Two girls. One story.
Eawynn has lived in Bebbanburg her whole life. A bastard child and half-sister to the infamous Dane slayer Uhtred Ragnarson, she has had to prove herself countless times throughout her life. Despite these challenges, the young...
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Words: 2029 Trigger Warning: Brief mentions of violence & slavery
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I do not remember much of what life was like before the Danes took Northumbria. I was no more than 2, when Northumbria fell. I have lived my live in the aftermath, too young remember what came before. I have heard stories from the villages of the glory of life before the Danes, when one could was free to sail, trade, and otherwise do as they pleased. The Danes controlled everything now, from the smallest piece of grain to the rivers, cities, and seas. Every act required permission from the Danes. Farmers could only plant crops and raise livestocks that the Danes allowed. All trade, on land and sea, required written permission and trade routes were heavily guarded. Any and all rebellions were quickly squashed, and those who participated were made an example of. It was rare for one not to come across a village without the heads of men who had rebelled displayed on wooden spikes for all to see. They were efficient and cruel, most dared not to cross them. Those foolish enough rarely lived to tell the tale, and were left scarred for life in more ways than one, never again daring to double-cross the Danes.
I personally never had to deal with Danes, as Bebbanburg had been left under the rule of my uncle without interference from the Danes, but I would have gladly traded my peace and security within Bebbanburg for the uncertainty of live under Danish rule. My Uncle was as cruel, if not crueler than, the Danish overlords of the neighboring villages. Neighboring Danish Lords both respected and feared him, which should tell you enough about his character. Danes fear only those who rival them in ferocity and strength.
Much of what I do know comes from the teachings of Father Beocca, a priest who had served under my father. Father Beocca was a young man with fiery red hair and a sore-ridden hand. He was no older than 30 when I was a young girl, but you would not have thought it looking at him. By the time I was old enough to understand his stories, Father Beocca held the appearance of a man twice his age, a fact which could be blamed on stress from the dwindling number of free kingdoms. By the time I was 14, there was only one kingdom that remained free of Danish rule or influence, Wessex. The Last Kingdom, he called it. And the hope of all of England relied on it remaining so.
