Blood Moon| The Last Kingdom| Sihtric Kjartansson

EIGHT

A/N: We've skipped to episode 8 of season 3 now.

☾

"This is nonsense," Henrick groaned, leading his horse to the front of our small group, trying to make sense of the trees and the creeks.

"This is the land the Christians fight so hard to protect?" Saga wrinkled her face, surveying the tree tops, "A shit could not grow here."

"They do not grow things here," Olav snorted, "they have their villages for that."

"Yes, but they don't give us the forests either, do they?" She snapped back before sniffing harshly, her face tinged blue from the cold.

My own body felt stiff, and my hands had gone slightly purple from the cold as I kept them wrapped around Helios's bridle. "Do not argue. You will be wasting your strength." I rode at the back, too weak to take control still.

We had been riding for a little under two weeks, without a map, in unfamiliar lands and with very little to our names.

"I fear, Lady," Olav glanced back at  me, his smile weary, "that if we do not argue, we will freeze to death."

I tried to smile at him, my eyes drooping slightly, "Yes... I suppose so."

"Perhaps we should set up camp for the night?" Saga called out to Henrick, "We are hungry, and we need a fire."

I silently agreed and added that I needed to get off my horse before I fell off him. Sleep was coming to me so swiftly that I could not fight it; Freyja wished to speak with me. These days, she often spoke to me; she liked the wild, I think.

She had shown me visions of a battle in Beamfleot, with Alfred's support returning somewhat to Uhtred. She had shown me visions of Brida's pain and her quest with Uhtred, of Storri's death. I had seen the seer with Haestan and Uhtred's brave, or foolish, attempt to steal her back.

My last vision had shown me nothing but a fishing dock, the netting knotted and hung up. I did not know what it meant, but I decided the Gods wished for us to find this fishing dock.

It was safe to say my group had not enjoyed riding all over Mercia, East Anglia, and now, Wessex without rest.

And, I grew weaker by the day without a sacrifice to give to the Gods; we could not build a pit anywhere, the ground was too wet, animals did not come.

"If you are hungry," Henrick quipped, his face thunderous, "swallow your spit."

"And if we are cold?" Olav scoffed, moving his horse so it rode closer to Saga's.

"Then, die." Henrick was always angry since we left my father's camp. He did not trust in our quest, and he was losing faith in me.

"Henrick," Saga's voice was curt, "if you are having trouble with the stick up your arse, I will gladly volunteer to cut it out."

Henrick did not respond to her. He only kicked his horse to speed up and cross a small hill.

"You would think he is the only one suffering," Saga shook her head, falling back a little to ride beside me, forcing Arya to move forward. 

"He grieves his home," I mumbled, my eyes looking to the place Henrick had been before he disappeared down the other side of the hill.

"We all grieve," Saga scoffed, "but we are not cunts about it. He acts like a babe at his mother's tit."

My head spun as Helios trotted upwards and I released the bridle with one hand to press it to my head.

"Lady?" Concern flared through Saga's voice, "You are unwell?"