Archive of Our Own

The sea stole my heart not long ago. 

It raged and ravaged through me with drops of salted sunshine, reminding me nothing of the landlocked youth I endured not far from Winchester. 

For endure, I did. 

How odd, that a life so often whispered as akin to prison, has become my greatest freedom. Perhaps if by some trick of God I set eyes on the Collins boy again-- I should thank him for his most generous use of me. 

For now I am free of that heinous poison called love. 

My small cell sits at the back wall of our Monastery-- thankfully, overlooking the sea. The wall separating the Monks from our gaggle of holy women taunts near the far corner of my window that is barely wide enough for me to blink one eye towards the storm grey waters that lay below. 

It is my reprieve, my solace, and I sing along to the sounds of crashing waves.

I prefer them to the Hymns we harmonize nightly. 

As I lean against the stone wall, I spot two Monks walking idly down to the sea to check their crab traps, Brother’s Jasper and Wigmont-- known familiarly as “Monty”. Jasper flaps his hands about as he talks to his companion. I do long to join them, hear what secrets lie in the men’s quarters and the forbidden scriptorium. Though our Abbess rules with a strict switch, she turns the other way when it comes to fraternization between the men and women. We reside on an outlying island off the Northumbrian coast-- it would be unthinkable to keep us completely isolated from each other. We must work together to tend the land and livestock, for practicality overshadows hoity decrees of Christian rightness. 

We study together, drink together, and laugh together. Never in my life did I think I’d call so many men friend . Brother Jasper has taught me some French as well as the Northman’s language. The words are heavy and odd on my tongue-- gifting me with a swell of sinful pride in my chest-- even if I’ll never use them properly. 

What the Archbishop does not know, can’t hurt him or I. Abbess Diyoza often grins over her favorite wine as we relaxed following Vespers or if she’s feeling particularly rebellious-- after Matins. 

She usually enjoys my wit, my arguments, and rough charm. 

But she is the Abbess and I am but a novice. 

I’ve never been good at listening to my superiors. 

For that trait, I’ve been sequestered to my cell. My sharp tongue once again failed me and my Abbess. Though I could not begrudge myself for the comment, the woman was infuriating. Standing there in her expensive red wool, recounting the worst year of my life as if it were a feast’s amusing tale to tell. 

Causing Sister Raven to choke on both rage and tears. 

Unfortunately, I am not good at choking on my rage. It bubbles forth no matter my will. 

Lady Alie deserved the jibe-- I’ll not regret it-- even if she is our esteemed guest on her journey south. The Abbess, though, does not agree. 

Four nights of penance, only to exit my cell for prayers. 

Some nights I feel the suffocation of monastic life, nights such as this. 

Vespers comes and goes, I return to my cell and slip off my worn leather shoes, rolling down the wool stockings that barely keep out the salty chill. I crack my toes and rub my worn knees. No matter the year and some months I’ve spent here-- my noble knees have not gotten used to the stone floor of the chapel. 

A soft knock sounds on my door and I lift the lever to let Raven in. 

Her sigh is like a balm on my nerves as she settles next to me on the bed. 

“Supper is so very boring when Father Pike reads.” Raven rolls her eyes, slipping her veil from her head as she twiddles the pin between her fingers. I undo my own veil, humming in agreement. 

Our hair has grown somewhat back since it was shorn when we took our vows. Mine curls around my ears, barely brushing my shoulders. I once sported hair so long it touched my backside when I brushed it through, soft blonde curls lovely enough to tempt any painter in the land. It was my greatest pride besides my mind. 

I shed a thousand tears the day it was cut by Sister Harper’s hand. 

“A storm brews.” Raven looks to the small window. “Brother Jasper says there is more news of raids up the coast.” 

“Do you fear the Northmen, Raven?” I tease, laying back on my hard bed. The sheets scratch against my bare hands and neck. How I miss the soft wool of my bed back home. 

No, not home. Not any more. 

“I do, as should we all.” She takes my hand. “Do you ever miss your home?” 

It’s an odd question, we rarely speak of the tragedies that brought us together. “I try not to think of home, not anymore.” 

“Don’t tell me… God is now your home?” Her jesting tone makes me laugh much too loud for a woman of God, it rattles around the little room with some semblance of joy.

“Oh, no. By the Virgin, I don’t think I have one. Home is for those with hearts beating in their chests and families that keep them. I tossed mine to the wolves, or don’t you recall? Heart and family alike.” I grin and Raven falls back next to me, laying her ear on my chest. 

“Sorry to inform you, but I hear the tap of your heart, Clarke. Even if you bury it deeper than your spleen.” I smile, not letting the corners reach my eyes-- I am known about the Montersy as the practical one, not allowing my emotions to cloud my judgement. This is why Diyoza allows me to bargain with the local merchants when it comes time to sell our wool or crops. My spleen nor my heart is weighed down by feeling . 

But neither of us can claim a family any more. Her father cast her out, my mother sent me away in shame. Only God was left to collect us. 

Raven taps my tummy as she whispers, “I received a letter from Finn.” 

The use of his Christian name sends a bolt of rage through me and I scurry away, needing to stand. Raven watches me with weary eyes. 

“What does he want of you?” My arms cross of their own volition. “How dare he! Ugh, if I could-- If I--” 

Raven bites her lip and looks at her hands, shaking her head so her short raven dark hair-- I often wonder if her Papa named her for it-- flits around her lovely face like midnight waves. “He will be visiting the Monastery in two months' time. The Wessex King is sending him to Northumbria, to a new land he’s been awarded for fighting the Northmen along the southern borders.” 

Fire boils in my blood. Finn Collins is the reason both our lives were uprooted. Why we devoted ourselves to God instead of marrying an old, decaying man who would take a soiled woman. 

If I were a man I would have challenged him myself and stuck him like the pig he is. 

“I shall tell Diyoza we will not see him.” I lift my chin, my birth station shining through. I was raised to be a Lady of the Court, perhaps wife to an Aetheling one day. Instead, I’d let my head be turned by love for a lowly Thegn passing through with the King’s son. A Thegn already engaged to a Merchant’s daughter. We’d exchanged posey rings, small kisses in the garden, and for the first time in my life I thought my heart was finally singing in my chest. 

I thought I was more than a commodity to be traded to the highest bidder. 

He thawed it, made me think of songs and stories and tall tales instead of my duty. 

Love. 

I’d been wrong, of course. 

News reached my Mother that the Thegn who’d caught her daughter’s eye had already taken a betrothed and put her with child. Raven gave birth to a babe without breath, and Collins turned her out instead of standing by his word. When she arrived at Griffin House, gaunt and lost, I listened to her story and rescinded my hand despite my Mother’s pleas. 

Collins ruined me by boasting that he’d taken my virtue. Though false, rumors have more stoutness than stone in the King’s Court. My dear friend, Wells-- son of another Ealdorman, offered to duel him. But I refused, taking my stepfather’s advice to retire from society and enter a life devoted to Christ. 

Though I insisted they sponsor Raven as well. 

“I hope he falls from his horse.” I mutter, returning to the bed. 

“Christ give me the strength to see him again.” Raven mock prays and we both giggle. 

“Christ smite him, dear husband.” I cross myself, knowing most would balk at our jesting with God’s words. I can’t find it in me to care. I am a bride of Christ and he should look after our needs-- even if that means throwing Collins from his horse to die in a ditch. 

A deep ditch. 

“I should retire before we’re woken for Matins.” Raven stands, kissing the top of my head. I bid her goodnight as the door shuts. 

The sky opens in a torrent or screaming rain and thunder. I peer through the hole as whitecaps dive through the sands, letting the salty air and freezed rain flick onto my nose-- not an ounce of tiredness in me. 

A faded shape colors the distance, cutting through the grey water and greyer sky. 

A sail. Angry red lines. 

My throat closes, fear bleeding through my very soul. 

Northmen. 

My fist beats Diyoza’s door until it opens to a bleary eyed Abbess. 

“Sister Clarke, what in all Heaven--”

“Ships on the horizon.” I blurt, frantically pointing to the east. “Red marks upon their sails.” 

“Lord have mercy on us.” Diyoza murmurs-- crossing herself and rushing out of the room to a window overlooking the sea. The ships-- three of them-- sway in the shallow waters as they wait for the storm to allow them landing. “Perhaps the storm will drag them under, God is on our side.” 

“We must wake the others!” I turn to the hall, fear rushing through me. “We cannot delay!” 

“Sister, wait!” Diyoza calls after me, stopping my bare feet in their haste. I turn back to her with wary eyes. “Wake no one yet.” 

“Mother--” I am about to defy her, for she cannot be serious. “If they attack and we are ill prepared, we will die.” 

“God is on our side.” 

“God cannot fight a Northman’s axe!” I remind her-- hysteria ringing through me, an edge in my voice forgotten since my days enternating Ealdorman Kane’s warriors. My mother would scold me, tell me I am no leader of men. I never did heed her. “We must prepare.” 

“We are servants of Christ, Sister Clarke. We are not warriors.” The Abbess sighs, tears of resignation in her eyes. “We cannot send for the nearest Fyrd in this storm. If we die by Heathen hands tonight, it is God's will and we shall rejoice in the light of Heaven.” 

My spine goes cold. I am not ready to die, nor are my friends who fill these heartless walls. How can she give up on our earthly lives with such ease? No, by Heaven, no. I will not sit quietly and wait to be skewered open or worse--   “We’re still breathing, Mother, and until we’re not. God can keep his light.” 

I rush to the dormitory and bang on each door, my fellow Nuns sleepily enter the halls to my wailing of Northmen. Like a snap they scurry into action. 

We do not wish to die.

We bar the front gate with pews dragged through the mud. Raven wakes the Monks but many disappear into the chapel to pray. The Nuns are left to our defenses with only a few men to aid us. 

Brother Jasper scales the wall to see if the Northmen have made land.  

“One boat on the sand!” He calls through the whipping rain. His hood has slipped back, revealing the circle shaved atop his shaggy hair that sticks to his neck. “There must be at least twenty of them!” 

I too climb atop the small chicken coop against the east wall to look over, unfeeling of the wind and rain battering my face. Jasper holds his hand to me and we clasp onto each other steadily as we watch the line of warriors march up the sea path. Their round shields cover their backs or swing in their arm as they move like ripples through water, determined and direct. 

At their front is a black haired man, broad as day with a thick beard matted to his face. With white knuckles I grip the rough stone of the wall, watching him step closer and closer to our small sanctuary. 

His chin tilts up and I’d swear on any Saint that I catch his eye even across the divide. Dark pits of cold death grip my throat and I make my face stony in answer. The soft grey of dusk settling over us keeps them illuminated, God will not give them the gift of darkness. 

Come and see if you can kill me easy, Northman. I am the daughter of Ealdorman Jakob the Hardhearted, I’ve the blood of kings in my veins. I will not be conquered by you. My father’s final blessings of bravery and strength sing through my veins. 

“Sister, we should get down, less they lose arrows.” Jasper calls through the tempest around us. I glance once more as they near the final curve, only a hundred steps or so before they’re upon our pathetic gate. 

Survive the night, then the rest will come.

The Northman’s eyes set upon me again, a hungry grin painting his lips as he raises his shield with a bellowing warcry. Behind him a-- by the Virgin-- a woman howls with a raised sword, black paint covering her eyes and a thick braid whipping round her shoulders. 

Turning, I slide down into the mud. It cakes over my worn shoes and stockings, soaking through my already numb toes. 

“We should spread out, not all hide in the chapel.” I order the group in the courtyard. “Off with you!” 

They scurry, Raven and Brother Monty remaining. 

“Hide in the commode if you can. Perhaps they will raid and leave.” I tell the two Monks.

“Already taken, but I must save the holy books.” Brother Monty tugs on Jasper’s arm, leading him in a rush to the scriptorium. I nudge Raven with them and she kisses my cheek soundly before rushing along. No words can save us now. We’ve done as much as we can, yet I fear it won’t be enough. 

Voices sound from behind the barricaded door, words that are strangely familiar from Jasper’s lessons but I can’t focus on them much as blood screams in my ears. I rush back into the Cloister-- loud bangs reverberating through the stone as they try to force their way in. The Chapel doors are barred-- good-- I rush to the kitchen, the fire dying as I take the iron prong beside it in hand. 

It is better than a dull knife. 

I squeeze myself in the pantry, tucking my legs below my body. 

And for the first time in a very long time. 

I pray with no jest or doubt.

I simply pray to survive the night. 

I feel the doors give way more than I hear them. The complex shakes, shouts echoing through the walls like death rattles. My hands clutch the iron poker so hard my skin may split, my skirts stick to my wet legs but I barely notice.

That’s when I hear the first scream. 

Stomping, wood cracking-- more screams. 

I know what a bone sounds like when it breaks. I know the swish of a sword, the grunt of a murderer. The rattle of death fills my ears. More screams. 

How many of my dear friends are dying at the hands of Godless monsters? I cannot dwell, though my very soul screams at me to help them. What help can I be? I clutch my poker tighter. 

Voices make my back straighten as they enter the kitchen. I try to translate in my head. 

Their Gods keep all golds in the open-- like fools-- Begging to be stolen. It’s too easy. 

Quiet, John. The raider's voice is deep, like the rich wine my Father loved so much. It shakes my bones where I sit. Risking my neck, I peak around the slight corner to see two men rummaging around our meager supplies. Gather what we can for the journey home. 

After some sport, Bellamy. The thinner man argues-- the one he calls John-- odd, a Christian name.

Be off with you, then. Dark hair drips with rain and… blood. I suppress a shiver, leaning back again and hoping he does not find me. 

Footsteps tell me John has left. 

Bated silence lets fear seep further into me, I think I may crack my own hands with how hard I grip my meager weapon. 

He hums, tapping the wooden table with his sword, dissonance radiating out as if each hit was directly upon my own flesh. 

“I know you are here.” He says in English and I stop breathing. More footsteps round the table. “I can hear your heartbeat, little lamb.” The bastard starts to clap as if along with my heart thudding inside my chest and I curse him-- thinking he must be some demon from Hell. “Come out now and I won’t harm you.” 

I swear on the immortal soul of my Father he whispers much at the end. 

“Come out, come out…” He taunts as he nears the pantry door. I know as soon as he enters he’ll just have to look down to see me crouched like a wet dog. With one final prayer, I inhale and wait for the moment to strike. Perhaps I’ll spear him in the neck and be able to run for the caves on the North side of the Island. 

I must try. 

Heavy leather boots enter the edge of my vision and I launch myself forward, swinging the poker round. Instead of meeting flesh it clangs against his raised sword. I twist it round as if I too wielded a true sword, taking the mass of a man aback-- granting me just enough time to raise my weapon and bring it down again. 

The shock on his face melts into amusement, which only fuels my rage. 

“A fox, not a lamb, I see!” He laughs, deflecting my next two hits with ease as he rights himself. His hand wraps around the poker midair and he yanks it, making me lose my step. I yank back hard and he falters for a blessed moment-- I use his momentum to pass him. He manages to steal the poker from my hands as I run, his giant hand reaching for me but I rush to the otherside of the table and eye the two doors leaving the kitchen. 

“Which route will you take, little lamb?” He teases with one corner of his mouth upturned-- his weight sits on his toes as he prepares to chase me no matter which direction I run. Thinking fast, I take a jug of oil from the table and chuck it at him, not stopping to think as I throw anything in vicinity at the monster before me. He manages to dodge my attacks-- until a bowl makes contact with his shoulder and I dart for the back garden, knowing the footholds in the old wall well. 

My feet carry me over the drenched plants and I launch myself at the wall, palms scraping down the rough stone as I begin to haul myself up. 

Arms close around my waist, retching me from my escape with a forceful huff. He holds me there against the wall as I simper and squirm to free myself of his hold. Hot breathe pants on my cheek before he spits my veil and flyaways from his mouth. 

“A spirited God woman…” He muses, voice deeper than before so close. “How rare .” 

“Let me go, you brute!” I scream, clawing at his leather clad arms as I try to free myself from the press of his body.  

The Northman slams me into the wall hard enough for my head to rattle. I lose myself for a moment as his hands spin me round, pressing my back against the jagged stone. Without sparing me a glance he takes a length of rope from his belt and ties it about my wrists, the rough weave digging into my skin-- I know it will bleed. 

As he knots my freedom away, I study his face. It’s sea scarred and battle worn, a white scar flicks from his lip, another on his brow. His skin is darker than most Northmen, in his face a quality I’d not seen before-- reminiscent of some land far away. What takes me most are the freckles dotting his fine nose, a softness unfitting of his actions. He looks up, satisfied with his work. His eyes are dark brown, teaming with life-- they study me in return. 

One hand comes to rest on my collar, right below my neck, keeping me in place as his other raises to my hairline-- where my veil has slid. 

“Don’t.” I warn, for no man should see me without my veil. It is for my husband and my husband by the law of the land is Christ himself. “It is not for your eyes, heathen. ” 

He quirks a brow, curious no doubt at my defiance with his hand so close to my delicate throat. 

With the blank look returning to his face he pulls the veil down around my shoulders, revealing my damp hair. I cannot stop the whimper that escapes my lips. No man has seen my hair since I was a girl. 

It’s meant to be special, to be given. 

Treasured. 

I’d given up hope long ago any man would look upon me with love and reverence, take me to his arms and bed, undo the soft linen wrapped to bask in the gold upon my head. 

Now this monster has taken my last bit of solace. 

“Why would they lock up one as pretty as you?” He asks, more to himself than anything. 

I stiffen, jutting my chin out. “I am no prisoner. I am a bride of Christ, a holy woman--” 

“Not anymore.” He takes a strand between his forefinger and thumb, mesmerized. 

My chin raises, challenging. “Am to meet my end now or will you shear my hair from my head first?” 

“You’ll not be slaughtered today, little lamb.” 

“If the choice is between death and bondage to heathens, I gladly chose death.” My voice does not waver and he raises a brow, amused. 

His amusement only spurs on my anger. Infuriating beast.  

“I’m sure you’ve killed many a maiden. What’s one more?” I taunt, unable to stop myself. 

Without any flourish his hand raises to wrap around my throat, present, though not pressing. “I’ve killed many, you’re right. But you I will not.” 

“I will fall on a sword before I let you take me.” My bound hands shove at his unmoveable form. 

“Brave, Princess.” He murmurs, lips twisted in an evil smirk. “How grand you are for such a life. Maybe you should have been a Queen instead of a loverless God woman.” 

“I am no Princess.” I almost screech, his fingers tightening around my throat as his other pinches my chin in his fingers, forcing me to peer into his eyes once again. 

“I know-- yet the title suits you.” He releases me with a step, letting me slide to the side before grasping my arm to drag me back through the place I call home. 

I struggle the entire way, attempting to grab anything inside to keep myself from whatever horror awaits me. I can’t bear the stench of death, knowing I will soon see the open eyes of those I loved. 

Another one, Bellamy? A woman’s voice uses their strange language, I work hard to understand her growling words.

My captor-- Bellamy-- shrugs and stills our movements. We’re in the cloister, only four others sit-- bound and shivering on the damp grass. I hadn’t even noticed the rain stopped. 

Raven’s red eyes look up at me and she breaks into fresh sobs-- of relief, of pain, I do not know. Jasper and Monty huddle near each other. Sister Harper stares blankly head. 

I look towards the chapel doors and unconsciously tug towards them. 

The God house? He asks another, they make a sound to confirm and suddenly I’m being dragged into the chapel. 

The stone runs red, bodies littering the remaining benches. I try not to look at the faces. 

Diyoza lays near the altar, eyes wide and cold-- clutching her cross. 

Numbness fades through me, as it did when my father died. 

Bellamy! Already chose your spoil?  John calls from the altar as he stuffs the gold crosses in a sack. 

Perhaps. His grip on my arm hardens. Will the Jarl be pleased? 

He best be, it’s the best we’ve ever done. John’s eyes me, stepping over the bodies as he carries the sack to Bellamy. Unless they hide more. 

No more. I answer in broken Norse. Both eyes fall to me with a mixture of shock and amusement. 

“A learned lamb.” Bellamy’s hand squeezes my arm as he spins me around and grabs my shoulders. “If you’re lying I’ll kill each one of the remaining English, understand?” 

“I am not lying.” I grit through my teeth. “There was a lady staying here, she may have some jewels she traveled with, but other than such you’re looking at the entirety of our holy riches.” 

He bores into my eyes, as if he can suss out my intent. After an immeasurably long time he nods, leading me by the back of the neck to the others before shoving me down into the muddy grass. 

It’s nearing dawn when we’re finally led to the beach, the Monastery burning behind us. I’m led by a rope in the hands of none other than Bellamy. I can’t find it in me to argue as Raven and Harper are led to one ship, Jasper and Monty to another, and I to the third. 

He climbs into the ship first as another huge man comes up behind me to lift me to him as if I weigh nothing. I am just another sack of spoils it seems. Bellamy takes me under the arms and lugs me onto the ship, setting me down as he hauls more loot aboard. Satisfied he tugs me towards the mast, pushing me down by the head before tying the lead rope to the wood. 

“What if the ship goes under?” I ask, tugging at it slightly. 

He smirks, tightening it. “Then you drown.” Silently, he works to tie it soundly. Finality sings in my mind, fear washing over me at the dire reality I’ve been placed in. 

Is God so cruel? 

One more look at the man before me tells me, yes.

“What will happen?” I can feel my heart beating wildly, unable to stop the slight plea from my voice. 

He regards me curiously, like he cannot decide which lie to tell. “We’ll present our haul before the Jarl, he will decide what to do with it. Including you.” 

I decide to play the final card I may have. “My Mother’s husband is an Ealdorman, he is close to the King of Wessex. He may pay handsomely for my safe return.” 

Bellamy sighs and sinks down before me on his heels, once again his hand comes to pat my hair like he can’t help himself, like I am a broken horse to be calmed before my throat is slit. “We do not care, Princess.” 

With that he stands and walks away. I pull my remaining cloak over my shoulders, trying to vanish into the fabric-- hoping it will swallow me whole. 

Days pass and I feel my will slowly fading away as dread sets in. More oft than not I imagine throwing myself into the seas. I do not know what these Northmen want of me, but I am not naive enough to not suspect it is my woman’s body. 

Especially with the way he looks at me from the front of the boat, eyes trained on my shivering form like a problem that irks him. A traitorous part of me enjoys his stare, it’s dangerous and heated. Reminding me nothing of how Thegn Collins would look at me like I was made of glass. 

No, there's no softness in his dark gaze. 

Only chaos. 

He personally makes me eat each day, standing over me until I swallow the stale bread and cured fish. Patting my head as if I’m a dog as he praises me in Norse with words I don’t understand. 

Finally we spot land. 

I could have cried had I any tears left. The salt seems to have sucked all water from my body. Only when night falls do I let the meager saving of tears escape, stifling the sobs clouding my throat as best I can so the gruff men around me will not wake. I suspect we have only a night left, as we travel north along the coast. 

As the moon rises in the sky I close my eyes, unable to sleep from the stress of unknowing days to come. 

“You should sleep.” Bellamy rumbles, sitting next to me against the mast. 

I grunt, already feeling my nightly tears well up.  

“You’ll need your strength for the days to come, Princess.” He urges, not looking at me, but above at the moon. “I see you weep when the moon is high.” 

I cannot tell from his voice if he mocks me or not. 

“Smart, do not let them see. A heart is dangerous, I’d know.” 

I breathe a scoff and turn my head away. “You’ve no heart, Northman.” 

His fingers wrap around my bound wrists, brushing over the beaded blood crusting from the mean rope. Before I can eek a protest he raises them and presses my hands into his chest. I can feel his steady heartbeat below my fingers, stealing all my focus as the rhythm ruefully soothes me. 

So much like when Raven pressed her ear to my own, proving as much as I cast it away, my heart persists in its existence. 

“You feel my heart. Or can you defy all things before you and still lie to yourself?” I glance up, trembling beyond my better judgment when I realize how close his face is to my own. “Well?” 

I open my mouth to respond, only no words come. He stares at me, the moonlight shadowing his skin. Eyes much too kind for a man with so much blood upon him. 

“A heart of flesh, perhaps.” I concede. “What of your soul's heart?” 

He blinks, one corner of his mouth tilting up. “That, my lamb, you just have to wait to discover.” 

“I’m not a lamb.” I jerk back, pulling from his grasp as he chuckles, letting me. Idly, his finger traces my bent knee. “And I am most definitely not your lamb.” 

“Then what shall I call you?” Bellamy challenges. 

I bite my lip, my name being all I have left to myself. Sighing, I turn my chin. “Clarke. My name is Clarke.” 

Bellamy hums. “Clarke.” He tastes it, relishing the brief name like a sweet morsel. “An odd name for an odd girl.” 

“No odder than yours.” I counter, feeling the traitorous pull of a smile. 

“No more tears, Clarke.” He runs his hand over my head as he stands. “We return to Arkadia tomorrow.” 

I curl inward, knowing I will not be able to obey such a command. 

“Sleep.” Is his final order as he returns to the front of the boat, overlooking the still sea. 

I jerk awake as a hand encompasses my shoulder. Blinking in grey, morning light I watch mountains pass us on both sides. Bellamy stands above me, nodding once before bending down to bring a water skin to my cracked lips. 

I drink deeply, almost choking on the sweet, glorious water. He pulls it back and my lips follow only to earn a tsk from him. 

“You’re cold.” He comments, catching a stray drop running down my chin. “Your lips are blue.” 

I flinch away from his calloused thumb and he grins, walking away. 

We sail into the inlet, I cannot see the other ships but I’m still strapped to the mast. My legs ache from sitting for so long and I almost anticipate landing in their home. 

Bellamy starts barking orders as we near a settlement. I can just barely see the pitched roofs over the edge of the ship until we steer close. Voices cacophony over the water, a crowd gathered at the docks. 

One of the other boats is already docked and unloaded. The burly men await us, snagging ropes to pull the ship to the dock. I sit quietly, praying I could melt into the deck as men jump from the ship tossing their loot. Someone undoes my rope and drags me up, my legs buckle but it’s no matter. Hands grip me, passing me from man to man like a doll until I’m set among the gold crosses and jewels from my Monastery. 

My eyes scan the crowd for Bellamy or the others, but he’s nowhere to be found. 

The woman from the raid appears in front of me, eying me up and down. She grabs my chin, tilting me back and forth. 

“Octavia!” Bellamy’s baritone breaks over the crowd and the woman snarls, releasing me like I burned her. He weaves through the crowd, greeting those around him with a wide grin, lifting a child to throw them in the air. 

I search for Raven, but she’s also nowhere. I’m alone. 

“Princess.” He greets as he stops before me, a child on his shoulders. The little girl eyes me oddly, as if I’m a creature pulled from the sea. 

I don’t listen closely enough to her words to catch the meaning. 

 He responds, she is a princess of the Christians. 

I shake my head. No Princess. 

The girl grins and whispers something in his ear. Bellamy laughs, swinging her down from his shoulders. Madi! Find your mother! 

Running a hand through his hair, he looks back at me. “We’ll go before the Jarl now.” There’s a nervous energy below his swagger that makes my stomach twist. 

“Was that your daughter?” I ask, trying to hide my fear behind the cool expression my Mother once taught me. 

“No, my sister adopted her a few years ago when her parents died in a raid.” He takes my arm, leading my wobbling legs through the crowd. Hands reach out to touch me as I pass, I make my muscles taut so I don’t flinch. Bellamy says no more before we enter a Hall filled with bearded men and haughty women. 

In the din of the fires sit two regal, fur lined figures upon thrones. 

“Jarl Roan.” Bellamy bows his head, speaking in Norse-- I suppose I must get used to it. “We bring you spoils from English shores.” 

“You bring more than spoils it seems.” Jarl Roan eyes me, an icy blue gaze raking down my threadbare tunica. “Who is this?” 

“A Bride of Christ.” Bellamy tosses me forward and I land hard on my battered knees, biting my lip so hard it bleeds. But I do not cry out. 

“Their God takes brides now?” The woman sitting next to Jarl Roan’s throne jeers. “What next, shall I wed myself to Thor?” 

Roan roars with laughter, walking up to take my chin in his meaty hand. I meet his eye, unable to let my Mother’s teaching of demure ladylike behavior rule me. “A pretty thing for an English girl.” 

“I think so too, sire.” Bellamy jokes, I can hear the grin in his voice as someone wolf whistles in the crowd. My cheeks burn hot red, but I bite back the tears. 

“She’ll fetch a good price in the slave markets.” Roan releases me. 

My stomach drops. 

“Perhaps we should sacrifice her to the Gods. Show them thanks for bringing us such bounty.” The woman smiles at me, baring her teeth. 

I feel as if I might be sick. 

Waves dance in my ears as my mind surges. 

“Sire, I wish to take the girl on at my farm.” Bellamy says. It takes me a moment to register his deep voice amid the chaos. But Roan holds up his hand and all dies down. 

“Taken a liking to her, have you?” 

Bellamy scoffs, walking up before me and waving his hands. “You know I’ve no longer a woman to do as needs be done besides my one servant. A slave girl will do me well on the mountain. I cannot keep asking my sister’s people to tend my goats when I go a Viking.” 

“He’s right!” Octavia’s voice yells from the back of the crowd to a series of laughs. 

Roan smiles, sitting down again. “You are capable and this is an impressive loot. The Gods are pleased, Bellamy. Take the slave girl, take another piece for your fortunes and tell us how she rides next time you’re in Arkadia.” 

I swallow, but dare not look up as more jeers come from the crowd. 

“Jarl Roan, Frue Echo.” He bows his head and takes my arm, dragging me from the room as men from his ship step forward to accept their rewards. 

“Wait!” I yank on his hold and he stops, peering down at me. “What-- what--” 

“What-- what-- what?” He mocks, pulling me along. I fight again and before I know his hand is around my jaw, his nose inches from mine. “Make a fuss here where all can see and I’ll bind you to the cart to walk all the way to my home. You are no longer a princess, a christ bride, or anything. You are my property.” 

I instill every ounce of fire in my gaze, wishing nothing more than to lash at him with my tongue. 

“Are we understood, dearheart?” He asks, tilting his chin down towards me. I nod through his grip and he nods with me as if I am a stupid goat. I could wring his neck. Nay, I will ring his neck.  A dry, chapped kiss is placed on my hairline and he releases me to continue towards stables. 

The action stills me, confusing in it’s tenderness. 

I stand ramrod straight as Bellamy fixes a horse, gathering supplies into a cart. My eyes wander around as the town goes on with their day, unknowing and uncaring that my whole world has shattered. 

“Bellamy!” John from the raid appears, a woman trailing him with Raven nearby-- led by a rope around her neck. 

I step towards them, but Bellamy clears his throat and my feet still. Am I already such a trained animal? 

He answers in Norse. “John, Emori. Fine day.” 

“You’re leaving already?” Emori asks, pouting slightly for show. 

“Wish some time alone with the new acquisition?” John wriggles his brows, throwing his arm around Emori who must be his wife. 

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “I have a farm to tend and enough mead in my stores at home. Maya expects me.” 

I search for Raven’s eyes, she tentatively meets mine. I mouth that I love her and she returns it with a determined look in her dark eyes. 

“Is it trying to speak?” Emori yanks on her rope, taking her by the hair. 

“Dear, be careful.” John takes the rope from his wife, checking around Raven’s neck with a care that chills me. 

“Is she your friend?” Bellamy asks, standing beside me all a sudden. 

“Yes.” I answer, eyes darting to her. “You’d waste her as a house maid.” 

His eyebrows shoot up. “How so?” 

Raven shakes her head, but I urge her with my eyes to trust me. She rolls hers and relents. 

“She has an eye for building. Her father was a builder, a Master Mason. She was aiding in renovations to the Rectory.” I say in broken Norse. They must understand because John hoots, tugging Raven into his other arm. She stiffens under him. 

“How lucky!” 

Bellamy leans down towards me. “John is our ship builder.” I don’t know why he bothers to tell me. 

“Truly. She’ll still have to help with duties about the house.” Emori points out, smiling at Raven. “We are going to drink ourselves silly. Safe journey, we’ll be by soon.” 

“Pour one out for me!” He calls after them. I watch Raven walk away, she steals one more glance at me before they drag her around a corner. Bellamy’s hands land on my shoulders. “In the cart.” 

I go to climb up awkwardly with bound wrists, but he lifts me with ease, closing the back of the cart  and latching it. He takes the rope still tied to my hands and holds it as he climbs onto the bench. With a click of his tongue we’re off, rolling out of the city. 

I huddle down in the corner, watching his back move under his furs. As we clear the commotion of the outer settlements he turns his head and looks down at me. 

“You are cold.” He observes. 

I shrug in response. 

Bellamy sighs and reaches behind him into his pack, pulling from it a woolen shawl. I stare at the offering before he huffs and drapes it over me. 

“Go to sleep, Princess. We’ll be there by nightfall.” He turns back to the road and I hug my knees tighter. It takes all in me to not be lulled by the turn of the wheels, a well made cart, and soon my eyes droop from stress and exhaustion. 

I dream of wildflower fields and Wells’ laughter. 

I awake to arms holding me up, walking slowly. Bellamy’s carrying me with his arm under my knees and around my back, my cheek presses against the fur of his collar. He smells like the ocean and something else I can’t place, floral and spicy. How odd, men in Wessex never smelled like anything besides sweat and dirt. 

He opens a door with the hand under my leg and shuts it with a kick. 

“Maya?” 

Steps sound out and I peek out to see a girl with dark hair rounding a partition. She claps her hands giddily and squeals, “you’re home!” 

“I am, could you make sure the extra furs are in my bed, please?” Bellamy laughs walking past her, he stills as she bows her head, kissing the top of her hair. “I suppose all is well?” 

“We’ve a new kit on the way!” She chirps, following him to the closed off corner of the house. A bed lays near a lit fireplace. “I heard tell you’d landed and knew you’d be home soon as you could manage.” 

“I have no need for the revels of Arkadia tonight.” He huffs with a teasing edge. I’m placed down on the edge of the bed. 

“Who-- who is this?” She asks softly, eagerly curious. 

Bellamy sighs-- as if it weighs upon him to even speak. “A new slave.” 

“I see.” Maya answers. “I thought you’d not take a thrall? What did you say? Oh, yes, I’ll never be one of those animals to keep fellow souls like goats in a pen-- ” 

He clears his throat to stop her rambling and it takes all in me to not open my eyes. 

“Get some sleep, Maya.” He dismisses her. She rushes away and I hear the swoosh of a curtain. “I know you’re awake.” 

I slowly open my eyes and look around the room, if small plaster partitions could call it a room. 

Bellamy grins at me and sits on his heels, undoing the rope binding my wrists. 

I hiss as the raw skin meets the air. 

“Shh.” He tosses the rope and retrieves a bowl of water nearby. “Deep breath, Princess.” 

Using a bolt of linen he cleans the wounds with a gentleness that terrifies me. When he is satisfied, he stands, placing the used cloth aside. I examine my wrists, bruised and red but no longer crusted with blood. 

“Here, you must want to wash.” He holds out a new cloth, a wooden bowl filled with water. “Tomorrow we can bathe in the lake. But this will get some grime off.” 

I sit up, my body aching as if it ran a thousand miles. Slowly, not trusting him to not be cruel, I take the cloth. 

“Maya will give you a spare dress tomorrow, I’ll have Octavia purchase some fabric for a new one.” He continues. 

I stretch my arms, hearing the joints crack. “My dress is fine.” 

“It is pitiful.” He shakes his head. “It is ripped beyond repair, too. Have you a shift beneath?” 

“Of course. I’m not an animal.” I snap, scrubbing my cheek with the rough cloth. It comes away dirtier than I realized. If I had the luxury of a glass I would most likely see a wraith staring back. 

Bellamy tuts as he slips off his boots, undoing his shawl and lifting his soiled tunic over his head. I turn my head as his bare torso comes to view. 

“You stare at a naked man all day.” He reminds me, I look up to see his brow quirked in a teasing manner. 

“It’s not the same.” 

“No, you’d rather have a dead husband than one of flesh and blood.” He mocks, dragging his leather pants down. I turn again as his manhood comes into sight. My breathing turns rough, remembering the last time I was alone with a nude man. 

How it ruined my life. 

“Clarke, I’m not a monster.” He says gently, hands before him and an honest look in his eyes. It’s enough that I do not argue the point. “But we’ve no other beds right now.” 

I nod and go to curl up again. 

“You’re not getting in bed with that soiled thing on.” Bellamy stands before me again, pulling me up by the arms. I struggle slightly, yanking from his grasp. At least standing I don’t have to look at him in all his glory. “Arms up.” 

I obey, simply because I know he’ll do it anyway. Fingers brush my knees as he pulls the tunica up over my head, casting it to the side. I shake in my shift as he goes to a trunk and retrieves a clean shirt. 

“This too.” He tugs on my simple linen shift-- it was once a semblance of white. I glare at him and he rolls his eyes, turning around as I slip it over my head. “Scrub down some.” 

He stays with his back to me as I use the cloth to wash my body of the basic dirt and grime. It takes only a few moments and then I clear my throat which he takes to mean he can turn. 

“Wait!” I screech, falling back into the bed and yanking the cover up over my breasts. 

Bellamy stands still, staring at my red cheeks as I inhale roughly. “Apologies, Princess.” 

“Are you-- are--” I feel new tears welling up and can’t help but let them fall. He waits, sitting on the bed beside me. “Are you going to-- take my virtue?” 

Bellamy laughs and shakes his head. “I do not know what virtue is.” 

My fists ball as I say through clenched teeth, “will you do as men do?” 

His eyes go dark and he seems angry for a moment. “No, Clarke. No, I will not force myself on you.” 

I let out a shaky breath that sounds more like a relieved sob. His hand pats my knee above the covers as he leans towards me with the same dark eyes. 

“When I fuck you, Princess, you’ll be begging me to take you and make you mine.” He examines my reaction, but I school it. 

“I shall never--” I start, trying to ignore the heat in my belly, the warmth of his hand even through the pelts between us. 

“Never is a very long time.” He smirks, rolling over me to the other side of the bed. The shirt falls to the floor and I pick it up, quickly yanking it over my head. It holds the same sweet scent as him and I burrow under the blankets, praying sleep takes me quick. 

An arm wraps around my middle, pulling me flush against his hard chest. I gasp as he nuzzles into my hair. “Can’t have you running off.” He whispers, his lips brushing the skin below my ear. I can’t suppress the shiver that runs through my body. I’ve never been touched like this, held in any capacity. 

It terrifies me to my core. 

Yet between the thud of his heartbeat and the crackle of the fire, I find my eyes dropping as I fade into sleep. 

I dream of open oceans and strong arms. 

Light shines through the small windows, the fire still burning bright as I stir. A soft tune sounds from the other side of the partition. 

Bellamy’s arm is still solid against me, his body pressed into mine in a way I’ve never been touched by a man. I untangle from his hold and he simply rolls over, gripping a pillow instead. The tunic he’d given me falls below my knees and I take a wrap from his open trunk to warm my shoulders, peering into the main room. 

“Good! You’re up.” Maya grins at me from the hearth. She’s pretty, black hair braided back and covered with a small cap. I touch my uncovered hair self consciously before letting my hand fall to examine the main room. A loom rests against one pitched wall, a small table sits near the hearth, and the ground is covered with fresh rushes. I set my face as impenetrable as I take in what will be my new home, the feeling of finality settling in my stomach. Maya continues rambling, “I’m sure your journey was long and arduous. Oh my! Can you even understand me? I’ve not much experience with thralls--” 

“I can understand.” I say with my thick accent and she smiles, patting a stool at the center table. “Are you-- are you also a thrall?” 

Maya laughs and shakes her head like I just asked her if the sun shines at night. “No, I’m Bellamy’s maid. But I’ve lived here five years. He’s more family to me than anything.” 

“Oh.” I smile half heartedly, I was hoping for an ally. 

“He’s a good man.” Maya offers, setting a bowl of pottage in front of me. I smile in thanks, but the sadness of my situation sits heavy on my shoulders as I stare at the bland meal, no hunger in my belly.

Just as I’m about to lift the spoon to my lips, Bellamy enters the room. 

“Don’t tell her lies about me.” He mutters to Maya, face scrunched up like he smells something bad before he winks. 

He’s put on a tunic himself and sits beside me. Maya and him chat about the day ahead and what chores must be done. 

“I must bathe first. So will Clarke.” He says between mouthfuls. 

“I need to get some weaving done, then we can check our fabric stores and see if we can get something temporary together before winter sets in.” Maya eats her own breakfast, watching me with curious eyes. 

“If you have questions for her, Maya, just ask.” Bellamy goads, teasing. “Speak to her as if she’s an equal.” 

I start, glaring at him as he grins around his mouthful of bread. I cannot suss out his intentions which only fuels my confusion. Surely he means to put me to hard work, mucking stables till my hands bleed, weaving till I go blind, working day and night until I no longer offer any use. 

“After you bathe, you stink. Do they not bathe in England?” She waves her hand before her nose and I sniff myself. 

I am quite rank. And yes we bathe in England. 

When we’ve finished with breakfast and Maya sets the dishes aside, Bellamy takes my hand and leads me into the chilly air. A great lake sits before us, flanked by mountains and forests. 

It’s beautiful. 

I stare in partial awe at the scenery as he slips his tunic off, once again in his nude glory without a care. My attention is deftly stolen back to the man before me as he walks into the water. The muscles on his back are taut, scars running in jagged lines that seem to map a difficult life. His curls touch the base of his neck like small black snakes huddled together. His rump forms two perfect circles with dimples above wide thighs-- 

Begrudgingly, I let myself admit within that he is a thing of beauty. 

Only God and I will know. 

“Princess, if you don’t get in I’ll drag you myself.” He calls over his shoulder, waist high in the water. 

I slip the tunic off and rush in for modesty's sake. 

A mistake. 

It’s cold. 

I screech. “We’ll freeze!” I look at him, covering my chest with crossed arms. 

Bellamy grins, a wickedness that teeters on playfulness. “No we won’t, come here.” He holds out a hand and I take it, the warmth of his fingers encompassing mine. 

He pulls me deeper in the water, easily treading. 

“Wait! I can’t swim.” I warn him as my footing slips along the bottom. 

“I’ve got you.” He grins, wrapping a strong arm around me and pulling me to him. My legs wrap around his waist by instinct and it takes a moment for my mind to catch up to my body. 

“Oh, no, no.” I whisper, not letting go. 

“What is it?” He asks into my ear, twirling us around in the water. I can feel my hot center pressing into his stomach, he must feel it too. 

“This was your aim, to destroy my modesty.” I accuse hotly, though I don’t let go. His arms feel good around me, like footholds in the dark water. 

“I’ve always found your dead God’s customs odd. A body is a body.” 

“I don’t-- I--” I stutter over my words as his hand rubs soothing circles on my back. With each pass of his calloused palm I sink further into ease. Resting my chin on his shoulder I wonder why… why are we taught that the heat of another is so wrong? The thought is strange-- beyond what I’ve ever conceived as possibility. But the man around me is strange too. 

I’ve never before ached for the touch of another. 

“What are you thinking, Princess?” He murmurs, his hand stilling on my lower back as he swims us in the water. 

“I was ruined by a man.” It's been over a year since I said it aloud. Bellamy stiffens under me, using his hands to pull me back so he can look in my eyes. 

“Ruined.” He repeats, confusion clear. “Explain.” 

I sigh, thinking of Thegn Collins and his honeyed words. “A Thegn came through to my parents' manor. My father had just succumbed to illness, my mother remarried shortly after to a rival Ealdorman. He was kind… handsome… he told me he loved me.” I whisper the last words like a curse. “He asked for my hand and I begged Kane-- my stepfather-- to allow it. He was lesser than us, but my Mother was already with child and me being a girl, it did not matter much anyway.” 

“You matter.” Bellamy says plainly. I shrug. 

“I am a slave. I matter as much as a cow.” 

His eyes darken but he does not protest. 

“I accepted his hand and one night he came to my chambers. I told him we had to wait till our wedding night, but he-- he told me he loved me. Insisted. I still refused and he left. The next day a young woman arrived at our manor in search of him. She was the daughter of a Master Mason and a runaway Noblewoman who he’d left pregnant-- Raven. So I denied him, taking the girl in. Their child had been born without breath. But the damage was done.” 

“What damage?” Bellamy asks, genuinely curious. 

“He told everyone he’d already had me.” 

His hands tighten on my skin, one gripping the back of my neck as he watches my face. “He did not?” 

“None ever have.” I admitted with hot cheeks. “When I took my vows to God… I assumed none ever would.” 

“You never wished for a partner?” He murmurs, his nose dangerously close to my own. 

“I only wish for peace.” I say without thinking-- pained by how true those words are.

“I can give you that.” Bellamy’s eyes soften just before he leans down and presses his lips to my own. I gasp at the feeling of his lips, warm and cold, heated and icy. His hand tangles in my hair and I dig my nails into the meat of his shoulders. 

I’ve never been kissed as such before. Small pecks, yes-- stolen dry presses in the woods-- perhaps. 

But this is wholly different. 

It’s like the last breath before meeting God. 

Pulling away I inhale the cold air like a tonic. 

A laugh rumbles in his chest. “All fire, Clarke. You’re wasted on your weak God.” 

That lights something in me and I scramble away from his hold. 

“Clarke, wait.” He keeps me on him, firm body pressing into mine. “Clarke, dearheart, listen to me…” 

“Is that why you kept me? To make me your whore?”  I can feel the tears spilling down my cheeks but I cannot stop them. I want him to see-- to know how he’s hurt me. Ruined me. One kiss cannot undo what he has done. I will not let it. 

Bellamy coos, his thumb brushing away my tears. “I forget how green you are.” 

More anger burns in me as I smack his hand away. Finally, I ask the question I’ve been longing to ask since he stilled his blade at the Monastery.  “What is it you want from me?” 

The gentle caress turns into a gentle embrace upon my cheek and neck as he regards me. “I am a lonely man.” He says, emotion dripping from his eyes like raindrops. “I could not kill something I so wanted to understand.” 

I can’t wrap my head around it. I want to hate him with all I am, and yet… he is gentle and rough around the edge of life. His hands are demanding, yet his eyes are soft. 

He is everything I do not myself understand about the world. 

“Am I simply your slave girl?” I ask with a damnable wobble in my voice. “Will I be thrown out as soon as I am no longer of use?” Like my Mother did. Like Finn did. 

Bellamy cups my jaw, his thumb tracing my lower lip. “I will keep you for as long as I live, and even after I will drag you to Valhalla with me.” 

I can feel my blood heat at his intensity-- gaze set upon me as if I am the sun itself. As if he wants to both devour and worship me. Own and be owned by me. As if all other souls in the world have faded away. 

I close my eyes as he ravages my mouth once more. There is no world when Bellamy kisses me, there is no God besides him, no soil or sustenance. 

Perhaps I am content in being damned if it can feel like this. 

His tongue traces the line of my lips and I open them tentatively. Without further invitation he dives in, his tongue hot and persistent on mine, coaxing me out of my stupor. 

A groan rages up my throat that I cannot suppress, making me shiver. 

He pulls away. “Are you cold?” 

“You keep asking that.” I tease, feeling an honest smile work up my cheeks. 

“You’re not of Northern blood, dearheart.” The twinkle in his deep eyes stirs my belly and I curse myself for the strength I do not have. Perhaps my heart has not been cast aside or perhaps my body decides without it, I can still be granted this blessed feeling. “Let us dry and rest by the fire. That will warm up your English skin.” 

I hum, leaning my forehead onto the wet skin of his shoulder. 

My mind wars within me. A part of me screams that I am letting the same hands that could have killed my dear Abbess stroke me to calm. Another whispers that after so many years of pain, of disappointment, I may be able to find solace in this brute of a man. And I, Lady Clarke Griffin, daughter to Jakob the Hardhearted, descendant of ancient warriors and the blood of Charlemagne-- cannot decide which to heed.  

After dunking under, Bellamy leads us from the frigid lake, supporting my nude body with ease. There are none to witness us but trees and I thank God for that at least. 

“I’m going to set you down.” He murmurs in my ear and I nod weakly against him. My feet hit the grass and he reaches for a bolt of cloth, wrapping it soundly around my body. His hands linger, tracing the curves of my ribs and for some odd reason I find it soothing rather than invasive. 

Lost, I ask the Heavens the most damnable question. Why is the first time I truly feel God by the lips of a Heathen? 

“Where have you gone?” He teases, his lips curving up in the corner-- something I am realizing is a signature of his. 

“I’m thinking.” 

“Dangerous.” He rolls his eyes, leading me back to the small hut he calls a home. I can see more of it now, it is far more than a shack. It has a pitched roof crossing at the peak with two dragon heads, the tall grass seems to grow from the very walls. Warm fire emanates through the small windows. It sings of home. 

Maya is tending the fire as we walk in. 

“I placed a dress on the bed.” She says to me before turning to Bellamy. “The fires are tended and the goats healthy. But I sense a storm coming in.” 

He leans down near my ear. “Maya’s mother had the sense.” 

“Don’t listen to him.” Maya swats at him with her apron. “But I think I should take Agra up to Octavia’s farm for the birthing. Lincoln is a master at goading out healthy kits.” 

Bellamy hums, grabbing a handful of nuts from a bowl and plopping them in his mouth. “Go, then. Return when the storm passes, I’ll be able to keep the house standing till then.” 

“Debatable.” Maya chides with a grin as she shuffles by us. 

“Come.” He orders me, leading me back to his meager chamber-- though I should not judge much, I did live in a cramped Nun’s cell. 

The fire feels like heaven on my cold skin and I kneel before it, clutching the damp cloth to my drying body. Bellamy wanders around, gathering things and tinkering. I hear him bid Maya farewell, only then does it settle in my mind that I am now truly alone with this man. 

He said he would not force himself upon me. 

But men lie. 

Another voice reminds me that it would hardly be forced, for the way he made me ache in the lake. Like a balm to years of loneliness. 

Hands grip the cloth knotting in my fingers, tugging it lightly from my body before replacing it with a thick fur. Once again I am accosted by the sweet scent I cannot place, I lift the fur to my nose and inhale, brows furrowing as I attempt to decipher it. 

“Does the scent of my oils displease you, princess?” Bellamy’s voice shocks the quiet room and I turn, cheeks reddening from being caught. 

“Oils?” I ask, intrigued. 

He laughs, face softening as he shakes his head. “All men in England must stink.” 

I grimace. He’s not far off. 

“I use an oil my sister makes for me in my beard and hair. It smells good, no?” 

“Bathing in public is frowned upon by the Church, they say it will lead to immorality.” I fiddle with the edge of the fur as he sits beside me before the fire, comb in hand. “So men often are not so clean.” 

Bellamy chuckles, a look of slight disgust on his face. “Then how does a woman ever choose from such filthy men?” 

Clarke takes her turn to roll her eyes. “Women often aren’t given such a choice.” 

“Turn towards me.” He motions with the comb and I eye him, unsure. “I am not going to kill you with a comb, princess.” 

Hesitantly, I comply, turning my back to him and clutching the furs closer to my naked body, constantly reminded of my immoral state by the flutter of fibers against my goosefleshed skin. I feel the teeth of the comb press gently into my scalp as he starts to drag it through my damp hair, meeting a knot, his fingers hold the hair as he works it through. 

We sit silently as he entangles my hair, no sound passing besides the crackle of the fire and the gentle hum of his work. When the strands flow through the comb with ease he applies the same oil, fingers running along my jumbled head with slight pressure. At some point I close my eyes, relishing in the gentle touch. 

My hair is near dry when he finally releases me-- a petulant part of me forgotten since girlhood almost whines at the loss. But his arms come around me, pulling me soundly into his chest. I tense for a moment but his hands, calloused yet soft trail under the fur’s edge and sooth by running along my outer thigh. 

“The moment you swung that poker at me, I wanted you here--” his hot palm presses against my inner thigh “-- between my legs, in my home.” I shiver at his deep voice, which he catches with a steady glee. “How lonely it must have been in your cramped house of God. No one to touch you, to show you the true joys of life…” 

“We found joy in other ways.” I argue-- for I cannot help it. Certainly it was nothing like this--

“None like this.” He reads my mind, breath hot on my ear before he takes the lobe between his teeth with a growl. I jolt with a gasp, but his palms on my thigh and belly ground me to him. “Tell me, princess, did you ever think of hands on your virtuous skin? Did you ever dream of ruining yourself for a night of pleasure?” 

I turn my head to try and catch his eye. The bob of my throat gives me away even as I shake my head, stubborn pride preventing me from succumbing to his sorching words. “I did not lower myself to such things.” 

Bellamy’s eyes grow dark, yet his lips curve even more with amusement. “I think you’re a liar.” 

“I am honest.” My breath catches as his hand presses up between my ribs, resting right below my chest. “I am-- I never--” 

“You were perfect all your life, weren’t you?” He leans his head back, examining my turned face as he circles his thumb on my sternum. His lips purse to keep from grinning, a grin I suspect is akin to a wolf’s before the kill. 

I lean up from him as well, though his arms around me don’t allow me to move too far. “Do you mock me?” 

Bellamy lets loose a gentle laugh before he presses a kiss to my shoulder. “Always, princess. Always.” 

His lips on me reignites the flame within.

Before I can think twice, I twist my body round until the furs fall from my shoulders as I settle myself facing him on his lap, my thighs press into his, spread over his manhood. 

The shock on his face gives me pause as I realize what I’ve done. My pride won’t let me relent even if I can feel the fraying of my nerves. As if sensing my inner battle, Bellamy settles his hands on the soft curve of my hips, holding me steady as I peer at him in the firelight. It flickers off his tanned skin in patterns that remind me of the sea. 

“Damn me.” I growl, snaking my fingers through his thick curls with an intensity I did not know existed. 

Bellamy needs no more encouragement, his hands turn to vices, digging roughly into the flesh of my bottom hard enough to bruise. Our lips collide, mouths open and wanton as we drink down the other’s groans. The heat of the fire is nothing compared to the heat of our bodies as I grind against him, some long unknown instinct taking over as I feel him hot against my core. 

“You want me to damn you, little lamb?” Bellamy’s teeth dig into the curve of my neck as his hand fists in my hair. Blindly, I nod, unsure yet amazed at the feeling coursing through my veins. “You people think that is all life is, to be damned or be holy, to be good or to be bad--” he punctuates his words with a grind of his length against me “--but a life worth living is the chaos of both.” 

His words are like a fine wine dripping through me, I moan as he sucks hard on the skin his teeth just dug into. When he tilts his head back I see his eyes blown almost black, the soft brown giving way to heady pupils and I wonder idly if mine reflect the same. 

“Do you want both, dearheart?” He whispers, the hand on my thigh tracing the skin lightly as he brings it to the sensitive expanse near the apex of my being. “Do you want this heathen to show you true chaos?” 

My fists release his hair and he stills, curious confusion lacing his wanton gaze. I thumb at his cheeks as I cup his face, feeling the stubble against the pads of my fingers. Bellamy blinks, surprise and delight breaking open the darkness in his eyes. 

“If chaos is to swallow me, let it be like this.” I finally say, leaning towards him to kiss him ever so lightly before I bite down on his lower lip. Bellamy groans, gripping me tighter to his hard chest, his cock between us bumps something near my mound that makes me whine. He repeats the action with a chuckle in his throat, grinding me down by his tight grip on my hair. 

“As you wish.” He rumbles, his fingers finally delving between our bodies, finding my slit wet and pulsing. My eyes fly open at the strange sensation until he thumbs at a hard nub-- the same burning pleasure exemplified with a single press. 

My whole body shivers violently and his hand releases my hair to rest at the nape of my neck, holding me steady. 

“My little lamb, so sensitive. Do you like how I make you feel?” Bellamy’s soothing voice rips through me as he circles that spot again, I hold onto his shoulders feeling as if I’m falling from Heaven itself. “Let go, Clarke. Just let go and let me make you feel this way.” 

His command should insite insolence, stubbornness-- but all I can do is nod as he quickens his movements between my legs. I near something, a precipice, a calling, my breasts heaving on my chest, noise escapes my lips I did not know I could make and just as I impale his shoulders with my nails--

Bellamy stops. 

My eyes fly open, a growl on my lips at his smug face. But he’s quick to kiss it from me, swiping his tongue into my mouth until I melt into him once again. As I lose myself in the sensation of his lips he lifts me from under my thighs, standing effortlessly until he can drop me atop his bed. 

A huff of air escapes me as I stare up at him, tall and bronzed, chest battle worn, hair wild about his handsome face. 

Cock at attention. 

He follows my gaze with a dark smile on his lips. “Am I the first man you’ve seen?” 

I scowl at him, not willing to give him more power over me. But it’s no matter, he nods at my sour face like it tells him all he must know. 

“I’m the last man you will ever see.” He leans down, caging my hips with his knees as his hands settle next to my splayed hair. “You are mine and mine alone…” He licks a stripe up my neck and kisses along my jaw, I roll my head to the side as my breath quickens under his ministrations. 

“Be gentle with me--” I suddenly whisper, unable to stop the words. He still his movements, using his hand to cup my face and pull me back to him. 

“Clarke, I will take care of you. Trust in that.” The devotion in his look sinks into me and I feel my lip wobble. It’s unfair that he can elicit such a response from me, the mess of heat and emotion that I am. 

“I am your slave, will I not serve you?” I challenge him because I can’t wallow into the depths of his gaze, I cannot forget what I am. As much as I wish I could. 

Bellamy pets my cheek, nuzzling his nose along mine with a tenderness none have ever shown me. “You are mine and mine alone, but I do not see you as a thrall. What can I say? I’m weak for women who wish to kill me.” He laughs at himself and it forces a smile from my own lips. “I want to keep you here with me, to have you in my bed, to learn what lurks behind the walls of your mind. It is much to ask, but I want it all the same. Will you live a new life with me, Clarke? Will you let me show you that you are nothing to be locked away in your God’s walls?” He kisses my nose, lips trailing down my face. “Nothing to be kept from the world.” I raise my hips up for friction and his other hand moves to grip them. “Wait until I say, princess.” 

“More.” I whine, but I still my hips, my own hands coming to rest on his back, tracing the muscle with my nails. 

“Will you open yourself to me? To this new life?” He asks again, his voice strained with finality. 

I bury my nose in the crook of his neck, clinging to him. 

What other choice do I have? 

What other choice do I even want to have? 

“Yes.” I answer, letting go of my past like a summer wind. 

Bellamy skims down my body, mouth finding my breasts as he hitches my legs around his hips. I cry out as he laves at my pert nipple, his teeth raking over it with a gentle instance before he sucks-- hard -- and I keen, back arching off the bed to chase the painfully pleasurable sensation. My heels dig into the meat of his bottom, urging him closer for an innate reason I don’t understand but don't care to. 

“More, please, more--” I gasp and he groans, lifting his chin to look at me. 

“Be good for me.” He warns as he mouths down my belly to the tuft of hair on my mound, I whine at the loss of his heat but he tuts his tongue, moving my thighs to his shoulders. I lean up on my elbows, confused at what he means to do. 

“What--” 

“Lay back.” 

“What are you doing?” I try to close my thighs, blush painting my face, neck, and chest as he stares at my core. Is he not just supposed to rut into me? 

“Lay back.” He repeats, nosing the soft flesh of my inner thigh. I conceded, my shoulders tense with confusion. “Good girl.” He croons and I feel myself relax, my Mother always did say I was a glutton for praise. 

I thought I’d felt God before by his lips. 

I was wrong. 

Bellamy licks up my slit and groans, it rattles through me-- shooting pleasure up my spine as my hands fist in the furs around me. His tongue is like honeyed magic, exploring my folds with decisive intensity before he reaches that same nub. 

“Oh God!” 

“Such a beautiful cunt.” He murmurs, making me shake from his lips moving against my wetness. “All mine…” His lips latch onto the nub and he sucks , flicking his tongue over it in succession so fast I scream. White hot pleasure burns through my limbs as my eyes roll back in my head. He relents, giving me soft kitten licks as I near the precipice again. “There you go, princess. I’m going to shatter you then spear you on my cock.” 

I nod, wanting nothing more than for him to do it again. 

He gives me what I want with a ferocity unknown to mortal men. My legs shake as I climb the liquid pleasure roaring under my skin, my moans rattle off the walls, and one of his arms comes to hold down my stomach-- keeping me in place. The other meets his work between my legs, a thick finger entering me with a single thrust. It feels good-- new-- I stretch around him as he strokes me within. Then he adds a second and I pinch at the squeeze but my body relaxes as he starts to suck again. 

“Oh God-- oh God!!” I reach for his head, overwhelmed, my fingers grip his hair, unconsciously pulling him closer to my cunt. Bellamy groans, his hips moving of their own accord as he starts thrusting his fingers and curls them just so. 

He releases me with a pop, leaning back on his heels as he continues pumping them in and out of me with a wet sound to match my cries. 

“God--” I scream again, bucking up to meet his movements as his thumb presses down on my engorged nub. 

“I am your only God now, love.” The tambor of his deep voice sends me flying over the edge as something like lightning rocks through my body with glorious pleasure. I lose myself in the sensation, unable to breathe anything but his scent, see anything but his dark eyes, a weightlessness of serenity settling over my boneless body as he slides his fingers from me-- leaving me achingly empty.

Soft kisses bring me back to him as he travels up my heaving chest. 

Then I feel him. His hard cock presses against my sensitive cunt, still throbbing with want. 

He cups my head, hand encompassing me from nape to chin-- eyes locked on mine as he slowly notches his manhood in my opening and thrusts inside. 

I gasp at the forgien feeling, the pinch of hurt as he takes my maidenhead. As soon as it comes it fades into an overwhelming fullness. 

Bellamy’s mouth is open, his eyes hooded in pleasure. “Perfect…” He mumbles as he pulls out and thrusts within me again. I groan at the drag of him against my inner walls. 

It's as if we are made for each other. 

His thrusts quicken and I wrap my legs around his waist, meeting him with a confidence from deep within. Our grunts and moans fill the air, the sticky sweat on our chests rubbing against each other as I press closer for more pressure on my hard nipples. He fists his hand in my hair, yanking me slightly to the side so he can mouth at my neck, nipping in time with his thrusts within me. 

His other hand snakes between us and he paws at a breast, taking the nipple between his fingers and pinching until I scream out as a sharp bolt of pleasure rages directly to my cunt.

“Taking me so well. Meant to take me.” He babbles as he thrusts, his hand leaves my breast and rakes down my side. Fingers dig into the globe of my bottom as he lifts me up to him and drags his cock out, rocking it back into me to hit something within that makes my heart shake. “I stole you, I’ll keep you, make you my little wife--” 

My eyes fly open and I watch as he almost slides out, sitting back on his haunches. His hand comes to the back of my neck as he pulls me up and slides me back down on his cock, the new angle filling me more than I thought possible. 

“Teach you to wield a shield…” He captures my lips, speaking into me as I moan and hold onto him for dear life. “Fuck a baby into you…” 

I cry out as my core grinds against his pelvis and more white lighting shoots through me-- cascading over my body like a sinful prayer. 

“Good girl, come on my cock.” He urges, biting down on my lip as the hand on my neck tightens. He fucks me through the storming peak as I whimper, raw and sensitive, his own thrusts become messy as he nears his end. 

When he spills in me I lean my sticky forehead on his shoulder. It paints the inside of my body and I cannot help the contented sigh that leaves my lips. 

Bellamy stills, holding me to him, his hand moves from its grip on my neck to petting my hair, his lips pressing into my temple. When he rolls away it aches for a moment to be left empty even from his softened cock, but he lays me down and I let my exhausted body roll to the side, relishing the softness around me. 

Bellamy lays behind me, tucking me under his chin as I rub my thighs together to relieve the ache, our mixed spend trickling out of me. For some reason I like it. 

A hum rumbles through his chest and I turn over to look at him. 

His brows raise in question. 

“Little wife, hm?” I smirk, tracing a scar on his chest. 

“Do you object?” He ghosts his lips over my nose and I grin, holding in a giggle. 

My shoulders shrug and I meet his eyes. “Is it even allowed?” 

“I don’t care.” His hands rub circles on my back and he kisses my brow before tucking me under his chin. “You’re strong and true. What else could I want in a wife?” 

My throat closes as I digest his words. 

“You did steal me from my last husband. But he granted me nothing near that coupling.” I kiss his salty skin, for once letting my mind still as I focus on the slowing beat of his heart. 

Bellamy growls playfully as he turns on his back, bringing me with him so I lean on his chest, our legs knotted together. “I will be a far better husband.” 

“I have no doubt.” 

“For I will not only be your God, dearheart. I will treat you as a Goddess.” He traces the sweat on my arm. 

“A goddess…” I muse, resting my chin on him. “I could get used to that.” 

He grins and reaches to pull the fur over us as rain begins to surge outside. Though it is not even midday, I think we may stay in bed. 

I think I may forever prefer his bed to any chapel.