The Last Marigold

The Road Less Traveled

Wolfgard helped his men load the boats, they would finally depart Frankia for Northumbria. He missed his home, his bed, his lands but mostly he missed his people. He was wary of travel. Between the death of his father, Sigvat, and Prince Orm's grasping deviousness, he was spent. He grew tired of spending all his time keeping the disdainful Orm from sending his men to their deaths in foolish campaigns. He loathed the man's stupidity but he would acquit himself nobly. His father pledged familial service in perpetuity to King Thorod and that, unfortunately, included Orm. No matter the quarrel, he could do the prince no harm. He was no oathbreaker but he relished the idea of an opportunity to remove himself from Prince Orm's service indefinitely.

The only saving grace he'd found during this journey was the Marigold. It had been difficult to keep her from the eyes of other men, although he did his best to shut her away in his tent. He had given her specific instruction but she continued to defy him seeking loopholes in his commands. She was insolent and willful but he found himself ceding to her whims despite his frustration with her. Every time she stepped out of his tent, men made off-handed comments about her beauty. Such words would rile him. Alrik, who found pleasure in most things, was immensely entertained by his irritation. He had the gall to name it jealousy. He could no more be jealous of a man coveting her than he would if a man covets his tent. He owned her and that was all there was too it.

His thoughts returned to their journey. The road they traveled was harsh. Food was scarce and at all times they remained at the mercy of the elements. The Gods were fickle and made their umbrage known in torrents of rain, wind, and sleet that followed them to the edge of Frankia's shores. He'd half expected his Marigold wither in such conditions but she surprised him. She was made of harder stuff. She'd learned their ways and had a basic understanding of their language. She slipped into his life with an unseemly ease, as if she were born to the wandering life of a Dane.

Wolfgard bristled at the idea but he allowed her to spend time with the other thralls in his absence. She spent her days helping them, once her own tasks were done. She taught them to integrate some of her ways of preserving food and methods to make the tarps watertight. She worked hard with little complaint and though the hands that soothed him at night grew rougher, her touch remained just as consoling.

"Where is your mind, my friend?" Alrik asked tossing bedrolls onto the ship. He'd seen the vacant look on Wolfgard's face, he was completely lost in his thoughts. Su'a walked passed them with Somerhild in tow, drawing Wolfgard's gaze. He followed the sway of her hips as she walked, the curve of her smile and her melodious laughter. Reactively the corner of his lips ticked upwards, an amusement settled over his features as her contagious laughter floated around them.

Alrik shook his head and continued his labor, "The Marigold's charms seemed to have worked on you. You can not keep your eyes from her."

"She's unique, she will draw eyes wherever she goes," Wolfgard answered.

"Most men would do much more than look. I still cannot believe that you do not ride her. Perhaps, it has been so long that you have forgotten how. I would love to have her-" Wolfgard's large hand shot out and clasped around the column of Alrik's throat.

"You are my friend, but touch her and I will gut you," He released Alrik instead placing his hand on his shoulder, "I promised her my protection. That no one would take her without her willingness. I want her to feel safe here," His blue eyes anchored on Su'a again as a man approached her and Somerhild shooed him away just as quickly. What ire had risen settled just as quickly. He glared murderously at the man's retreating form then turned his head and realized that Alrik had seen the entire thing.

The cacophony of laughter that followed only served to annoy him further, "Face it brother, you're fucked."

Despite his attempts at concentration, Wolfgard's mind remained fixed on the dark-skinned beauty that shared his bed. He'd awoken to a most pleasing sight that morning. He found her half-naked body strewn across him. She must have been flushed with heat during the night and removed some of her garments in fitful sleep. Her partially exposed breast pressed against him. Their skin sticking in the heat radiating from the fire. Her bare leg dangled across his hips. All he need do is turn and he could be inside her. His hand rested on her calf. He let it slide slowly up to her thigh. The temptation to move beyond was astounding but he did not have her consent. He had sworn no one would dare violate her and that included him. The swollen phallus between his legs made rest impossible. He left the bed to prepare for their departure.

They were finally in the North Sea. The anger of the Gods was not satisfied. Thor beat his hammer against the anvil bringing dark clouds, violent winds, and rough seas. The waves grew so large that the vessel was dwarfed, riding up and down the mighty swelling sea like a child's toy. Inside the ship, there was no staying still unless the person was anchored in place, for the "floor" was whatever surface gravity flung them upon. There was no mercy in that November wind, no grace in the waves, only wrath, and tempest. The air was thick with a briny mist, the deck awash with salty waves. The morning would see them bobbing on placid water or else several leagues down with the fishes. Wolfgard's Marigold shriveled like a drowned flower. Sea-faring was certainly not her forte. Her skin was a sickly pale grey, her eyes sunken and she begged for land or death. She crouched in a corner of the ship near him, emptying the contents of her stomach into a night bucket.

The waves washed a few men overboard. Alrik encouraged the men to keep rowing or they too would join their friends at the bottom of the sea. Wolfgard pressed his body closer to the Marigold, placing himself between her and the ravages of the ocean. His men whispered amongst themselves when they saw her curled tightly to him, clenching his tunic for dear life. Wolfgard tried to appear ignorant to her clutching at him but if it made her feel safe, he would allow it. He knew that to his men the action would make him seem weak, though they would not be foolhardy enough to challenge him. When the storm finally ebbed, a thick fog blanketed everything before them. They were close to shore but a single misstep and they could run aground.

"Fire the arrow," He commanded. The man watched him then his eyes dropped to the woman shivering at his side. Wolfgard cleared his throat.

"Fire the arrow or I will," The man understood that in this statement there was a clear threat. He was in ever and present danger. The Viking immediately dipped the tip of his arrow in the fire of a lamp, setting it ablaze. He drew back and shot. The arrow sailed through the air and landed in the damp sand on the beach.

"Land!" The man cried.

Wolfgard turned to the Marigold, his large hand wiping the wet curls from her face, "We have arrived, Marigold. You are home."