a/n: I'm sorry for how long this chapter is in comparison to the first! I just couldn't stop writing for this one haha and there wasn't an appropriate cut off point earlier on. But apart from that, I hope you enjoy :))
Rain seems to follow her wherever she goes. It beats down upon her as she walks towards the longboat, the giant man leading her and the other survivers by a rope tied around her middle.
The sun does not rise this morning instead the haze breathes thick over the treetops and the crest of the water. An omen, she thinks, or perhaps hope? Regardless of its origin, the nameless girl finds the scene fascinatingly beautiful. Despite the fog, she can see seven ships all of various shapes and sizes. The one she is being led towards has spirals engraved into the hull, the cluster of curves twisting in unplanned beauty. At the bow of the boat, the stempost is shaped into a larger helix shape, however in comparison to the others it is painted with a mixture of blue and gold which travels around the edge of the handrail. They all appear luxurious but it's the handmade nature of it that's the charm and she likes the idea that they all had some part in the construction of each one.
In front of her, the Bearman utters something to his fellow countryman which she assumes is about how they are to traverse the misty water. Though she knows no matter the weather, the Norsemen know the sea better than she ever could.
Rousse clasps her tiny hand into hers and she is reminded of how small the girl really is in comparrison to not only herself, but the rest of them. There are only a few survivors, most strangers but she recognises some from the church. One of them is a farmer's daughter, Ansere; she remembers her from the prayer days, her hateful looks and striking posture, the very image of a freewoman. She is everything the nameless girl is not: beautiful, educated, free. She has a name. But most of all she has a family, parents who would escort her to church and care for her and lavish her with the expensive gifts she would usually adorn into town. Though that family was not with her now and the beloved jewllery was no where to be seen.
The nameless girl stares at her. Even drenched in dirt, she was still the very picture of fairness. Her golden hair was tasseled and noticeably knotted yet the leaves and flowers which decorated her hair did not wither. Once, she had stumbled upon Ansere in the forest weaving and twisting foliage into a crown. At the time, she had been too shy to muster the courage to ask her to teach her how to make them and she doubted now that their relationship would ever be cordial enough for them to do something other than shouting at each other.
Ansere was much more delicate than her and flowers had never appeared quite right when the nameless girl tried to put them in her hair. The priests used to call her Fishface when they got bored with calling her girl and it was that which shattered the dream to ever look pretty.
It's her voice that breaks her out of her daydream. "Don't look at me," she hisses. It is the first thing she has said to her in months.
"Are you afraid you'll catch what I have, princess," she leers, a sudden daringness in her words. "That you'll be dirtied by my presence."
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.
Her happiness must be difficult to understand to the cowering women and children who were uprooted from their homes but she suspects they see it as a death warrent rather than a chance of freedom. There is a woman sobbing out a prayer beside her, the latin catching on her tongue through her violent shakes. Ansere is beside the woman, caressing her back and softly speaking the words along with her to help her get them out. It is the first time she has ever seen her be gentle with someone. But the woman's weeping doesn't cease, her breathing only gets more and more laboured causing her to wheeze.
"Stop your wailing!" A Norsemen known as Gosta barks in broken English which only seems to make the woman sob more. "Or you go in the sea!"
The man gets up, raising his hand at the woman but before he strikes her, Ansere covers her small body over the woman in an act of defiance. Her action causes a swift smack to the side of her face and regardless of her effort, the praying woman is dragged by Gosta to the otherside of the deck and dealt with until the wailing stops.
The babes begin to cry then, the sound of the woman's pain agitating their slumber, and the mothers hush their tears despite their own disposition. Through her selfishness, she has forgotten that the last time one of the babies screeched too loud it was thrown overboard. It dawns on her that if they wanted to, they could hurt her too. She has merely been lucky the giant has listened to her requests so far. Lucky he didn't gut her at the church, lucky he did nothing but threaten her when she argued with Ansere and asked for a blanket.
"Don't look at me like that," Ansere scolds. She didn't even realise she was staring. She brushes her hand over the growing red mark. "Don't worry. You'll be next."
"Is that a hope or a threat?"
"Both." Turning her head, she wipes her eyes of tears and sniffles.
A sigh escapes the lips of the nameless girl. "I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that. Or what happened earlier."
Absentmindedly, she traces the scar on her neck left by the Bearman. "I don't want your pity, slave. I don't want you feeling anything for me. Now leave me alone." She brushes down her dress. "Whenever you look at me trouble always follows."
"You're a slave too now, Ansere, so you better start getting used to it."
An unexpected drizzle patters against her eyelashes. She pales, looking down at Rousse's sirring body.
Ansere lifts her head to the sky. "You better sort her out before the storm."
"I know that," she bites back.
Fingers darting across the edges of the furs with a frantic haste, the nameless girl struggles to tuck her in. Hands slipping easily against the soft furs. Her bottom lip worries between her teeth, her brows furrowed with ill contained worry.
"Let me help you," Ansere sighs, squatting down beside her. Her fingers seem to know the ways of a caregiver well. "Worrying won't make tucking her in easier."
"You really don't—"
"Sister," Rousse says, trembling, and all her attention returns back to her.
"Yes, love?" She says, quickly wrapping as much fur she can around her algid form.
"It's so cold."
I know. "Still? Is the fur not warm enough?"
Meekly, she shakes her head. Her effort is futile with what little they've got.
Ansere smooths out the fur. "She is going to need more blankets. You go to the heathen and ask him." She motions for the nameless girl to pass Rousse over to her. "You can trust me with this."
She gives her a quick nod and as the rain begins again and the rumbling of thunder bellows behind the cloudless sky, she treads her way towards the giant, mindful of the people packed around her. They do not look at her. She's glad of it. Fresh tears shimmer behind her eyes, the only thing holding them back the task at hand. She worries for Rousse—for her health and her happiness—and whether the Bearman would care enough to grant her request again. But in order to gain what she wants she must play the part of the unfeeling child. Or at least try and replicate it.
Her target leans against the oarlock on the left hand side of the deck, chin resting in his palm. A calm yet downcast countenance graces his hard features. She doesn't recall a time when he hasn't frowned.
Approaching with caution, the nameless girl tries to muster as much courage as she can to appear unshaken.
"Are there any more furs going?" She asks the man tentatively, perching next to him. "Rousse wont stop shaking."
"The little lamb has been shaking the entire time. What makes you so sure an extra one will make a difference?"
"I won't know unless I try."
"You're getting bolder, gulnebbgjøk. First you chatter then you sing and now you demand things from your captor." His eyes pierce her own, the intensity of his gaze making her whole body shiver. "Maybe I should instill more fear in you? Scare the twittering bird so she'll no longer sing."
Her eyes dart to the floor. Not feeling quite as brave. "I'm sorry," she whispers. Tears brim in her eyes. "I just . . . worry about her."
He huffs at her reaction. "I'll see what I can do. Don't get your hopes up."
"Thank you," she says, shyly. "You have been kind."
He sighs. "You shouldn't trust so easily, girl. Your carelessness may get you killed. Especially here."
Standing abruptly, the nameless girl peers down at him. "What should I do then?" She whimpers and she curses at herself for her weakness. "If I'm kind, I am laughed at. If I trust, I am careless. And if I cry, I get caught by the hand of your friend. Or maybe you'll be the one to hit me if I go too far next time?" She doesn't dare meet his eyes again. "What I mean to say is—"
"Gosta is a bastard and a halfwit and only good at killing. We bring him here because his temper is valued on raids. I, on the other hand, will do as I'm bid. If the situation calls on it, I will strike you down. But until then I will treat you as you are."
"And what am I but a slave?"
But the Bearman isn't listening anymore, too entranced by the sea to take any notice of her. Exhaling, she returns to her previous place at his side, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her dress.
Compared to the large body of water, her form is completely minature. Even the Bearman who seems to tower over everyone was nothing in contrast. If she was strong enough, she could push him and watch as his body is washed away by the tides. His legacy forgotten. He didn't look like he could swim, none of them did, and she was sure if cruelty and hatred set in, she would do her best to deliver the justice.
But there is something about him. Something which stops her from hating. For within his hostility lingers something almost lovable.
"Where are we going?"
"Niðarós," he replies, simply. "It is to be your new home. You will like it."
"I only hope it will be nicer than the church."
The man's expression turns smug. "Oh, you'll see. Our lands are more prosperous than your Christian lands."
"Not mine. Not anymore."
"Ha! No, they're not. You'll fit in fine."
They sit in a comfortable silence for what seems like hours. He stares off into the distance, into the water bellow them and she believes him to be the most fasinating man alive. The Bearman, under the rage of the moon, looks more like a human to her than the clergy men did and she struggles to stop herself from staring at him. What a beautiful monster the dieties have created, she thinks, and she hopes one day she will get to meet people captured in his like.
"What can I call you, sir?" She asks breaking their stillness.
"Jarl Raudsson is my official name," he says. "But just Halle will surfice."
"Halle is a beautiful name."
He laughs. "It means rock, girl. The kind found in the soil."
"It means you're close to the Earth, to the fire and creatures. I think it's wonderful."
"Your mind is strange," he says.
She worries she is becoming too forward with him. At any moment, he could throw her into the sea beside them if she were to ever say something that angered him. What that subject is she is uncertain and the thought of his wrath frightens her to reticence.
"Do you have a name, girl?"
She startles. "No," the nameless girl replies. "They didn't think to give me one."
Jarl Raudsson shuffles uncomfortably. In his eyes is something she cannot read and she is afraid she has displeased him.
"Is there a name you would like?" He asks.
"I'm afraid I couldn't possibly—"
"Varsha, then," he cuts her off. "You will be named Varsha."
"And what does that mean?"
The Bearman reaches his hand into the water, watching as the droplets trickle through his fingers. "Rain," he says. "And there appears to be more coming."
She thinks of Rousse and quickly begins her path to the otherside of the boat. "Thank you for my name, Jarl Raudsson. And your kindness," she says to him, sincerely, and she walks away without listening for a reply.
The rocking of the boat doesn't fase her, her excitement clouding any caution she would usually have. Varsha, her brain repeats. Varsha means rain. The water drips down her face in heavy beats and smiles, a toothy grin which radiates throughout the entirety of the longboat. I have a name of my own. I'm no longer invisible.
The men and women huddle together in a vain attempt to stay dry while the Norsemen retreat to a makeshift tent put up at the rear end of the boat. She doesn't remember it being there. They must have put it up when she was talking to the Jarl.
Treading towards it, she stills when she sees Rousse propped up against the side, alone. Her mouth is open and she can't see the rise and fall of her chest. Her walk turns into a jog.
"Rousse?" She calls. Then louder. "Rousse!"
The girl's face is cold, an icy blue hue has settled on her skin and the rain has already began to soak through her thin dress. Her breathing halts. How long have I been gone? She laments. Too long it seems.
She had been a fool to believe Ansere would look after her—she shouldn't have let anyone else take care of her. Too quick to trust. Blood rushes to her face. It was always the same. No one else could protect her as well as she could. Asking someone outside of their world for help always ended in turmoil. They only had each other. There was never to be anyone else—
Her ramblings retreat into the darkness as she hugs the girls body closer to her. "Rousse, my sister. Please. Wake up. I'm here, now. Please, I beg you."
Rousse weakly stirs in her arms. "Sister." Her teeth chatter together. She feels cold, so cold, and evidently wetter than the wooden beams beneath them.
"I'm sorry, Rousse. I'm so sorry for leaving you. The Jarl is going to bring us more furs. To keep you warm. The cold will be gone soon."
"It's alright," she whispers. "Hold my hand."
She does. Rousse's grip is weak and barely there.
"What did you talk with him about?" She asks, snuggling her head closer to her warmth.
Varsha's smile is small. "He is a strange man," she begins. "He said we sang too much, that we ask too much of him. And then he complements me and tells me I'm going to settle well in our new home. And he calls me strange!" She laughs gently and brushes red tendrils out of the little girl's face. "He told me we're headed towards a place named Hlésey. I think that'll be our final destination and . . . he gave me a name."
"Tell me."
"My name is Varsha. After the rain. I think I like it."
"That is lovely, sister," she whispers. "Varsha." Rousse squeezes her hand against her own. "It's such a pretty name."
"I'm worried it doesn't suit me."
"It does. You have always been pretty."
Varsha laughs. "Not as pretty as you. You are the most beautiful girl in the world."
Rousse lets out a giggle. It sounds more like a wheeze. "Will you sing me a song, Varshie. I'm so tired."
"What kind of song?"
"Anything."
The girl nods. "If that's what you want, love."
The song she chooses is more of a story, one they had first read together in the church. A tale of a flightless bird whose dream is to fly above the clouds and out of the nest before they die but is, inevitably, unable to as they have been born without the ability to fly. It had always been her favourite and Varsha had read it so many times that one day she found she didn't need the book anymore to retell it to Rousse.
For something she loves so dearly, the tale sounds so sorrowful on her lips. The tune doesn't sound quite right and there are some parts of the story that she can't quite recall. Her whole body is shaking, her tears masked by the downfall and the loud jeers from the Norsemen's tent. A soundless scream rips her stomach and there is a sudden urge to pull Rousse closer to her.
Still, she sings, until a light which looks like dawn breaks and her eyes can no longer stay open for the cessation of the rain.