Forging A Heart (Ivar the Boneless)

1- Taken

"Your tears will get you nowhere, girl."

It was a large man that spoke. The yellow hair that hid half his face gave him an ominous look. Strange dark markings were inked upon his scared flesh, and a mischevious glint sparkled in his blue eyes. He crosses his arms, leaning against the wooden rails of the ship without a care in the world. He decides to watch her, but he always seemed to be watching her.

She didn't know what the giant had said, his native words sounding thick and harsh against her ears. She quickly wipes her face, choosing to turn away from him, but it was the same sight as always. Monks weeping as they struggled to whisper their prayers, holding on to their crosses in a grip that would surely make them bleed, and a few feet away on the other ships were other foreign captives that wept just a fiercely.

They drifted farther away from the island, yet it seemed close enough that if she closed an eye and stretch out an arm, she could touch it. But that was days ago. Their home seemed nonexistent now, like a speck of dust in a vast plane of emptiness. Days went by and all she saw was the blue waves of the Aegean, its current carrying the dragon headed ships away from her home and away from everything she knew.

Sometimes, when she was much younger, she had silly little dreams of adventure, but they were never like this, to be stolen away and placed as cargo aboard a ship.

Her skinned itched, feeling the eyes of strange men on her like flies to a carcass. She was grateful for the cloak she wore, the hood giving her the ridiculous notion of feeling safe. She wasn't safe.

Her mind drifts back to the attack as she stares hopelessly at the tides that push and pull against them.

The speed in which they destroyed the monestary seemed inhuman. They burned sacred texts, scavaging for religious items made of gold and silver. How lucky they were to have found exactly what they were looking for.

After a moment she finally sums up the courage to glance towards the back of the boat. All stolen items were kept there, and the crate was the newest addition to their hoard, full to the brim with precious metals.

A bitter chuckle bubbles within her.

That crate had almost saved her life.

Almost.

The monks removed the items for close inspection before the heathens came, the crate being tossed to the side carelessly. It was a last minute idea really, but it was her only option when she heard them yell of Northmen arriving.

She hid in the crate and prayed, but her prayers weren't answered.

The tales of the Northmen were well know throughout the eastern empire. Merchants whispered of their voyages and pillaging. Such stories were whispered about at the ports whenever her mother would take her to buy fresh fish and octopus.

For so long they were only told as tales. No one believed such men would invade that far into the Mediterranean.

But just as the rest of Greece, Crete was a Christian island, and had been for centuries. That only meant they possibly had as many riches in their holy temples as the ones of England and Frankia.

One of the men was constantly barking out orders, his grating voice reminding her of the squawking of hungry seagulls, and it did not take her long to realize he was their leader.

He was a man with a particular look. His long braided yellow hair whipped against the harsh winds as he commanded his men to steady the sails.

He was also a man with a particular name.

Bjorn.

She learned his name rather quickly, hearing it from the mouths of the men when they looked to him for direction. It was Bjorn who found her, yanking her out of the old box with ease, the tip of his blade pressed against her throat, ready to be sliced. It would have been such an easy kill for him.

She was angry he didn't take the initiative.

He laughed at the sight of her, as did the other men, probably surprised to find a girl among the Christian monks. She knew exactly what their looks meant. She was no stranger to them. They thought her a whore among men and wanted to take that prize back to their homeland.

When one a them attempted to touch her, she growled and spat at his feet, sneering that she was no whore. He didn't understand her, of course, but that didn't stop him from choking her for the disrespect, leaving her a coughing mess as he bounded her wrists with rope.

There was another man worth noting. He sat at a decent distance from her. His kohl lined eyes were filled with a wild look that seemed to permeate over his entire appearance. He did nothing to hide his disgust with her.

"Christian," He sneers.

She understood that perfectly well.

Too overwhelmed with feelings of fear and anger, she gives the man the best glare she could muster. Such a glare made her feel a weakness she'd never felt before.

Utterly and hopelessly weak.

But the rage boiled under her skin like a fever.

The kohl eyed man suddenly lurches forward while baring his teeth, laughing when she shrinks back in fear.

"Leave her be, Floki, she cannot hurt you," Bjorn had laughed with the other men, causing the wild man to grin viciously. She growls to herself, frustrated at the language barriers. They would not understand her either.

She takes in a large breath through her nostrils in an attempt to calm herself, releasing it along with her frustrations. Taking a quick glance at the inked man from earlier, she realizes what he was staring at.

From her ears hung the most modest of gold droplets, peeking through the mass of her dark hair. She gulps, quickly tucking her hair back under her hood in the best way she could with bounded wrists.

She then spares one last glance at the ominous man, not missing the smirk that settled on his lips before he turns away from her to finally leave her be. She takes in a deep breath as she flutters her eyes closed.

Then she prays.

She prayed for something, for anything, maybe even a miracle, but she found herself falling into an unrestful slumber instead, hoping she would wake up from the nightmare.