05-05-2016, 01:21 PM
(This post was last modified: 05-06-2016, 10:25 AM by Lagertha.
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I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF
For once, Lagertha does not wake with the sun; heavy, navy blue curtains are drawn across the windows, leaving her room in a dim grayness that keeps her sound asleep until gentle hands shake her shoulder. She knows how to grab sleep when she can, and to fall into it quickly. The same could be said for coming out of sleep, and all it takes a slight touch to startle her into waking. Her hand automatically goes to the knife under her pillow, brandishing with a growl it to whatever imaginary enemy is before her.
The servant girl screams, and trips over herself in her haste to back away, which causes the rest of the serving people - and there are an awful lot of them, she thinks - to turn suddenly. One drops a silver pitcher of water, another bolts for the door, and before she can drop the knife and apologize, the woman is gone. Probably to get Fiona. Or tell the rest of the castle that there’s an armed barbarian in one of the guest rooms. Lagertha realizes her mistake quickly and stuffs her knife (really, it’s not that big!) back under the pillow and throws her hands up into the air, showing that she means no harm. “I’m sorry! Please, it’s just a reflex! Please, I’m not going to hurt you.” But the four that are left - the mousy girl who woke her (who ran into the man who dropped the water) the blonde woman by the curtains, and the man with the tray of food, just stare at her until she climbs out of bed (practically naked, all she’s wearing is an old man’s shirt that barely covers her lady bits) and goes to pick up the silver pitcher that now lays in the middle of a dark, sopping wet puddle on the carpet.
“Here.” As she moves towards it, the mousy girl skitters to one side, frightened as a filly. She hands it back to the man, who mutters “Thank you, miss... “ He looks her up and down with wide, hungry eyes and then turns his body a quarter of a ways away from her. “Ah, sorry about that. We aren’t - “ Lagertha also looks away, and motions for him to stop. “It’s my fault. I’m a merc - uh, soldier…” she lets that one hang in the air a bit before plowing forward. “You can leave the curtains open at night. I’ll just wake up when it gets light, ok?” The blonde woman who opened the curtains scurries towards her with an extra blanket (where did that come from?) and places it around her shoulders. She is matronly, and pleasantly plump, with round, rosy checks and a cheery voice. “Here you go, miss. Nothing to worry about, ‘eh? We’ll explain to Ami” she jerks her thumb towards the door, indicating the girl that ran away, “that you didn’t mean no harm.” The woman then gestures towards the table that is now being set by the man with the tray, and places her hand on Lagertha’s shoulder, gently nudging her in that direction. “You go eat, miss, you’ll need your energy for today! We’ll take care of everything else.”
“Thank you…?” she begins, but the blonde woman shrugs her words off and turns back to her work, waving Lagertha towards the massive pile of food again. “Oh, I’m just Maeve, miss. Like I said, dontchu worry ‘bout a thing. We’re all very excited to have you here.” How could that be? Lagertha wonders as she sits down in the chair to the feast before her. It could easily feed a family of five all day. Were they - these servants - part of The Resistance too? No, she couldn’t assume that every underling was part of the movement against the Crown. Then again, how could they not be, when they work in the middle of this opulence and excess - what do they go home to? How well does the Palace pay? Were their masters kind or arrogant? Abusive, drunk on power? And here she is, thrust suddenly from the have not’s to the have’s. Even after 48 hours of knowing, she sometime still cannot wrap her mind around it. There is a single thought that perseveres through the thick of it: perhaps she could be the change Illea needed. Their muted conversation occasionally drifts towards her, and she can hear the excitement in their voices when they talk about the competition. It seems genuine.
Lagertha wonders about their lives, picking at some glaze covered pastries, meat, and an exotic looking fruit that tasted rather tart. She’d eaten well the night before, there was no point in stuffing herself. And the food is so very rich - she isn’t used to it. An idea comes to her, and she turns back to the servants, but they’ve disappeared, quiet as mice. She didn’t even notice that their background chatter had floated away. Damn. Lagertha isn’t sure of how the Palace works, but she hopes the leftover food won’t go to waste… an offer to share, or to at least put some in their pockets was on the tip of her tongue when she’d turned around, but alas, they were gone.
She glances around the room, at the now made bed and the steam wafts up from the large, wooden tub that peeks out from behind the embroidered, foldable silk wall. It seems so quaint (despite being thrice the size of any tub she’s ever seen) compared to the marble floors, the impossibly soft carpets that cover it (have her toes ever felt anything so welcoming?), and the gold crowning that seems to touch every surface. Even the hanging pictures appear to have some flecks of gold leaf in their scenes. To have twenty of these rooms? It must have cost a fortune, twice over. But the tub - the tub is more Lagertha’s style, and she happily drops the blanket and whisks her shirt off, stepping heavily into the hot water. Ahhhhh, the often suppressed feminine side of her comes out, as she relishes the soothing heat and takes the time to give herself a thorough scrubbing. Again. She might as well enjoy it while she can, because if she doesn’t, it’s right back to sweat-covered skin and breakfast in the rank barracks. Men really have no idea how bad they smell sometimes.
Pleasant smelling soap? Check. Skin rubbed within an inch of rawness? Check. Nails cleaned? Check. Hair? Well.. her hair is another story. It is clean from last night, but free flowing. No need to wash it again. Soldier Lagertha and Applicant Lagertha were one and the same, but she would rather die than be presented to the Heir alongside the carbon copies of the other women.
Speaking of the Heir… Lagertha lays back against the curved edge, draping her golden locks over the edge. They were all scrambling to win his love, but what did Lagertha actually know of him? Very little. She could have told anyone what Count Odo’s vile son was like, but the Prince of Illea was a mystery to the common people, and if it weren’t for heralds and crowns and parades, she doubts that most of them would even be able to pick him out of a line. Personally, Lagertha remembers a picture of the Royal Family when she first came to Illea. It sat above the immigration officer’s desk and while it had been a few years ago, she imagined that he had kind eyes - honey colored, and sand colored hair like her own. What if he was spoiled and demanding? Would she even want to win his affection if he was cruel and vicious? She refuses to judge him until she meets him, preferring to think about him another way. Her worn (but clean!) hands travel up her body, from her knees, to her scarred torso, to her tiny breasts, and then to her muscular, tanned arms.
Her touch sends goosebumps trailing along her skin, and she briefly wonders of the Heir would be a good lover - Lagertha is no virgin. Some are attracted to a woman to can kick ass; she’d had many partners in Kattegat, when she was a teenager. Not so many in Illea, but they have… different standards here. Her near nakedness had done a number on the serving man! Lagertha shivers as she imagines the youthful face in the sketch as an adult - and all other aspects of him grown too. It’s been too long since she’s had time for a lover. Another chill causes (and not the good kind) causes her to notice that the water has gone cold. Ah, well. So much for reveries and fantasies. She laughs out loud: oh for god’s sake, she’s living one right now! No need to let her mind wander too far. “Even if he finds me unsuitable,” she murmurs to herself as she stands up, “at least I will know what I am fighting for.” She’s seen the inequality first hand. These are the trenches.
There’s a terrycloth, royal blue plush robe (again, one of the softest things she’s ever felt against her skin) hanging on the folding wall’s edge, so she bundles herself into it and sets about getting ready for the day. Leaving wet footprints behind her, Lagertha heads to the armoire that holds her meager belongings and throws the wooden doors open. Ugh. What to wear, what to wear? It was easy as a soldier. One wears a uniform. But here? She’s about to reach for the nicer, clean shirt when there’s a knock on the door, and her head snaps over to it. A guy’s head - bald, small nose, and glasses - pokes in and says to her, “Miss Lagertha Lothbrok?” Lagertha nods sharply. “Yes?” But he doesn’t answer, he just pushes open the door and a whole slew of servants come rushing in.
They have all sorts of boxes and spools of fabric, hats and shoes, and all sorts of things she’s only ever seen laid out before Count Odo’s wife. The people that come in, however, aren’t the same faces as before - she can’t see the rosy-cheeked Maeve amongst the back-and-forth of people. They’re dressed similarly though, as if they were - Oh. Ohhhhh. Lagertha looks down at the robe she’s wearing, and then to the armoire and her comparatively shabby belongings. Even her ‘nice’ clothes, do not look as well made as these servant’s uniforms. True, her leather pants are clean and nicer than the usual working man’s pants, and some might even consider them sexy, if they don’t mind seeing women without skirts. But perhaps… perhaps that wasn’t acceptable here. The commotion in the room slowly comes to a halt as they finish setting up, and all eyes turn to her. The man who knocked steps forward and makes a short, curt bow. “Ah, Miss Lothbrok. I am Pierre, and we are ready for you, if you please.”
He gestures with a sweep of his arm towards the chair that is now front and center, and the four women that are standing very properly behind it. Posed, almost. “Ready for… what? If you don’t mind me asking?” she inquires with only slight trepidation. Pierre guffaws and reaches for her hand. “For your makeover, of course, my dear! You must look your best for the Prince, no?” He pulls her into the chair and the women move into position. One sits at her feet and starts to examine her nails, another does the same with her left hand, a third whisks over to the beautiful fabric that is laying on the bed and stares at the blond woman, thinking, while the fourth has a tape measurer and starts wrapping it around various body parts.
Pierre bends down to examine her hair and tsks to himself. Lagertha, however, does have a few boundaries, and her hair is one of them. Her eyes flash a sharp blue-gray and she whispers fiercely, “No. Don’t even think about it.” He is more than a little taken aback, and tries to reason with her. My dear, this… style.. Simply isn’t acceptable. It isn’t in fashion.” She rolls her eyes. “I don’t care. It is me. I would not be me without it, and besides, how else will they know who the barbarian is without it?” She chuckles darkly. “Cut the ragged ends off, and I will make it better. Fancier. But there will be braids.” Piere throws his hands up in the air, clearly aware of when he has lost a battle. “As you wish.”
Slowly but surely, Pierre and his team of women clean Lagertha up - shaping her eyebrows and taming her nails. It is both uncomfortable and oddly pleasing. She isn’t used to this sort of attention, and has never pretended to play up her ‘beauty.’ But at the same time, being pampered… well it isn’t so bad, now is it? They take accurate measurements, she picks out a beautiful dark cerulean blue fabric that matches her eyes, and they seem to create a fashionable dress right in front of her eyes. In a spur of the moment request, she asks for another shirt, more form-fitting than the typical man’s, but soft and loose enough for movement. As if the sides were taken in like a corset, but yielded to her movement, like a willow tree. And a high neckline, to satisfy the current fashion. The seamstress seems to get the idea, and Lagertha picks out a bright, bloody red that she knows will offset her hair and skin tone.
They paint her face a little - she will not let them do more than dust some color on her eyelids, rouge her cheeks, and line her eyes with kohl. And when they are done, she tackles her hair with them as an audience. Lagertha settles herself in front of a mirror and tackles her hair section by section, knowing full well exactly what she wants to do; a thick, poofier one at the top of her head runs from one side to the other, while smaller, tighter braids start above her ears. They spiral backwards and seem to come full circle, in an elegant coil atop her head, a sort of golden crown if you will. It is striking, revealing her long neck and strong shoulders. Four sets of hands pin the braids where needed, and in the end all five of them - Pierre, his team, and Lagertha - all look very pleased with themselves. Lagertha looks up at them from her chair, as if to ask - Well?
“Ladies, I believe our work is finished here,” Pierre says with a small smile, and motions for them to begin cleaning up. As they do, he bows once again to Lagertha and takes her now-manicured hand to his lips in a polite kiss. “We wish you all the best, my dear.” And then he takes his leave, leaving the room with a surprisingly empty feeling, with Lagertha looking at a very different version of herself in the mirror. Oh, what would her fellow guards think to see her now?
All of a sudden there is another knock at the door and she bids them to come in. A servant comes in, bearing a folded piece of paper on a silver tray. When Lagertha reads it, she mutters a soft “Oh… Oh god.” She looks to the servant for answers, but he has none and remains stone-faced. She has to decide right now? Lagertha wracks her brain and finally decides on the stables. Play to her strengths, and play to her differences. She doesn’t imagine that the other ladies are likely to want to hang out around horses and hay. She gives her decision to the servant, along with some foodstuffs: water, wine, fruit, and cheese. The servant departs to deliver her message, and as soon as he does, familiar faces return. Maeve, Ami, and the man that practically saw her naked (she finds out that his name is Gerald) come in to see if she needs any help.
Rather guilt-laden, Lagertha asks Gerald to shine her riding boots, and for Maeve to make sure she looks alright. Not that there is much to choose from, or even any jewelry to adorn her ears or neck. But the help and company are appreciated. Ami, she sends down to the kitchen to make sure the food is up to par. After much debate, Lagertha finally settles on her new red shirt, and her black leather pants. The fitting of it all gives the illusion of some curves, and when there is nothing left to fiddle with or adjust, she waits for a guard to bring her down to the stables. Maeve whispers encouragement to her as she leaves. “Good luck, miss! We’re rootin’ for ya!” It makes her heart happy, and puts more confidence in her step.
Ahhh… now this is familiar. Lagertha visibly relaxes when she reaches the stables. Ami is waiting there with a bottle of water, a bottle of wine, and a small bag of food. Lagertha smiles and thanks her, then calls out for Blackie. Her stallion sticks his head out of a stall and whinnies at her, as if to ask - ‘Dude, where have you been?’ That is where Francis finds her, stroking the black horse’s nose and whispering to him affectionately. He coughs, and Lagertha looks up. Well damn. He is easily recognizable, with a mop of slicked back, sandy hair and sun-kissed complexion. He wears nice, but not too-nice clothes. A vertically striped vest over his shirt. The stable had probably clued him in that he should change. Silence stretches between them as they look at each other. Yes, Lagertha thinks - he does have kind eyes. And that jawline isn’t too bad either. At the same time, she wishes she could know what he is thinking - silence can be good or bad and she’d rather find out sooner rather than later.
“Your Grace, I presume?” Lagertha breaks the quietness (save for the sounds of horses in the background) with a question and a soft smile. She dips down into a shallow, slightly awkward curtsy, and then curses herself for not just simply bowing. That seems to break the Heir from his thoughts, and he bows to her. Yet his face is still puzzled, as if she was the last thing he is expecting. “Forgive me. I wasn’t - You are Miss Lothbrok, yes?” His light brown eyes search the immediate area, stepping back as if some other young lady were going to jump out at him. Lagertha reaches up to scratch Blackie’s forehead, trying to be nonchalant about the whole thing. This was the reaction she was used to. “Yes, I am Lagertha… let me guess, I’m not quite what you’re expecting, am I?”
He blanches, running a hand through his hair. “Is it that obvious?” She shrugs, and lets him continue. “No, you’re not typical. I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman in pants. Ever.”They both laugh at this, and so Lagertha plunges forward. “Good. Then we will have much to talk about. Would Your Grace like to go for a ride? Or we can just hide here with the hay and horses. I have food and wine, too.” The Heir takes a moment to decide, and then looks for a stableboy, and when he finds one, tells him to ready his horse. While they’re waiting, Lagertha introduces him to Blackie, explaining that the stallion is not her own, but that they have grown fond of each other. She once again seems to amaze the Heir when she refuses a stableboy’s help, and leads her own horse outside. He, in turn, introduces her to his chestnut gelding, Charlemagne. Named after one of his most famous ancestors, who was a great King.
Once everything is secured to the Heir’s saddle (he insisted, and she let him… because even though she was pretending to not be overwhelmed and flying by the seat of her pants, you still don’t say no to a Prince), they mount and head off for a tour of the grounds, and Lagertha’s request. They ride side by side, keeping a respectable distance between them, even though she can feel his curious eyes on her every now and then. The initial part of their ride is filled with small talk; how is she finding the Palace, was everything to her satisfaction? He doesn’t seem to understand that this whole thing goes above and beyond any other experience she’s had. Eager to get the conversation away from her, she plays the foreigner card and asks about Illea and his family. He dutifully tells her about the Palace and the grounds and some of the history behind it all, as they move from the buildlings into the open gardens, and past a lake, until Lagertha asks him one more question. “And where is Your Grace’s favorite place?” He motions with one hand, “Please. Call me Francis.” She smiles - a wide, genuine smile, and seems to savor everything in that moment. “Come, I’ll show you,” he says, and turns Charlemagne down a path and towards a bunch of shrubbery.
They pass single file into a hedge maze, and Francis (ahead of her, leading the way) begins talking again. “I used to love to run into here when I was a child. I knew every turn, and would try my hardest to lose my Governess. She eventually learned the maze too, and I was out of luck. But it is still a fun place to hide, even as an adult.” Lagertha ha’s in the back of her throat. “I bet it’s hard to get some privacy as the Heir.” He groans, audibly betraying his feelings about that area of his life. “You have no idea. Would you believe I’ve had no say in any of this? I serve the good of Illea, and of course I’m not trying to be selfish, but for god’ sake, at least let me choose which applicants I want to meet.”
Oh. Oh. Well that explains a lot. And that’s when Lagertha’s true nature comes out, for she is unable to stop herself. “Would you have chosen me, do you think?” A look of guilt flashes across his face, and she knows the answer without even saying it. They enter into a large circle, filled with several tall trees and a bubbling fountain depicting some a soldier brandishing a sword. Ha! How fitting. Francis dismounts and comes over to offer her a hand, all without explanation. She doesn’t press him, giving him the opportunity to tell her himself. As he reaches up or the water and wine, he finds the courage to tell her the truth, and she finds it admirable enough. “Honestly? Probably not. I am glad you’re here, though. You are… different. Intriguing.” He turns around and finds her watching him, almost unreadable. But those eyes of hers... “I don’t know any woman who carries herself like you do, let alone any who ride like a man. I’d like to know more about you.” Lagertha heads towards a maple tree with just enough room underneath it for them to sit, does so, and then pats the ground beside her.
While Francis takes out the food (how many hours has it been since she ate breakfast? It seems like an eternity, and she hasn’t realize how hungry she is!), Lagertha leans back, tapping the toes of her boots together. “There isn’t much to tell. I am from a small town called Kattegat, in Sweden. I was orphaned at a young age and a retired Naval Master at Arms took me in. He taught me to fight and sail and when he died, I left and came to Illea. Kattegat is very different from here, of course. They don’t seem to know what to do with me here. I think they forget that I am a woman first and a soldier, second." Nothing like a little blunt reminder. He seems to listening attentively, so she goes on after taking a bite of an apple. “I was hired by a mercenary company in port, who was then hired as guards for Count Odo. And now I am here, with you, and my whole world seems to be upside down again.” She turns to look at him, and their eyes connect. “In a good way.” She grabs a piece of cheese and takes a healthy bite out of it, maintaining eye contact. Yeah, she's a woman with a healthy appetite. Her gaze is challenging - teasing, almost. “Ok. Now it’s your turn.”
Francis sighs and lays down, crossing his hands behind his head. Lagertha flips over to her belly, propping herself up on her elbows - not caring about her nice shirt and grass stains or dirt. “Well. My life is nowhere near as exciting as yours. I haven't fought, and never sailed the open seas. I've stayed here, my whole life. Isn't that depressing? I have everything I’ve ever wanted, never done a day’s work in my life except for when I sit with Father for meetings - which is happening more and more lately. I am the Heir to a Kingdom which I know very little about, and it is -” A bell drown out the rest of his statement, ringing out their summons to return to the Palace. Their date is all but over.
“Damn,” he mutters under his breath. “How did that go by so quickly?” She shakes her head and replies. “I have no idea, I suppose time flies, yes?” The exact idiom escapes her, but he gets the idea. They pack up, remount, and head out of the maze. She finds herself wishing that it wasn't over, and wondering if he was thinking the same. Ugh. What stupid, silly girl thoughts. Best to think about leaving an... exciting last impression. When they have both exited the maze, she can see a trio coming towards across the great lawn behind the Palace. A proper escort. Well that's no fun. Her face lights up with an idea, and she hopes Francis is receptive to it. Honestly, if he isn't, she might as well voluntarily leave. “Race you back to the stables?” If Francis does see the trio, he pretends not to, and leaps at the suggestion. “You’re on.” They grin wickedly at each other and firmly urge their horses into a canter - then gallop - and speed right past their escort.
Laughing, they crouch over their horses’s necks and maintain pace with each other, arriving at the stables at the same time. Servants scurry to take their horses’ reins and breathless, Francis dismounts so he can come over to and and offers her his hand, helping her off Blackie once more. They pause there for a moment while he looks at her, his eyes flicking to her shirt, her roman-esque nose, her eyes, and then her hair. “You’ve got something -” he says, and then reaches up to pull a leaf out of the back of her braids. She giggles, stupidly. Like a schoolgirl. And then immediately regrets it. “It was lovely to meet you, Lagertha. You are very easy to talk to. And a surprising woman,” he says, brushing the side of her face (by accident? On purpose? Who knows!) as he tosses the leaf away. “I hope you have a great rest of the day.”
“It was lovely to meet you too, Francis,” she says, with a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. As she turns to leave, Lagertha throws back to him, “Don’t worry, from what I can tell, the rest of the girls are far more traditional. Try to stay awake for those dates.” He laughs, and it sounds genuine, but she can’t tell as she isn’t looking at him, sauntering back into the stable, and towards the Palace.
The rest of the day is slow; Lagertha takes a nap when she returns to her rooms and changes into the dress she brought with her - it doesn’t seem quite right to put on the fancy one yet. She tries to engage some of the other Selected, but they either look down their noses at her disdainfully, or reply with cold, monosyllabic answers. Eventually, she stops trying. Celine, the only one she truly knows, ignores her outright. Right. Well, Lagertha knows when she isn't wanted, and she's determined not to let it phase her. So she wanders the halls until someone tells her she isn’t supposed to be there and points her back in the ‘right’ direction. Pretended ignorance is fun, and by the end of the day, she has a partial map of the public areas of the Palace. Just in case they were needed.
Dinner is delicious, but a mostly lonely affair, as the girls giggle about their respective dates - even as they speak, one is missing, off on the last date. Lagertha listens, mostly, and chimes in occasionally. But their conversation is not directed at her. As the porcelain plates and crystal glasses are whisked away, a liveried palace official comes into the room and announces in a very clear voice, “Ladies, I hope you have enjoyed your dinner. It is now time for the Prince to make the first of his decisions. This way, if you please.”
The servant girl screams, and trips over herself in her haste to back away, which causes the rest of the serving people - and there are an awful lot of them, she thinks - to turn suddenly. One drops a silver pitcher of water, another bolts for the door, and before she can drop the knife and apologize, the woman is gone. Probably to get Fiona. Or tell the rest of the castle that there’s an armed barbarian in one of the guest rooms. Lagertha realizes her mistake quickly and stuffs her knife (really, it’s not that big!) back under the pillow and throws her hands up into the air, showing that she means no harm. “I’m sorry! Please, it’s just a reflex! Please, I’m not going to hurt you.” But the four that are left - the mousy girl who woke her (who ran into the man who dropped the water) the blonde woman by the curtains, and the man with the tray of food, just stare at her until she climbs out of bed (practically naked, all she’s wearing is an old man’s shirt that barely covers her lady bits) and goes to pick up the silver pitcher that now lays in the middle of a dark, sopping wet puddle on the carpet.
“Here.” As she moves towards it, the mousy girl skitters to one side, frightened as a filly. She hands it back to the man, who mutters “Thank you, miss... “ He looks her up and down with wide, hungry eyes and then turns his body a quarter of a ways away from her. “Ah, sorry about that. We aren’t - “ Lagertha also looks away, and motions for him to stop. “It’s my fault. I’m a merc - uh, soldier…” she lets that one hang in the air a bit before plowing forward. “You can leave the curtains open at night. I’ll just wake up when it gets light, ok?” The blonde woman who opened the curtains scurries towards her with an extra blanket (where did that come from?) and places it around her shoulders. She is matronly, and pleasantly plump, with round, rosy checks and a cheery voice. “Here you go, miss. Nothing to worry about, ‘eh? We’ll explain to Ami” she jerks her thumb towards the door, indicating the girl that ran away, “that you didn’t mean no harm.” The woman then gestures towards the table that is now being set by the man with the tray, and places her hand on Lagertha’s shoulder, gently nudging her in that direction. “You go eat, miss, you’ll need your energy for today! We’ll take care of everything else.”
“Thank you…?” she begins, but the blonde woman shrugs her words off and turns back to her work, waving Lagertha towards the massive pile of food again. “Oh, I’m just Maeve, miss. Like I said, dontchu worry ‘bout a thing. We’re all very excited to have you here.” How could that be? Lagertha wonders as she sits down in the chair to the feast before her. It could easily feed a family of five all day. Were they - these servants - part of The Resistance too? No, she couldn’t assume that every underling was part of the movement against the Crown. Then again, how could they not be, when they work in the middle of this opulence and excess - what do they go home to? How well does the Palace pay? Were their masters kind or arrogant? Abusive, drunk on power? And here she is, thrust suddenly from the have not’s to the have’s. Even after 48 hours of knowing, she sometime still cannot wrap her mind around it. There is a single thought that perseveres through the thick of it: perhaps she could be the change Illea needed. Their muted conversation occasionally drifts towards her, and she can hear the excitement in their voices when they talk about the competition. It seems genuine.
Lagertha wonders about their lives, picking at some glaze covered pastries, meat, and an exotic looking fruit that tasted rather tart. She’d eaten well the night before, there was no point in stuffing herself. And the food is so very rich - she isn’t used to it. An idea comes to her, and she turns back to the servants, but they’ve disappeared, quiet as mice. She didn’t even notice that their background chatter had floated away. Damn. Lagertha isn’t sure of how the Palace works, but she hopes the leftover food won’t go to waste… an offer to share, or to at least put some in their pockets was on the tip of her tongue when she’d turned around, but alas, they were gone.
She glances around the room, at the now made bed and the steam wafts up from the large, wooden tub that peeks out from behind the embroidered, foldable silk wall. It seems so quaint (despite being thrice the size of any tub she’s ever seen) compared to the marble floors, the impossibly soft carpets that cover it (have her toes ever felt anything so welcoming?), and the gold crowning that seems to touch every surface. Even the hanging pictures appear to have some flecks of gold leaf in their scenes. To have twenty of these rooms? It must have cost a fortune, twice over. But the tub - the tub is more Lagertha’s style, and she happily drops the blanket and whisks her shirt off, stepping heavily into the hot water. Ahhhhh, the often suppressed feminine side of her comes out, as she relishes the soothing heat and takes the time to give herself a thorough scrubbing. Again. She might as well enjoy it while she can, because if she doesn’t, it’s right back to sweat-covered skin and breakfast in the rank barracks. Men really have no idea how bad they smell sometimes.
Pleasant smelling soap? Check. Skin rubbed within an inch of rawness? Check. Nails cleaned? Check. Hair? Well.. her hair is another story. It is clean from last night, but free flowing. No need to wash it again. Soldier Lagertha and Applicant Lagertha were one and the same, but she would rather die than be presented to the Heir alongside the carbon copies of the other women.
Speaking of the Heir… Lagertha lays back against the curved edge, draping her golden locks over the edge. They were all scrambling to win his love, but what did Lagertha actually know of him? Very little. She could have told anyone what Count Odo’s vile son was like, but the Prince of Illea was a mystery to the common people, and if it weren’t for heralds and crowns and parades, she doubts that most of them would even be able to pick him out of a line. Personally, Lagertha remembers a picture of the Royal Family when she first came to Illea. It sat above the immigration officer’s desk and while it had been a few years ago, she imagined that he had kind eyes - honey colored, and sand colored hair like her own. What if he was spoiled and demanding? Would she even want to win his affection if he was cruel and vicious? She refuses to judge him until she meets him, preferring to think about him another way. Her worn (but clean!) hands travel up her body, from her knees, to her scarred torso, to her tiny breasts, and then to her muscular, tanned arms.
Her touch sends goosebumps trailing along her skin, and she briefly wonders of the Heir would be a good lover - Lagertha is no virgin. Some are attracted to a woman to can kick ass; she’d had many partners in Kattegat, when she was a teenager. Not so many in Illea, but they have… different standards here. Her near nakedness had done a number on the serving man! Lagertha shivers as she imagines the youthful face in the sketch as an adult - and all other aspects of him grown too. It’s been too long since she’s had time for a lover. Another chill causes (and not the good kind) causes her to notice that the water has gone cold. Ah, well. So much for reveries and fantasies. She laughs out loud: oh for god’s sake, she’s living one right now! No need to let her mind wander too far. “Even if he finds me unsuitable,” she murmurs to herself as she stands up, “at least I will know what I am fighting for.” She’s seen the inequality first hand. These are the trenches.
There’s a terrycloth, royal blue plush robe (again, one of the softest things she’s ever felt against her skin) hanging on the folding wall’s edge, so she bundles herself into it and sets about getting ready for the day. Leaving wet footprints behind her, Lagertha heads to the armoire that holds her meager belongings and throws the wooden doors open. Ugh. What to wear, what to wear? It was easy as a soldier. One wears a uniform. But here? She’s about to reach for the nicer, clean shirt when there’s a knock on the door, and her head snaps over to it. A guy’s head - bald, small nose, and glasses - pokes in and says to her, “Miss Lagertha Lothbrok?” Lagertha nods sharply. “Yes?” But he doesn’t answer, he just pushes open the door and a whole slew of servants come rushing in.
They have all sorts of boxes and spools of fabric, hats and shoes, and all sorts of things she’s only ever seen laid out before Count Odo’s wife. The people that come in, however, aren’t the same faces as before - she can’t see the rosy-cheeked Maeve amongst the back-and-forth of people. They’re dressed similarly though, as if they were - Oh. Ohhhhh. Lagertha looks down at the robe she’s wearing, and then to the armoire and her comparatively shabby belongings. Even her ‘nice’ clothes, do not look as well made as these servant’s uniforms. True, her leather pants are clean and nicer than the usual working man’s pants, and some might even consider them sexy, if they don’t mind seeing women without skirts. But perhaps… perhaps that wasn’t acceptable here. The commotion in the room slowly comes to a halt as they finish setting up, and all eyes turn to her. The man who knocked steps forward and makes a short, curt bow. “Ah, Miss Lothbrok. I am Pierre, and we are ready for you, if you please.”
He gestures with a sweep of his arm towards the chair that is now front and center, and the four women that are standing very properly behind it. Posed, almost. “Ready for… what? If you don’t mind me asking?” she inquires with only slight trepidation. Pierre guffaws and reaches for her hand. “For your makeover, of course, my dear! You must look your best for the Prince, no?” He pulls her into the chair and the women move into position. One sits at her feet and starts to examine her nails, another does the same with her left hand, a third whisks over to the beautiful fabric that is laying on the bed and stares at the blond woman, thinking, while the fourth has a tape measurer and starts wrapping it around various body parts.
Pierre bends down to examine her hair and tsks to himself. Lagertha, however, does have a few boundaries, and her hair is one of them. Her eyes flash a sharp blue-gray and she whispers fiercely, “No. Don’t even think about it.” He is more than a little taken aback, and tries to reason with her. My dear, this… style.. Simply isn’t acceptable. It isn’t in fashion.” She rolls her eyes. “I don’t care. It is me. I would not be me without it, and besides, how else will they know who the barbarian is without it?” She chuckles darkly. “Cut the ragged ends off, and I will make it better. Fancier. But there will be braids.” Piere throws his hands up in the air, clearly aware of when he has lost a battle. “As you wish.”
Slowly but surely, Pierre and his team of women clean Lagertha up - shaping her eyebrows and taming her nails. It is both uncomfortable and oddly pleasing. She isn’t used to this sort of attention, and has never pretended to play up her ‘beauty.’ But at the same time, being pampered… well it isn’t so bad, now is it? They take accurate measurements, she picks out a beautiful dark cerulean blue fabric that matches her eyes, and they seem to create a fashionable dress right in front of her eyes. In a spur of the moment request, she asks for another shirt, more form-fitting than the typical man’s, but soft and loose enough for movement. As if the sides were taken in like a corset, but yielded to her movement, like a willow tree. And a high neckline, to satisfy the current fashion. The seamstress seems to get the idea, and Lagertha picks out a bright, bloody red that she knows will offset her hair and skin tone.
They paint her face a little - she will not let them do more than dust some color on her eyelids, rouge her cheeks, and line her eyes with kohl. And when they are done, she tackles her hair with them as an audience. Lagertha settles herself in front of a mirror and tackles her hair section by section, knowing full well exactly what she wants to do; a thick, poofier one at the top of her head runs from one side to the other, while smaller, tighter braids start above her ears. They spiral backwards and seem to come full circle, in an elegant coil atop her head, a sort of golden crown if you will. It is striking, revealing her long neck and strong shoulders. Four sets of hands pin the braids where needed, and in the end all five of them - Pierre, his team, and Lagertha - all look very pleased with themselves. Lagertha looks up at them from her chair, as if to ask - Well?
“Ladies, I believe our work is finished here,” Pierre says with a small smile, and motions for them to begin cleaning up. As they do, he bows once again to Lagertha and takes her now-manicured hand to his lips in a polite kiss. “We wish you all the best, my dear.” And then he takes his leave, leaving the room with a surprisingly empty feeling, with Lagertha looking at a very different version of herself in the mirror. Oh, what would her fellow guards think to see her now?
All of a sudden there is another knock at the door and she bids them to come in. A servant comes in, bearing a folded piece of paper on a silver tray. When Lagertha reads it, she mutters a soft “Oh… Oh god.” She looks to the servant for answers, but he has none and remains stone-faced. She has to decide right now? Lagertha wracks her brain and finally decides on the stables. Play to her strengths, and play to her differences. She doesn’t imagine that the other ladies are likely to want to hang out around horses and hay. She gives her decision to the servant, along with some foodstuffs: water, wine, fruit, and cheese. The servant departs to deliver her message, and as soon as he does, familiar faces return. Maeve, Ami, and the man that practically saw her naked (she finds out that his name is Gerald) come in to see if she needs any help.
Rather guilt-laden, Lagertha asks Gerald to shine her riding boots, and for Maeve to make sure she looks alright. Not that there is much to choose from, or even any jewelry to adorn her ears or neck. But the help and company are appreciated. Ami, she sends down to the kitchen to make sure the food is up to par. After much debate, Lagertha finally settles on her new red shirt, and her black leather pants. The fitting of it all gives the illusion of some curves, and when there is nothing left to fiddle with or adjust, she waits for a guard to bring her down to the stables. Maeve whispers encouragement to her as she leaves. “Good luck, miss! We’re rootin’ for ya!” It makes her heart happy, and puts more confidence in her step.
Ahhh… now this is familiar. Lagertha visibly relaxes when she reaches the stables. Ami is waiting there with a bottle of water, a bottle of wine, and a small bag of food. Lagertha smiles and thanks her, then calls out for Blackie. Her stallion sticks his head out of a stall and whinnies at her, as if to ask - ‘Dude, where have you been?’ That is where Francis finds her, stroking the black horse’s nose and whispering to him affectionately. He coughs, and Lagertha looks up. Well damn. He is easily recognizable, with a mop of slicked back, sandy hair and sun-kissed complexion. He wears nice, but not too-nice clothes. A vertically striped vest over his shirt. The stable had probably clued him in that he should change. Silence stretches between them as they look at each other. Yes, Lagertha thinks - he does have kind eyes. And that jawline isn’t too bad either. At the same time, she wishes she could know what he is thinking - silence can be good or bad and she’d rather find out sooner rather than later.
“Your Grace, I presume?” Lagertha breaks the quietness (save for the sounds of horses in the background) with a question and a soft smile. She dips down into a shallow, slightly awkward curtsy, and then curses herself for not just simply bowing. That seems to break the Heir from his thoughts, and he bows to her. Yet his face is still puzzled, as if she was the last thing he is expecting. “Forgive me. I wasn’t - You are Miss Lothbrok, yes?” His light brown eyes search the immediate area, stepping back as if some other young lady were going to jump out at him. Lagertha reaches up to scratch Blackie’s forehead, trying to be nonchalant about the whole thing. This was the reaction she was used to. “Yes, I am Lagertha… let me guess, I’m not quite what you’re expecting, am I?”
He blanches, running a hand through his hair. “Is it that obvious?” She shrugs, and lets him continue. “No, you’re not typical. I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman in pants. Ever.”They both laugh at this, and so Lagertha plunges forward. “Good. Then we will have much to talk about. Would Your Grace like to go for a ride? Or we can just hide here with the hay and horses. I have food and wine, too.” The Heir takes a moment to decide, and then looks for a stableboy, and when he finds one, tells him to ready his horse. While they’re waiting, Lagertha introduces him to Blackie, explaining that the stallion is not her own, but that they have grown fond of each other. She once again seems to amaze the Heir when she refuses a stableboy’s help, and leads her own horse outside. He, in turn, introduces her to his chestnut gelding, Charlemagne. Named after one of his most famous ancestors, who was a great King.
Once everything is secured to the Heir’s saddle (he insisted, and she let him… because even though she was pretending to not be overwhelmed and flying by the seat of her pants, you still don’t say no to a Prince), they mount and head off for a tour of the grounds, and Lagertha’s request. They ride side by side, keeping a respectable distance between them, even though she can feel his curious eyes on her every now and then. The initial part of their ride is filled with small talk; how is she finding the Palace, was everything to her satisfaction? He doesn’t seem to understand that this whole thing goes above and beyond any other experience she’s had. Eager to get the conversation away from her, she plays the foreigner card and asks about Illea and his family. He dutifully tells her about the Palace and the grounds and some of the history behind it all, as they move from the buildlings into the open gardens, and past a lake, until Lagertha asks him one more question. “And where is Your Grace’s favorite place?” He motions with one hand, “Please. Call me Francis.” She smiles - a wide, genuine smile, and seems to savor everything in that moment. “Come, I’ll show you,” he says, and turns Charlemagne down a path and towards a bunch of shrubbery.
They pass single file into a hedge maze, and Francis (ahead of her, leading the way) begins talking again. “I used to love to run into here when I was a child. I knew every turn, and would try my hardest to lose my Governess. She eventually learned the maze too, and I was out of luck. But it is still a fun place to hide, even as an adult.” Lagertha ha’s in the back of her throat. “I bet it’s hard to get some privacy as the Heir.” He groans, audibly betraying his feelings about that area of his life. “You have no idea. Would you believe I’ve had no say in any of this? I serve the good of Illea, and of course I’m not trying to be selfish, but for god’ sake, at least let me choose which applicants I want to meet.”
Oh. Oh. Well that explains a lot. And that’s when Lagertha’s true nature comes out, for she is unable to stop herself. “Would you have chosen me, do you think?” A look of guilt flashes across his face, and she knows the answer without even saying it. They enter into a large circle, filled with several tall trees and a bubbling fountain depicting some a soldier brandishing a sword. Ha! How fitting. Francis dismounts and comes over to offer her a hand, all without explanation. She doesn’t press him, giving him the opportunity to tell her himself. As he reaches up or the water and wine, he finds the courage to tell her the truth, and she finds it admirable enough. “Honestly? Probably not. I am glad you’re here, though. You are… different. Intriguing.” He turns around and finds her watching him, almost unreadable. But those eyes of hers... “I don’t know any woman who carries herself like you do, let alone any who ride like a man. I’d like to know more about you.” Lagertha heads towards a maple tree with just enough room underneath it for them to sit, does so, and then pats the ground beside her.
While Francis takes out the food (how many hours has it been since she ate breakfast? It seems like an eternity, and she hasn’t realize how hungry she is!), Lagertha leans back, tapping the toes of her boots together. “There isn’t much to tell. I am from a small town called Kattegat, in Sweden. I was orphaned at a young age and a retired Naval Master at Arms took me in. He taught me to fight and sail and when he died, I left and came to Illea. Kattegat is very different from here, of course. They don’t seem to know what to do with me here. I think they forget that I am a woman first and a soldier, second." Nothing like a little blunt reminder. He seems to listening attentively, so she goes on after taking a bite of an apple. “I was hired by a mercenary company in port, who was then hired as guards for Count Odo. And now I am here, with you, and my whole world seems to be upside down again.” She turns to look at him, and their eyes connect. “In a good way.” She grabs a piece of cheese and takes a healthy bite out of it, maintaining eye contact. Yeah, she's a woman with a healthy appetite. Her gaze is challenging - teasing, almost. “Ok. Now it’s your turn.”
Francis sighs and lays down, crossing his hands behind his head. Lagertha flips over to her belly, propping herself up on her elbows - not caring about her nice shirt and grass stains or dirt. “Well. My life is nowhere near as exciting as yours. I haven't fought, and never sailed the open seas. I've stayed here, my whole life. Isn't that depressing? I have everything I’ve ever wanted, never done a day’s work in my life except for when I sit with Father for meetings - which is happening more and more lately. I am the Heir to a Kingdom which I know very little about, and it is -” A bell drown out the rest of his statement, ringing out their summons to return to the Palace. Their date is all but over.
“Damn,” he mutters under his breath. “How did that go by so quickly?” She shakes her head and replies. “I have no idea, I suppose time flies, yes?” The exact idiom escapes her, but he gets the idea. They pack up, remount, and head out of the maze. She finds herself wishing that it wasn't over, and wondering if he was thinking the same. Ugh. What stupid, silly girl thoughts. Best to think about leaving an... exciting last impression. When they have both exited the maze, she can see a trio coming towards across the great lawn behind the Palace. A proper escort. Well that's no fun. Her face lights up with an idea, and she hopes Francis is receptive to it. Honestly, if he isn't, she might as well voluntarily leave. “Race you back to the stables?” If Francis does see the trio, he pretends not to, and leaps at the suggestion. “You’re on.” They grin wickedly at each other and firmly urge their horses into a canter - then gallop - and speed right past their escort.
Laughing, they crouch over their horses’s necks and maintain pace with each other, arriving at the stables at the same time. Servants scurry to take their horses’ reins and breathless, Francis dismounts so he can come over to and and offers her his hand, helping her off Blackie once more. They pause there for a moment while he looks at her, his eyes flicking to her shirt, her roman-esque nose, her eyes, and then her hair. “You’ve got something -” he says, and then reaches up to pull a leaf out of the back of her braids. She giggles, stupidly. Like a schoolgirl. And then immediately regrets it. “It was lovely to meet you, Lagertha. You are very easy to talk to. And a surprising woman,” he says, brushing the side of her face (by accident? On purpose? Who knows!) as he tosses the leaf away. “I hope you have a great rest of the day.”
“It was lovely to meet you too, Francis,” she says, with a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. As she turns to leave, Lagertha throws back to him, “Don’t worry, from what I can tell, the rest of the girls are far more traditional. Try to stay awake for those dates.” He laughs, and it sounds genuine, but she can’t tell as she isn’t looking at him, sauntering back into the stable, and towards the Palace.
The rest of the day is slow; Lagertha takes a nap when she returns to her rooms and changes into the dress she brought with her - it doesn’t seem quite right to put on the fancy one yet. She tries to engage some of the other Selected, but they either look down their noses at her disdainfully, or reply with cold, monosyllabic answers. Eventually, she stops trying. Celine, the only one she truly knows, ignores her outright. Right. Well, Lagertha knows when she isn't wanted, and she's determined not to let it phase her. So she wanders the halls until someone tells her she isn’t supposed to be there and points her back in the ‘right’ direction. Pretended ignorance is fun, and by the end of the day, she has a partial map of the public areas of the Palace. Just in case they were needed.
Dinner is delicious, but a mostly lonely affair, as the girls giggle about their respective dates - even as they speak, one is missing, off on the last date. Lagertha listens, mostly, and chimes in occasionally. But their conversation is not directed at her. As the porcelain plates and crystal glasses are whisked away, a liveried palace official comes into the room and announces in a very clear voice, “Ladies, I hope you have enjoyed your dinner. It is now time for the Prince to make the first of his decisions. This way, if you please.”
Lagertha
Warrior Queen of the Amazons