The Last Marigold

A Tenement

Su'a followed obediently behind the tall redheaded Viking, as he led her from the Main Pavillion. He seemed to be acting under orders from the large man with yellow hair. The man, as she recalled wore a tangled mane of blonde locks the color of ripened wheat, that cascaded down his back. He stood majestically, at least a foot over most of the crowd. An imposing force unto himself. 

She remembered being pushed by the ruffian and falling into someone. She felt large hands rest upon her shoulders and steady her on her feet. Curious, she turned to look upon her rescuer. A harsh breath filled her lungs. His shirtless torso was merely a hand's width from her eyes. She had never been so close to a man's nakedness before. She was not sure what she should feel, shocked, angry, horrorstruck, or mesmerized. It was like nothing she'd ever seen. A fierce blush colored her cheeks. 

He wore the chiseled chest of a man of action. It was covered with tight skin that glowed healthily, though it was apparent he had seen his fair share of battles. His body was decorated with scars. His abdomen defined perfection, demonstrating row after row of hard sculpted flesh.  His thickly muscled arms were large yet lean. Completing this masterpiece of a bodice, were his wide shoulders, round, and protruding. Anyone looking at him instantly got the impression that he exposed himself not only for female adoration but to cow other men. He had the menacing aura of the warrior God. 

She was briefly tempted to extend her hand and touch him. Not in wantonness, but to satiate her curiosity. Was his body really as hard as it looked? 

She felt his intense gaze upon her. When she looked up at him, she thought, 'Look at me, notice me, know me, SAVE me,' Desperately hoping it showed in her eyes. That he would somehow decipher her feelings, though they did not share a language.

Her instincts about him were right, he had been her rescuer. He had taken her from that disagreeable man with short red hair. The jack-ass struck her and mocked her for sheer entertainment. She lessened her focus on such thoughts.

The day had been trying and she had long passed her point of lassitude. So, she obediently followed the barbarian's servant. He brought her to a tent where he released her bound hands but left her feet in irons. He gave her a mug of ale and a platter of food. And before he excused himself, he pointed to some supplies in the corner that she could use to relieve herself and those available for cleansing.

She sat alone and ate in silence for sometime after he'd gone. She understood what it meant to be captured by the Northmen. It meant a life of cruelty, hard labor, and rape. Despite those seemingly insurmountable odds, she made a decision that she would survive; no matter what.

She thought longingly of her village. Her people were known as the Berbers but they called themselves Imazighen. In her language the word meant freedom. She lived on the Northwestern coast of Africa, near Morocco. Her people were nomads and moved often to graze their herds. But also to escape the threat of capture by the Northmen and pirates that plagued the seas. 

They lived in settlements made of hundreds of tents. The tents were made of wool and goat hair. They were simple farmers, not soldiers. Her father raised sheep, cattle, and goats. She stayed home to cook, tend the weaving and pottery. She missed her father. He was a village elder. When the Vikings descended on them, he had gone to find the soldiers from Nekor to defend them. He never returned. She accepted the likelihood that he had fallen to a barbarian sword. 

Though she grieved her losses, the uncertainty of her future plagued her with worry. Thus, she hardly touched her plate. A gust of air caused the tent flaps to shutter when a woman entered. She was fair-complexed like the Danes but did not wear their dress. She wore the plain linen of the thrall which meant she too was a slave.