𝑨𝒓𝒅𝒊𝒕𝒉 | ✔️

9 | After the Ashes

Summer, 6th June 864 A.D – Morning

The Danes' attack the night before left the entire village almost in splinters.

As I wandered around the village, I saw most homes were broken through, leaving a mess of debris and timber scattered about. People's homes had become ruins that would take so long to rebuild.

Usually after horrific raids like this, villagers whose homes suffered the most damage were allowed to stay in hall temporarily. At least until the homes were rebuilt.
The town's bishop invited victims into his monastery to be clothed, fed and given comfort. If the victims had relatives, they'd stay with them for a while. However, some lived across the seas, and the king would send boats to ship the victims to safety. They were welcomed back when the village recovered again.

I passed by mothers mourning over their dead loved ones. They clutched their bloodied, tattered clothes, refusing to face the grim fate in front of them. A frail, elderly woman with clothes too large for her frame lay sobbing on the ground. I cannot help but feel empathy for her, and a thought occurred to me that she may have lost their only family she had.

Seeing my home crumbled was tore my heart. Yet, I was not surprised by people's reactions. Growing up, I've seen the worse of things, leaving me a dark stain in my mind. Things the feint-hearted would not be strong enough to see without flinching.

I used to be sensitive to seeing ghoulish sights of severed heads ripped from cold bodies and dark crimson pooling on green pastures. However, now, after years of seeing such horrid images, I have grown used to it. I no longer feared blood, but accept we lived in a forbidding reality where survival is necessary.

As a nation, our hope fell on our mighty defences and our faith. Yet, with all these frequent bloody attacks, I cannot help but fear they are an omen from heaven – we were being punished for our sins. That is why the Danes appeared out of the blue years ago. And they will not rest until our people suffer.

Rebuilding our ruined homes in one night proved to be impossible. Realistically, it might take days, weeks or months until everything will be restored. Though, I cannot imagine what it must be like for those who have lost their loved ones. Such tragedies left deep scars that would take so long to heal.

When I came to Einilda's workshop, I found the hut in ruins. Pieces of timber scattered over the mossy ground in jagged piles. Tattered woollen fabric combined the clutter of timber.
Einilda's looms – a device we used to weave clothing and tapestries – were destroyed to splinters among the pile.
Dried blood stains splattered over the clutter.

A figure hunched over the remains. Soft sobs shuddered from their mouth, their shoulders trembling. Then I caught their familiar face shielded behind a curtain of silver and brown.

"Einilda!" I crouched beside her, scrutinizing her features. Concern flickered in my blue gaze. "What happened?"

Einilda flinched. She released a loud, pained sob and buried her teary face in her palms.

"My shop! My precious, precious shop! All of it!" She wailed, motioning to the mess. "All my hard work...ruined! Ruined and looted by those filthy, hairy bastards!"

I glanced solemnly at the heap. "I'm very sorry. If there's anything I can do-''

"Oh, god! It's so bloody awful!" Einilda sobbed harder. Suddenly a few curious, sombre gazes turned our direction.
"You don't know how much blood, sweat and tears I've put into establishing my store. Now everything is gone. Thanks to those bloody Danes! What am I supposed to do now? How can I support myself? Without any help?!"