead, patient and quietly persistent — that makes her pause. He isn't necessarily forcing her, but his presence carries an unspoken sincerity mixed with authority that is very difficult to ignore. Nonetheless, she rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her rest as she relents. "Right." She murmurs, her voice tinged with resignation. "Lead the way then."
