𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐧𝐞𝐝 | 𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

Þʀɪ́ʀ.

A lone gull squarks upon the mast of the ship honouring the return of the sun.

Varsha blinks away a forgotten dream and stretches her tired bones, careful not to wake the sleeping girl whose head lays firm on her lap. The wind blows gentle breezes on her skin; its breath no longer feels like a sucker-punch and instead brings comfort alongside the blue sky and clouds which have finally dispersed and welcomed in brilliant beams of light. Tracing the blue brand on her wrist with a feather-like touch, she wills her eyes shut, basking in the calm of the sea. She wonders if her new life will ever be as beautiful as this view. Whether she and Rousse will be able to stay together through the turmoil and homesickness which comes with being uprooted. It is difficult to think when

The quietude doesn't last long.

There is already commotion on the ship despite how early it is, Norsemen rushing up and down the deck with oars in hand preparing for the commencement of their rowing. Since the departure of the storm, it would be easier for them to row the ship by hand instead of allowing the wind to wash them to shore like they had done for most of the journey. If Varsha didn't know of the savages better, she would assume they were lost at sea but the brutish men are known for navigating the water; some stories had even called them sea kings and now, after watching how unfased they were by what, to her, seemed to be the harshest storm she had ever seen, Varsha understands the name even more.

Curiosity had been a tendency thoroughly beaten out of her at the monastery. Being born a slave meant growing up unobtrusive, learning to perform tasks with muted footsteps and careful hands. She was not to speak of the things she'd seen nor question it, only to serve the mother and God as their faithful, wordless servant. It was the same at the church—lonely, tiresome—before Rousse arrived bundled up in a red cloth on the doorstep. She had the most brilliant smile, the type that you could fall in love with and it seemed as though she charmed everyone. With her beautiful red hair and green eyes, she quickly became the favourite and Varsha could never compete with her even if she tried. Because she too had fallen under her spell all too easily, spoiling the girl with all the things she wished she had: guidance, stories, laughter. And although she was barely two years older than Rousse, she was tasked to teach her as much as she could. Varsha couldn't read well nor speak with conviction but Rousse made her feel like the most glorious girl alive. When they struggled on words, they would struggle together and if the stories were difficult, Rousse would convince Father Osborn to read to them with easy smiles and beaming eyes (unbeknownst to the other priests, who, despite the schedule, would have prefered it if none of their fellow clergymen went to visit them at all).

Here, on the Norseman's longship, she had found herself more defiant. It bubbled in her belly like fermenting poison, hot and pure and unboding, and despite the increase in the likelihood of punishment, she was surprised to find that it never really came, even when after she had gotten angry and appologised perfusely in the only way she knew how, they never batted an eye.