Protecting The Petrovas

【ｏｎｅ】

Ann ek svá konu manns at mér þykir kaldr eldr.

En ek emi vinr vifs þessa.

'𝙸 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚗'𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎.

𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗'𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛.'

B644, before 1198

997AD

SPRING

THEY SAY IT'S EASY FOR YOUR SENSES TO BECOME OVERWHELMED. For your nostrils to fill with every scent around you and cause you to become dizzy with overload. That day, on the boat back to the shore, that wasn't the case.

Aleksandria Mikaelson should have been enjoying the saltwater mist that splashed across her face as she adjusted the ship's sails. She should have been basking in the ray of sunlight above her after her clan's victory; indulging in celebratory ale with the rest of the men and women amongst the ship on their venture home.

Instead, she sat within the storage compartment under the deck, the only things that surrounded her being the unnerving darkness and the stench of death. Her leg bobbed up and down in a fit of anxiety, her bottom lip wedged between her teeth. In front of her laid the body of Ragnarr Petrova, her clan leader and the husband of Tatia Petrova.

He should have been celebrating with the rest of them. Should have been bolstering and full of life as he spent his nights with one woman after the next on their journey back to their homeland. Instead, he was stiff and cold as ice, placed on a makeshift cot between barrels of ale, imported goods, and the rest of the compatriots lost during their last venture.

Ragnarr fell in their final battle; celebrated too soon and hadn't been entirely aware of the environment the group was in. Though he thought he had struck down the last of the empire's men, he was wrong. One small miscalculation was all that it took for a young boy, no older than fourteen, to shove a sword into his back and directly through his ribs.

Aleksandria watched as the man's face shifted from celebration to shock.

As he coughed up blood, his pierced lung filling with viscous maroon.

As the blade was pulled from within him and the boy wobbled backward, the sword almost too heavy for him to properly wield.

As Ragnarr dropped to his knees, his gasps bubbling up, unable to speak.

As Aleksandria found herself shoving her own sword into the young boy before her.

As the boy, only two years older than her youngest sister, looked up at her in fear.

As the harsh words directed towards the boy escaped from her throat, a gravel-filled whisper.

"кръвта се дължи кръв." Krŭvta se dŭlzhi na krŭv. "Blood is owed blood."

She watched the young boy fall to the ground as she pulled her sword from within him.

Turned and watched Ragnarr take his final breath.

Saw herself leaning down and removing a single braid from the top of the man's head before looping it around her belt and sheathing her sword.

In the belly of the ship, she repeated something to herself as she turned Ragnarr's braid in her hands. "Кръвта на детето е по ръцете ви." Krŭvta na deteto e po rŭtsete vi. "The child's blood is on your hands."

With each turn of the braid, she said it to herself again. And again. And again.

She thought of her sister, Toriana, in that moment. Of her sword impaling that twelve-year-old girl, so full of life and so eager to follow in her older sister's footsteps. They were six years apart in age and yet the closest of the Mikaelson siblings. Toriana looked up to Aleksandria, held her in high regards and wished to be everything she was and would eventually become.

She pictured Toriana in that boy's place. Of the family he left behind to fight the same wars Aleksandria was fighting.

What would Toriana think of her if she ever knew what her sister had done? What would Tatia think of her dear friend mercilessly ending that small boy's life? And if her youngest brother, Henrik, now no more than four, were to ever learn of what she had done only one week ago? Would he see her as the monster she was? Or would he justify it the same way she so willingly tried to justify it to herself? Blood is owed blood.

At eighteen years old, Aleksandria had killed more men than the number of seasons she had lived through thus far. Eighteen cycles around the sun; seventy-two seasons in those eighteen years. The boy marked the one-hundredth man that fell by her hand. And yet, somehow, it was the one that affected her the most.

The boy had a full life to live. A family to grow with. She took that from him without thinking twice about it, let alone thinking about it at all. It was eating her alive and would continue to eat her alive for as long as she would allow it.

She should have been focused on how she was going to break the news of Ragnarr's death to Tatia before she could see his slain corpse carried from the ship. How she would attempt to console the distraught, broken girl. How she was going to support her dear friend, carrying this man's child, and protect her from the others who were bound to step in now that her husband was gone. How she could continue to swallow down the love she held for Tatia. To be there for her, as a friend and nothing more, when she needed Aleksandria the most.

But she couldn't. The image of the boy on the end of her sword haunted her. Her thoughts circled. Was it the right thing for her to do? Were her actions truly as justified as she had thought they were? Was she being ridiculous, knowing that this was war and people were going to die no matter how old they were? The child's blood is on your hands.