Arwyn sat at a vanity table in a room more beautiful than anything she had ever seen, her reflection staring back at her from a mirror so clear it was almost unsettling. The manor Niketas had brought her to was unlike anything in her past—not even Bebbanburg, with its sturdy stone and polished wood, could compare to this place. The walls were adorned with intricate mosaics, tiny tiles forming scenes of warriors and gods, their colors vivid under the soft glow of oil lamps. The ceiling arched high, painted with deep blues and golds, stars and swirling patterns that seemed to shimmer. The floor was a polished marble, cool under her bare feet, veined with white and green. Heavy silk curtains framed tall windows, their rich red fabric catching the light in soft folds. The furniture was carved from dark wood, inlaid with ivory and pearls, every surface gleaming with care. The air smelled faintly of incense, a sweet, unfamiliar scent that lingered in her senses.
She leaned closer to the mirror, her fingers brushing the smooth glass. The reflection was sharp, almost too real, showing every detail of her face in a way no murky pond or polished bronze ever had. She had grown in these past three years, her body no longer that of the girl who had left Northumbria. Her face had lost its softness, her cheekbones sharper, her jaw more defined. The fine clothing Niketas' servants had given her clung to her, a deep green silk dress with long sleeves and a fitted bodice that pushed her breasts up, the neckline low enough to hint at her curves. Her blonde hair, once left loose or in simple braids, was now swept up, twisted into intricate patterns and pinned with gold clasps. The servants had dusted her face with powder, lined her eyes with kohl, and painted her lips a soft red, transforming her into someone she barely recognized. She tilted her head, watching the way the makeup caught the light, making her eyes seem larger, her lips fuller. She didn't know she could look like this. It felt good, in a way, to see herself so polished, so unlike the warrior who had trudged through deserts and mountains m.
Her thoughts drifted to Thorfinn, and she wondered what he would think if he saw her now. Would he stare, his usual scowl softening? Would he say something, or would he just look at her with that unreadable expression he always wore? Her stomach twisted, and she scowled at her reflection, shaking her head to banish the thought. He was a fool. A damned fool. If he couldn't see that Niketas was trying to help them find Geralt, then he could wander the filthy streets of this city alone, chasing shadows. Let him waste his time. She felt a sharp, perverse joy at the idea of finding Geralt first, of shoving it in Thorfinn's face, proving she didn't need him. The thought made her lips curl, but the satisfaction was fleeting, replaced by a restless irritation she couldn't name.
She sighed, her gaze dropping to the vanity table. The surface was cluttered with items—glass vials of perfume, a silver comb with delicate engravings, a small pot of rouge, a pearl-handled brush, a necklace of amber beads. She picked up the comb, turning it over in her hands, feeling the weight of it. Each item was exquisite, worth more than her father could have earned in a year of toil on their farm. Yet here they were, casually laid out for a guest, as if they were nothing. "This really is a strange place," she muttered to herself, her voice soft in the quiet room.
Her fingers moved to the perfume vial, lifting it to her nose, inhaling the sharp, floral scent. She set it down and picked up the necklace, letting the amber beads slip through her fingers, their smooth surfaces catching the light. She played with them for a moment, her thoughts drifting, until that same irritation surged again, hot and sudden. She shoved the items away, the comb clattering against the table. "Why does he have to be such an arrogant ass?" she shouted, her voice echoing in the room. She stood, pacing, her hands clenched into fists. Thorfinn's face flashed in her mind—his cold stare, his sharp words, the way he had struck her in the square. She cursed under her breath, her steps quickening. She hated how he got under her skin, how he could make her so angry with a single look, a single word. She didn't want to think about him, didn't want to care, but the frustration burned hotter, twisting into something she refused to examine.
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Fighting, Honour and Valhalla || Vikings x The Originals x TVD
FanfictionThorfinn was an orphan that dreamed. He had ambitions and thoughts of greatness. He didn't know his father but he remembered his mother and she would often tell him how his father was the most handsome and kind man that she had ever seen, she used t...
