Realistic or Modern AlbaGuBrath/Universal Silence - 9th c., Irish x Norse

[AlbaGuBrath]

Aengus groaned slightly as he slowly began to regain consciousness, though for a few scowling moments, he struggled to stay asleep instead of having to deal with the piercing light that stabbed through his eyes at his throbbing head. His entire body ached as though he’d been beaten, especially his right leg, and he had a splitting headache. There seemed to be something caked onto his temple; it cracked and tugged at his hair. With another groan, he started to lift his hand to investigate and found that he couldn’t move his arms! Alarmed, he struggled for a few moments and discovered that his hands were tied behind his back with a length of tough cord, as were his ankles. He fell back panting from the sudden exertion and squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to figure out what had happened.

The last thing he remembered was standing with the cattle. It was a fine night, warm and clear, with just a hint of the crisp chill soon to come. The day had been a nice one, quiet and trouble-free, except for that one incident with the man from the south. But Aengus had handled that one well, hadn’t he? He was more than willing to allow him to take the beasts that had been promised him, but he couldn’t admit him entrance without having heard the details of the transaction. He could have been nothing but a lowly thief for all he knew, wanting to take advantage of the guard’s youth and apparent weakness. After all, what man could fight well with a twisted leg? But Aengus hadn’t been afraid; he knew he could take the man if it came down to a brawl.

The young man frowned and furrowed his brow as he thought back to that night. It had been completely uneventful, nothing stirring except for the wind in the trees. But now he remembered a sharp crack to the side of his head, out of nowhere, and a black mist swirling around his vision. The strange substance on his temple must have been dried blood, then; he could smell its sharp scent now that he was regaining his senses. It must have been the southern man; he’d snuck up on him, the coward! Aengus cursed furiously under his breath, quickly followed by an embarrassed prayer of contrition. Cattlemen were not known for their refined language, as everyone knew well, but he knew his elder brother would not approve of his following suit. The other monks would think ill of him if he couldn’t even control his own brother, and Aengus knew that Brendan had eyes for leadership. Aengus pulled a wry smile as he thought of him. If he’d followed the religious life like his brother had wanted, he probably wouldn’t be in this situation right now.

But what was his situation anyway? He was bound; he knew that much, so obviously he’d lost the fight. Was he a prisoner? Was he to be sold as a slave? A flutter of panic gripped at his heart at the thought. He’d heard the stories. To be taken away from his beloved home, to never see his friends and family again, to live only to serve the cruel foreigner… Perhaps he would have been better off if the blow had killed him. But no, despair was a sin too. Hadn’t he heard other stories, where hardships ended up being for the better in the end? Hadn’t Patrick himself been a slave once, and through that hardship Ireland was brought to the light out of its pagan past? But this didn’t feel like a blessing in disguise and Aengus had to admit that he felt afraid.

With an effort of will, he pushed himself up and leaned against a wall. The inside of the structure was unfamiliar, but it was obviously habitable. That meant there could be other people nearby, and whether friend or foe, maybe he could learn more about what had happened from them. He thought he could see the shadows of people moving around outside, so he decided to try calling out. The first few attempts were unsuccessful; he couldn’t manage anything more than a weak “Hello?” and even that send fresh stabs of pain shooting through his head. Leaning back against the wall and breathing heavily, he began to gather strength for another attempt. Inflating his lungs, he let out a bellow that would challenge even the cattle at slaughter-time.
“Hello! Who are you? Show yourself!”
He didn’t know what he was going to do, but he did know that he wouldn’t become a slave without a fight. At the very least, he deserved to know who his captors were, unless they were too cowardly to face him like a man. He was about to try another shout when a movement outside arrested his attention and somebody entered the structure. But it wasn’t the burly warrior or cruel-eyed slaver he’d expected.
It was a woman.

universal silence

 

[universal silence]

It was about midmorning when Gunna learned about the Irishman. She was in the middle of darning a pair of socks when her father pushed his way into the house, cursing under his breath about something or other. Unfazed, Gunna finished the sock she was working on before looking at her father. "Okay, what's wrong?" she asked, setting the socks and yarn to the side.
"It's that moron Ulfr," Sigurd muttered, adding a few more colorful descriptions before continuing. "He's gone and captured a fucking Irishman." He sat down and leaned against the table.
Gunna raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Captured a- what do you mean?"
"You know Agmund has been trying to arrange a deal with the Irish for more cattle? And they've been giving him a hard time with it and everything. Well, it sounds like that idiot son of his got tired of the back and forth and tried to just get the beasts himself. He tried to pressure the herder into just giving him the cattle, and when that obviously didn't work, he just knocked the man out and brought him back. Along with almost half the herd."
Gunna frowned. Ulfr had never been known for his patience or rational thinking, but this was on a completely different level. "What is Ragnall planning to do?"
Sigurd sighed - though it sounded more like a growl in his anger - and rubbed his forehead. "He doesn't know yet. We've finally managed to start talking with the Irish, so we can't afford a battle now, but if we turn Ulfr over they'll probably kill him. And Brynja would be furious if her nephew was killed."
"What about the Irishman?"
"What abo- oh, him." Sigurd shook his head. "Right, that was what I came here about. Ragnall has him tied up in one of those sheds - Bjorn's standing guard right now. He's got a nasty cut on his forehead, so you're supposed to stop in there and see if he needs help. Hasn't woken up yet, and we don't need him dying on us."
Gunna blinked. "Me?" she asked in a squeak.
Sigurd pushed himself to his feet. "Yes, you. I said you could handle it, so you're going to do it." He began to leave the house but turned back to look at her. "You might bring him some food - he's not had anything today, and it might help calm him. Just- be careful." With that, he stepped out of the house.

Gunna sat in a stunned silence for a moment before jumping into action. Her mind raced, trying to process the situation. Another fight with the Irish seemed imminent, and now she had to tend to one of their captured men. Not worrying at all, she thought bitterly. Gunna did have to admit, however, she was curious to see the Irishman. She gathered a variety of herbs, uncertain of what she would need, and a handful of clean bandages. She grabbed one of the loaves of bread she'd baked earlier and filled a flask with water. She moved the items into a basket and glanced once more around the room, collecting her thoughts. After a moment, she darted into her bedroom and grabbed the small skean her father had given her and tucked the knife into her belt. She set off, trying to push down the panic rising in her chest.

It didn’t take long to make her way through the village and locate Bjorn. Sure enough, he stood in front of one of the small structures for holding captives or slaves. The blonde warrior boredly dragged his sword through the dirt in front of him, but perked up once he saw Gunna approach. “Ah, Gunna! Have you brought that for me?” he asked jokingly, eyeing her basket.
Gunna laughed and shook her head, trying to appear calm. “No, I’ve come to tend to the Irishman.”
Bjorn’s smile lessened somewhat, and a faint worry flickered across his face. “I don’t think he’s-”
A shout from inside the shed drew their attention.
“Right, I stand corrected.” He glanced back at her. “Do you want me to go in with you?”
Gunna shook her head, forcing a smile. “He’s tied up and injured, isn’t he? I’ll be fine.”
“Still. He is an Irishman- and he’s probably upset.”
“I’ll be fine, Bjorn, thank you.”
Bjorn shrugged and stepped to the side. “Right, well, whatever you say. Just shout if you need me.” He pulled the door open, and Gunna stepped inside.

Gunna blinked, trying to get her eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room. As she focused, her gaze fell on the man leaning against the opposite wall. He seemed dirty and roughed up, though she wasn’t sure any of that was his fault. A dark patch of dried blood covered his temple and caked his mussed hair. He looked disheveled, and for a moment Gunna forgot she was supposed to be afraid of him.
“Good morning,” she said softly in Norse, and then paused. Would he know Norse? She wasn’t sure, so she began again, this time in Irish. “Sorry. Good morning. I’ve brought some bandages for your wound, and, er, bread. If you’re hungry.” She took a step forward and waited for a response.

 

[AlbaGuBrath]

(Sorry to be so late!)

Aengus tilted his head at the woman, trying to work out what to make of this new development. He’d been prepared to defy his captors to his last breath, but that seemed inappropriate now that his opponent was no warrior. It would have been cowardly and petulant, qualities he despised. With a controlled movement that belied his still disoriented condition, he drew himself up with what dignity he could muster and looked at her with frank and unafraid eyes.

She wasn’t alone - he knew that from the conversation he’d heard outside, though he hadn’t understood any of it - so why did they send her instead of one of the warriors? Was it an insult, suggesting that he wasn’t strong enough to put up any sort of a fight? His pride bristled at the thought, though he had to admit that he wasn’t in the best condition to face any of the Norse warriors, even if he privately considered that the meanest of the Irish were of better stock than these sons of pirates. Was it meant to lull him into a sense of complacency to keep him from suspecting their plots behind his back? That was unlikely to succeed; he had heard too much of stolen slaves to take that risk. Was she some sort of seductress? That was even less likely. But what was it, then? What unfathomable purpose had these schemers in his capture and their choice of representative?

His eyes narrowed with suspicion and annoyance at the stranger, but he didn’t give voice to his thoughts. That would have been impolite, and he was determined to hold himself with honor even if the cowards didn’t deserve it. A flicker of fear crossed his eyes as Gunna spoke Norse, reminding him poignantly of just how alone he was in this place, but a note of affection replaced it as he heard his own familiar tongue. He was uncertain how to handle himself in this situation. Some said that it was right for a prisoner to be cold and aloof towards his captors, to show no sign of weakness or familiarity with them, but that seemed to be boorish in this case. If they had threatened him, then he would have had the right to defy them. But if all they did was offer him bread…

He coughed a little bit to break the silence, then spoke with a nod of the head.
“Good morning. You… may come.”
The words were chilly, but not impolite as he braced himself for the approach of the foreigner.