05-19-2016, 06:08 PM
I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF
Lagertha heals quickly; her wounds were truly superficial, only looking nasty to those who have never experienced broken bones, stab wounds, or shrapnel. After a day, her headache ceases and only the skin around the lump on her head is tender. Philipe was smart enough when slicing her palm, that he didn’t go too deep. She The bandage remains to keep the wound clean, but in order to keep it from healing too tightly, Lagertha routinely flexes and clenches her left hand. It should heal without any problems. The cut on her face knits into a pale vertical line, reaching from her jaw to her temple, but it can easily be hidden by hair if she wants to. Not that the warrior in her does; so many of them bear their scars with pride - and to recieve it at the Palace! Oh, if she ever sees Philipe and her company again, they will buy her so many beers after hearing this story, she won’t be able to walk home.
Had she been anywhere else, the blonde soldier would have been up and at ‘em after just a night in bed - stitched up, bandaged, and ready to hit the ground running the next day. Her job would have demanded it. But even with her due diligence, Lagertha knows she is going soft. She stays ‘in bed’ for another day, partially because it is easier to acquiesce to Maeve’s ministrations, and partly because she simply can - whihc she’s never been able to before. That makes two days in bed, counting the time she was unconscious.
By the dawning of the third day, Lagertha is restless, itching to leave her room. She is up at first light (the curtains have been left open ever since the knife incident), fully dressed in her riding clothes, and sitting on her already made bed when her team comes quietly through the door with her breakfast. Lagertha greets them with a cheerful smile, even going to so far as to Lagertha thinks, noting that Maeve and Ami aren’t dying to give her the Palace’s daily gossip. Lagertha leans against the table and crosses her arms in front of her, surveying the working servants. In a rather loud voice, she asks, “You all are acting weird. What’s wrong?” All four of them freeze. Three heads turn to Maeve, who has always been the team leader. She puts on an all too innocent tone, and replies carefully. “What do you mean, Miss?” Lagertha sighs. Dear god, they’re going to make her spell it out.
“You’re practically silent, and no one’s given me the day’s schedule of lessons and activities. What is going on?” Ami and the other two men conspicuously return to their duties, completely absorbed in them, while Maeve puts down her bundle of dirty clothes and comes towards Lagertha. “I’m sorry, Miss, I really am. You know I like ya, but our jobs are on the line. We can’t say anything. All activities and lessons have been cancelled until further notice. You just have to… stay here.” Lagertha’s blue eyes narrow, her brows furrow together when she hears that. “Stay here? As in - in this room?” Maeve looks down, knowing it’s the worst possible thing she could say to someone like Lagertha, who is so active. “Yes, Miss,” she mumbles. “And there’s a guard outside yer door, so please don’t try to leave. I don’t want to see ya hurt agin.”
It isn’t her fault, it isn’t her fault, it isn’t her fault, Lagertha repeats to herself instead of immediately answering. And it’s true, the servants were only the messengers, though that little fact made it all the more infuriating. She clenches her jaw and bites the inside of her cheek to keep from saying what she actually wants to say, and instead, tries to steer the conversation in another direction. “Can you tell me anything about Francis?” Maeve shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Miss.” Lagertha presses her, unwilling to let that mysterious answer lie, her tone becoming harder and more insistent. “What does that mean, Maeve? Was he injured and isn’t doing well? Is he just fine? Or you just won’t tell me anything?” The plump, cheerful little servant shrinks before her and takes a step back, trying to put some distance between herself and the clearly irritated soldier. “Please, PLEASE, Miss - I told you all I can. I can’t say no more. Please… eat yer breakfast.”
Shame immediately floods Lagertha’s face, as she realizes how she has tried to intimidate the one person who’s always been understanding of her differences, and kind to her here. Her head bows, and she blurts out a quick apology to the older woman. “I’m sorry Maeve. I just don’t do well, being pent up in one spot. Forgive me.” She turns back around to face the food and shoves a sausage roll in her mouth to show she’s listening. It feels dry and thick as she chews, but it could be the most succulent piece of roast beef and it would be displeasing in this moment. She lets the team finish their duties in silence, requesting only some reading material from the library if she’s going to be confined here for the day, and then Lagertha is left in silence.
Silence and solitude Lagertha can handle. It’s the lack of physical exercise and information that drive her up the wall. Servants come and go fulfilling her periodic requests for books or other things to keep her occupied. They denied her a length of rope, even when she explained that she only wanted to use it to exercise. The guard outside her door changes halfway through the day, but they never say anything, except to nod brusquely when she asks for a servant. There is only so much she can do to keep herself busy, and without any real physical activity, her nights are long and mostly sleepless. And so, Lagertha is kept in the dark; alone with her thoughts about the attack, the Resistance, and whether or not they’ve caught on to her. Did Philipe and the other guy get away?
She imagines a hundred different scenarios over the next two days; half of them involve her hanging from a noose, and the other half involve her being crowned next to Frances, and then every sort of inbetween situation. Her pride and strength battle with her heart, as she tries to reconcile her part in The Resistance with her undeniable feelings for Francis. She comes stone-faced and sullen, staring out the window with a pained expression, longing to be outside with the men on guard, if only to walk in ceaseless circles around The Palace. At some point on the fourth day. a servant interrupts her in the middle of some exercise; stripped almost bare, doing pushups on the floor as she counts aloud. Sweat glistens along the length of her pale, naked body, and she pays the intruder no mind. She looks like a wild woman, hair taken out of its confined, neat coils atop her head and lets it loose, long golden locks falling messily down her back, plastered to her damp skin. The also mercifully hide her top half from view - not that Lagertha would mind. But the Illeans do.
Whether or not they’ve reported that the barbarian is either back to her old ways, or has completely lost her mind, Lagertha doesn’t know. She doesn’t care. If she’s going to go down for treason, she might as well do what she wants, when she wants to, and look the way she prefers to. As a soldier, she’s wonders what death is like - imagined it so much it feels more like a memory. She can almost see it coming, it’s always been coming, from the first day she picked up a staff and asked to join the Master’s boys. So now does it come down to how many she can take with her into the hallowed halls? Or does she dip and dodge questions, because at this point, it’s almost as if Illea sent for her, begging her to make a difference.
Doesn’t Peace always come at a price? On the fifth day, it’s as if her skin is crawling with energy. If it could crackle and be thrown, she would stand on her bed, or stack a ladder to the top of her armoire, and hurl lightning down on Maeve and the others when they come with breakfast and bathing accoutrements. With a borrowed (stolen) butter knife, Lagertha had been carving a multitude of things into the wooden post of her bed, and a variety of other furniture. When they arrive, she’s sitting in front of the window, cleaning under her fingernails with a knife, looking very much like a wild woman. Yesterday, Lagertha wouldn’t allow them to touch her; so her hair is now greasy, and her skin has a slick, oily shine to it. But her eyes are sharp and accusatory, and her mouth never changes from its pinched, thin line. However, under Maeve’s supercritical gaze, she picks herself up and wordlessly discards her clothing, walking naked before them into the tub of steaming hot water.
It is a silent surrender, and the unspoken tension remains between them, though Lagertha makes herself pliable - a living doll. Her sullenness is childish, she knows, but she can’t bring herself to make conversation with them. Whatever would they talk about? Nothing she wants to hear. She can see the weather from her window, and everything else is a moot point. It takes them awhile, but they manage to re-braid her hair into something presentable, paint her face, and they also seem to have brought a new, fancy dress, since the old one got sliced and diced. When the team leaves, she resists the urge to scream and cry all at the same time, opting instead to throw her shoes at the wall with all her might. They hit the walls with a thunk, and she leave them where they fall.
A while later, there’s a knock on the door. Lagertha ignores it. If they wanted to come in, they would, but she’s had enough of these goddamn games. They’re keeping her prisoner, and without a warrant, essentially. That was the conclusion she’d come to over the course of the morning. She isn’t hungry, books are boring, and what she really needs is a good wrestling session to get all her frustration out. But ladies don’t do that here. So fuck them all. The knock comes again, and a muffled voice calls her name through the door. “Lagertha?” It takes her a couple of seconds to register the voice. Oh. It all makes sense now, or at least why she’s all dolled up again. But the small bit of deception doesn’t matter one single bit, because it means Francis is ok. She flies to the door and throws it open, forgetting for a moment that he might still be injured. Her arms wrap around his neck, and for a moment, the past five days seem to disappear.
Unfortunately, Lagertha is very much aware of physical aspects of life, and she quickly pulls away to look for signs of injury. Their doctor must surely be the best, but nevertheless… she turns his arms over and under, searches his body for signs of bandaging under his clothes… and there is nothing. At first, Lagertha is confused, and then the is angry - oh gods above, she is a pit of fire and brimstone. And yet, there is only so much she can do, because he is the fucking Heir, and there’s a guard to his immediate left. So instead, her eyes flash to a steely blue-grey, and her hands fall back to her sides. She steps back and makes a half-curtsey, all courtly decorum now. Francis knows this isn’t her. His face falls and he takes a step toward her, hands outstretched as if to bring her back. “Father locked everyone away…” he begins, launching into the story of what’s been going on the past few days.
Lagertha listens, though her mind is a whirling mess. Her heart is pounding in her chest, and if she weren’t as smart as she is, she might swear that he could hear her guilt. Questioning. Selected. Of course they were going to do that. And then there is the irony that he’s dismissed three others before thinking of her - Lagertha, who is a soldier and out of any of them, would have been able to do the most damage. He must either really like her, or the others must be incredibly unpleasant and untrustworthy, like little painted snakes. “... I’m sorry about all this, but this is necessary,” Francis concludes, and at least has the decency to look a little ashamed.
Lagertha nods and goes into ‘soldier mode,’ on edge, but not tense. Ready for whatever comes her way, even as two guards flank her and escort her out of her room. They grab her by her elbows, and she says firmly, “Remove your hands, I am not a threat right now.” After a moment, they do, and she falls into their stride, marching off to whatever is in store for her, while frantically trying to think of ways to spin her story, while keeping her head held high.
The two men guide her through The Palace, taking her down hallways and stairs she’s never been privy to. She tries to keep track of the turns, but in the end, it’s futile. The building is simply too big for her to remember them in the right order. The decor fades from luxury to functionality to barely-there, until they arrive to a room marked only by a simple wooden door. One opens it, revealing a very white room, and the other puts his hand on her shoulder, pushing her gently through. He continues to direct her towards a single, slightly reclined chair and the two of them press her firmly into it. Lagertha, however, can’t keep her mouth shut, and mutters to herself (loud enough for the guards to hear, of course), “Gods above, I get it. Calm down.” Her sass, however, is met with leather wrist restraints, and then Francis enters as they leave, perching silently on a stool in the corner.
Lagertha realizes that he is as powerless as she is right now, and her anger towards him fades away. When they make eye contact, she shrugs and gives him a wry little look, as if to say ‘whatcha gonna do?’ He grins, and then their attention is drawn to the door as the King and an unknown man enter. Lagertha tenses, watching the two of them closely. The King is rather unknown to her, but the fact that he is here is both comforting and nerve-wracking. It isn’t until he reveals the man’s function, and that they’re going to force a ‘truth-telling’ serum into her that she begins to internally panic. So much so that she stops listening to whatever else the man prattles on about, focusing simply on keeping an innocent-looking smile on her face.
It’s time; Lagertha drinks and offers up a silent prayer that she can somehow resist the toxin’s effects, that she can somehow, subconsciously twist the truth into something viable, or that she can explain herself adequately. She hopes they understand - it was for Illea, all for Illea. “Ah, yes, her pupils are dilating,” the interrogator says, “We are ready to begin.”
The King has seen this before, so there’s no need for him to explain the procedure. The interrogator stars with baseline yes and no, and then more difficult questions that require an explanation. Lagertha’s mind is in a fog, much like the mist off the coast of Sweden, the fog she often sailed in. His voice warps, becomes familiar, somehow - it sounds so much like the old Master. And oh, she would never lie to him. The fogginess grows darker, and there is only a small pinprick of light - she must follow it! Follow the lighthouse light, for it will lead the ship to safety. The water is calm right now, the waves lapping at the keel tap out questions that she could answer in her sleep.
”Is your name Lagertha Lothbrok?”
“Yes.”
”Were you born in Sweden?”
“Yes.”
“Are you twenty-seven?”
“No.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
Baseline established. Her ship - no, boat - seems to have transformed from the modern vessels that she’s used to, to some primitive, much smaller vehicle. No more than forty feet long, she can walk it in twelve paces, and where cannons should be, there are benches and holes for massive oars. She looks to the front of the boat and bow curves up and over - the figurehead unclear until she leaps to find out what it is. Stepping up onto a little foothold where the sides come together, she leans forward and runs her hands over a fearsome dragon. From somewhere deep within, a humming begins, and she laughs; a joyful, full-bodied laugh, for this is home? Yes, home. This is where she’s meant to be! On the open water, with the salt spray in her windswept hair, and a weapon in her hand. She almost forgot the joy she’d felt while sailing from Sweden to Illea: how quickly she got her sea legs, and how the rocking motion gently lulled her to sleep every night. It is where she feels most comfortable, where everyone is a foreigner. Where the crew speaks five different languages and she is not the barbarian, but a valuable member.
In the blink of an eye, the boat is full of people - her people, her merc company - and they are talking about Illea. Dressed in boiled leathers and dark colors, it’s nothing like the modern garments of today. It’s odd, but she thinks nothing of it. The Captain commands fulls speed ahead! and those at the oars heave backwards and then forwards, pulling and pushing the heavy wooden oars in rhythm. Ramming speed! he calls out, and the rowers quicken their pace, kept in time by either the pounding of her heart or an actual drum beat. Ba dum, ba dum, ba dum Lagertha crouches behind a shield (where did she get that?), bracing herself for impact with whatever boat they’re bound to run into. She cannot see five feet ahead of her. Whatever they’re headed for is completely unknown. And yet, she is ready and eager to meet it.
Follows orders… militant… dangerous…
Lagertha peers through the darkness, squinting to try and make out the shadowed shapes that move just beyond her perception. One of them appears before her, all wavy like a mirage - a flat, square barge that is filled with poorly armed peasants, instead of warriors. The vessels crash together, seeming to dare her with the unspoken question,who are you, what do you do? A woman, a warrior, a killer! screams her blood in return, and as the peasants are thrown off balance, she leaps forward to skewer one of them upon her ravenous sword. They resist to the best of their ability, but their movements are mechanical, clunky, and no match for a trained soldier. Her blade is quickly covered in blood, and it flows down its length, coating her hands in a slick, crimson glove. I kill for a living. Five fall beneath her vicious attack, until her sword becomes entangled in something almost invisible to the naked eye. She jerks her shield up, and while yanking her sword back, realizes that it is caught on marionette strings.
Her eyes widen in horror; these peasants were not acting of their own free will. Her face twists in unanticipated agony, and Lagertha drops her weapon as if it were a red-hot piece of metal. Why? Why does this affect her? No one comes to attack her, and as she turns in a tight circle to survey the fighting, the peasants take on the faces of the people she knows and cares for; Maeve, Ami, Pierre, her landlady, Jean the tailor, the crippled begging boy that lives outside the tavern. No! No, no no. I am not a killer of these folk. “Stop! These people are not our enemies” she yell to her company - and somehow, her voice now has power. The power to command and inspire. The water battle falls silent, save for the brown-red water that lap against the wreckage and debris. It mocks her, it asks her again: Where does your loyalty lie, Lagertha?
The Resistance, the poor, the people who need her help are not the enemy. She looks up through the dark grey smoke that has replaced the fog, and as if through a spyglass, Count Odo and Celine swim into view. They are perched in a pristine, cream-colored tower, watching the massacre from afar. His hands are outstretched, and in them are tiny little puppets, yanked hither and thither by his fat hands. She spies the King and Queen and various pompous court officials behind them, looking on, but there is no sign of Francis. Oh. Oh. That is good. He will not die today, not if she can help it.
Lagertha bends down to pick up the dropped blade and emphatically thrusts her blood-drenched sword in Odo’s direction, wishing that its tip could extend to pierce his heart. “THEY are the enemies. In the ivory tower. They are the ones we should be fighting! The King! The Count!” As one, the mass of people on the water turn to look at the aristocracy, and then at each other. The water beneath their boats turns suddenly turns solid, the rolling of the boats and the lapping of the waves ceasing to exist in order to pave an easy way to the Ivory Tower.
Their gazes all turn to her, and Lagertha heaves her shield onto her forearm, taking the first step off the boats and onto the solid land. She doesn’t have to look back to know that they follow her. She has a foot in each world, and a third, and a fourth. Lagertha knows the way.
Empathy… Protector… Perspective… Fearlessness
The road before them vanishes, and Lagertha is suddenly at the front door of the castle, three familiar, and yet unfamiliar men stand before the door. Two of them already bear the marks of death, purple wounds and coagulated blood marking where her and Philipe’s blades slid through their heads. No, this is not right. “I killed you already,” she says, though it is more of a question than a statement. “You should not be here.” The dead men look silently at each other, nod, and then disappear, leaving the door to a single guard - the one she hit with the candlestick.
“Do you want to kill them?” He asks, and Lagertha is struck by the question. The words crawl into her through her fingernails and find their way to her heart, wrapping themselves around it and squeezing tightly. Want to? No. She never wants to kill anybody. It’s her job, it’s the only thing she knows how to do. Except now - she knows how to eat with three different forks and dance a waltz and curtsey properly. Superficial things, but she can clearly learn other skills. There could be a place for her elsewhere. “No. Of course not. But something has to change, and if they won’t do it, then I will. By force, if necessary.” The guard reaches out and places his hand on Lagertha’s arm, pressing it gently downward. She finds she can’t move it anywhere except in the direction he wants, so she lets her arm fall to her side. The sword falls out of her hand and clatters to the ground.
The scene changes again, and though she cannot remember climbing the Ivory Tower’s stairs, her legs burn with the effort. The King and Queen stand before her, but again there is no sign of Francis. It’s odd, she knows the events leading up to being in this room have been about The Resistance, but in the end, it feels more like she’s been trying to protect him - or find him - or both? “Where’s Francis?” she blurts out, and they both turn a scathing gaze towards her. “Why?” they say as one, their voices discordant and demanding. “You are a Rebel, what do you want with him? Why have you come here? What were your plans? ”
Again, her heart clenches and her stomach flip flops. It’s so funny, she thinks, that she can disembowel a man and never blink an eye, but the thought of truthfully expressing her feelings makes her want to vomit. Word vomit. All over herself and the room. Not to extol his virtues, or her own. But to explain the conflicting emotions that bubble up inside her. “I want to kiss him,” she says first. It is the truth, but not exactly the first thing she wanted to say. “I mean, I want to make sure he’s safe. I want to talk more with him and hear what he has to say about Illea. I want to give him ideas, and I want him to want me too. Physically. And emotionally. I want to somehow persuade him to keep me around, because we could be a great team.” No, that’s not right. That’s not quite right at all. “I mean, I have feelings for him, and I’m not sure what love is because I’ve never been in love before. Lust, I know. Love? Not really. But I think this might be it?” Yes. That’s it. That’s the truth.
As for the second and third question… there’s no escaping it. The need to answer burns at the inside of her mouth, forcing it open. “I came here because I wanted to. I had no plans, except to win. No one sent me. No one told me to come and infiltrate The Palace. I had no idea what was going to happen. I thought that if I won, I might be able to help change some of the problems I saw every day. You are so removed from the people out there, how can you know how to govern them properly? I could help him be a good King by being a strong Queen. A Queen the people could love. And if I lost, then yes, I could at least give The Resistance some valuable information.”
She falls silent, because there is nothing more to say. The King and Queen remain silent, their faces seemingly of marble, for they do not move an inch. Oh, but her head starts to swim and in an effort to relieve it, she sits cross legged on the floor of the Ivory Tower, and presses her forehead to the ground. The world goes black again.
---------------------------
Lagertha wakens to silence in her room, Maeve sitting by her bed side again. Her head aches and her throat burns as it often does after a spicy meal. Acid reflux. There’s a foul taste in her mouth, and it makes her think she might have actually vomited.
The blonde woman notices her movement, hands her a glass of water, and leaves the room without a word. Lagertha sighs. She’s been revealed, she’s confessed - and yet, she is not in chains, so perhaps there is hope after all. After a silent prayer to the gods above, she waits. It’s either a rope, a horse, or a ring - there are no other options. If it’s the first, well, she’s made peace with death years ago. If it’s the second, she probably won’t take Blackie back to the blacksmith… it would be time to find a new Kingdom to live in. And if it’s the third… well, that could just be the scariest of them all.
It’s a good thing Lagertha is always up for a challenge.
Had she been anywhere else, the blonde soldier would have been up and at ‘em after just a night in bed - stitched up, bandaged, and ready to hit the ground running the next day. Her job would have demanded it. But even with her due diligence, Lagertha knows she is going soft. She stays ‘in bed’ for another day, partially because it is easier to acquiesce to Maeve’s ministrations, and partly because she simply can - whihc she’s never been able to before. That makes two days in bed, counting the time she was unconscious.
By the dawning of the third day, Lagertha is restless, itching to leave her room. She is up at first light (the curtains have been left open ever since the knife incident), fully dressed in her riding clothes, and sitting on her already made bed when her team comes quietly through the door with her breakfast. Lagertha greets them with a cheerful smile, even going to so far as to Lagertha thinks, noting that Maeve and Ami aren’t dying to give her the Palace’s daily gossip. Lagertha leans against the table and crosses her arms in front of her, surveying the working servants. In a rather loud voice, she asks, “You all are acting weird. What’s wrong?” All four of them freeze. Three heads turn to Maeve, who has always been the team leader. She puts on an all too innocent tone, and replies carefully. “What do you mean, Miss?” Lagertha sighs. Dear god, they’re going to make her spell it out.
“You’re practically silent, and no one’s given me the day’s schedule of lessons and activities. What is going on?” Ami and the other two men conspicuously return to their duties, completely absorbed in them, while Maeve puts down her bundle of dirty clothes and comes towards Lagertha. “I’m sorry, Miss, I really am. You know I like ya, but our jobs are on the line. We can’t say anything. All activities and lessons have been cancelled until further notice. You just have to… stay here.” Lagertha’s blue eyes narrow, her brows furrow together when she hears that. “Stay here? As in - in this room?” Maeve looks down, knowing it’s the worst possible thing she could say to someone like Lagertha, who is so active. “Yes, Miss,” she mumbles. “And there’s a guard outside yer door, so please don’t try to leave. I don’t want to see ya hurt agin.”
It isn’t her fault, it isn’t her fault, it isn’t her fault, Lagertha repeats to herself instead of immediately answering. And it’s true, the servants were only the messengers, though that little fact made it all the more infuriating. She clenches her jaw and bites the inside of her cheek to keep from saying what she actually wants to say, and instead, tries to steer the conversation in another direction. “Can you tell me anything about Francis?” Maeve shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Miss.” Lagertha presses her, unwilling to let that mysterious answer lie, her tone becoming harder and more insistent. “What does that mean, Maeve? Was he injured and isn’t doing well? Is he just fine? Or you just won’t tell me anything?” The plump, cheerful little servant shrinks before her and takes a step back, trying to put some distance between herself and the clearly irritated soldier. “Please, PLEASE, Miss - I told you all I can. I can’t say no more. Please… eat yer breakfast.”
Shame immediately floods Lagertha’s face, as she realizes how she has tried to intimidate the one person who’s always been understanding of her differences, and kind to her here. Her head bows, and she blurts out a quick apology to the older woman. “I’m sorry Maeve. I just don’t do well, being pent up in one spot. Forgive me.” She turns back around to face the food and shoves a sausage roll in her mouth to show she’s listening. It feels dry and thick as she chews, but it could be the most succulent piece of roast beef and it would be displeasing in this moment. She lets the team finish their duties in silence, requesting only some reading material from the library if she’s going to be confined here for the day, and then Lagertha is left in silence.
Silence and solitude Lagertha can handle. It’s the lack of physical exercise and information that drive her up the wall. Servants come and go fulfilling her periodic requests for books or other things to keep her occupied. They denied her a length of rope, even when she explained that she only wanted to use it to exercise. The guard outside her door changes halfway through the day, but they never say anything, except to nod brusquely when she asks for a servant. There is only so much she can do to keep herself busy, and without any real physical activity, her nights are long and mostly sleepless. And so, Lagertha is kept in the dark; alone with her thoughts about the attack, the Resistance, and whether or not they’ve caught on to her. Did Philipe and the other guy get away?
She imagines a hundred different scenarios over the next two days; half of them involve her hanging from a noose, and the other half involve her being crowned next to Frances, and then every sort of inbetween situation. Her pride and strength battle with her heart, as she tries to reconcile her part in The Resistance with her undeniable feelings for Francis. She comes stone-faced and sullen, staring out the window with a pained expression, longing to be outside with the men on guard, if only to walk in ceaseless circles around The Palace. At some point on the fourth day. a servant interrupts her in the middle of some exercise; stripped almost bare, doing pushups on the floor as she counts aloud. Sweat glistens along the length of her pale, naked body, and she pays the intruder no mind. She looks like a wild woman, hair taken out of its confined, neat coils atop her head and lets it loose, long golden locks falling messily down her back, plastered to her damp skin. The also mercifully hide her top half from view - not that Lagertha would mind. But the Illeans do.
Whether or not they’ve reported that the barbarian is either back to her old ways, or has completely lost her mind, Lagertha doesn’t know. She doesn’t care. If she’s going to go down for treason, she might as well do what she wants, when she wants to, and look the way she prefers to. As a soldier, she’s wonders what death is like - imagined it so much it feels more like a memory. She can almost see it coming, it’s always been coming, from the first day she picked up a staff and asked to join the Master’s boys. So now does it come down to how many she can take with her into the hallowed halls? Or does she dip and dodge questions, because at this point, it’s almost as if Illea sent for her, begging her to make a difference.
Doesn’t Peace always come at a price? On the fifth day, it’s as if her skin is crawling with energy. If it could crackle and be thrown, she would stand on her bed, or stack a ladder to the top of her armoire, and hurl lightning down on Maeve and the others when they come with breakfast and bathing accoutrements. With a borrowed (stolen) butter knife, Lagertha had been carving a multitude of things into the wooden post of her bed, and a variety of other furniture. When they arrive, she’s sitting in front of the window, cleaning under her fingernails with a knife, looking very much like a wild woman. Yesterday, Lagertha wouldn’t allow them to touch her; so her hair is now greasy, and her skin has a slick, oily shine to it. But her eyes are sharp and accusatory, and her mouth never changes from its pinched, thin line. However, under Maeve’s supercritical gaze, she picks herself up and wordlessly discards her clothing, walking naked before them into the tub of steaming hot water.
It is a silent surrender, and the unspoken tension remains between them, though Lagertha makes herself pliable - a living doll. Her sullenness is childish, she knows, but she can’t bring herself to make conversation with them. Whatever would they talk about? Nothing she wants to hear. She can see the weather from her window, and everything else is a moot point. It takes them awhile, but they manage to re-braid her hair into something presentable, paint her face, and they also seem to have brought a new, fancy dress, since the old one got sliced and diced. When the team leaves, she resists the urge to scream and cry all at the same time, opting instead to throw her shoes at the wall with all her might. They hit the walls with a thunk, and she leave them where they fall.
A while later, there’s a knock on the door. Lagertha ignores it. If they wanted to come in, they would, but she’s had enough of these goddamn games. They’re keeping her prisoner, and without a warrant, essentially. That was the conclusion she’d come to over the course of the morning. She isn’t hungry, books are boring, and what she really needs is a good wrestling session to get all her frustration out. But ladies don’t do that here. So fuck them all. The knock comes again, and a muffled voice calls her name through the door. “Lagertha?” It takes her a couple of seconds to register the voice. Oh. It all makes sense now, or at least why she’s all dolled up again. But the small bit of deception doesn’t matter one single bit, because it means Francis is ok. She flies to the door and throws it open, forgetting for a moment that he might still be injured. Her arms wrap around his neck, and for a moment, the past five days seem to disappear.
Unfortunately, Lagertha is very much aware of physical aspects of life, and she quickly pulls away to look for signs of injury. Their doctor must surely be the best, but nevertheless… she turns his arms over and under, searches his body for signs of bandaging under his clothes… and there is nothing. At first, Lagertha is confused, and then the is angry - oh gods above, she is a pit of fire and brimstone. And yet, there is only so much she can do, because he is the fucking Heir, and there’s a guard to his immediate left. So instead, her eyes flash to a steely blue-grey, and her hands fall back to her sides. She steps back and makes a half-curtsey, all courtly decorum now. Francis knows this isn’t her. His face falls and he takes a step toward her, hands outstretched as if to bring her back. “Father locked everyone away…” he begins, launching into the story of what’s been going on the past few days.
Lagertha listens, though her mind is a whirling mess. Her heart is pounding in her chest, and if she weren’t as smart as she is, she might swear that he could hear her guilt. Questioning. Selected. Of course they were going to do that. And then there is the irony that he’s dismissed three others before thinking of her - Lagertha, who is a soldier and out of any of them, would have been able to do the most damage. He must either really like her, or the others must be incredibly unpleasant and untrustworthy, like little painted snakes. “... I’m sorry about all this, but this is necessary,” Francis concludes, and at least has the decency to look a little ashamed.
Lagertha nods and goes into ‘soldier mode,’ on edge, but not tense. Ready for whatever comes her way, even as two guards flank her and escort her out of her room. They grab her by her elbows, and she says firmly, “Remove your hands, I am not a threat right now.” After a moment, they do, and she falls into their stride, marching off to whatever is in store for her, while frantically trying to think of ways to spin her story, while keeping her head held high.
The two men guide her through The Palace, taking her down hallways and stairs she’s never been privy to. She tries to keep track of the turns, but in the end, it’s futile. The building is simply too big for her to remember them in the right order. The decor fades from luxury to functionality to barely-there, until they arrive to a room marked only by a simple wooden door. One opens it, revealing a very white room, and the other puts his hand on her shoulder, pushing her gently through. He continues to direct her towards a single, slightly reclined chair and the two of them press her firmly into it. Lagertha, however, can’t keep her mouth shut, and mutters to herself (loud enough for the guards to hear, of course), “Gods above, I get it. Calm down.” Her sass, however, is met with leather wrist restraints, and then Francis enters as they leave, perching silently on a stool in the corner.
Lagertha realizes that he is as powerless as she is right now, and her anger towards him fades away. When they make eye contact, she shrugs and gives him a wry little look, as if to say ‘whatcha gonna do?’ He grins, and then their attention is drawn to the door as the King and an unknown man enter. Lagertha tenses, watching the two of them closely. The King is rather unknown to her, but the fact that he is here is both comforting and nerve-wracking. It isn’t until he reveals the man’s function, and that they’re going to force a ‘truth-telling’ serum into her that she begins to internally panic. So much so that she stops listening to whatever else the man prattles on about, focusing simply on keeping an innocent-looking smile on her face.
It’s time; Lagertha drinks and offers up a silent prayer that she can somehow resist the toxin’s effects, that she can somehow, subconsciously twist the truth into something viable, or that she can explain herself adequately. She hopes they understand - it was for Illea, all for Illea. “Ah, yes, her pupils are dilating,” the interrogator says, “We are ready to begin.”
The King has seen this before, so there’s no need for him to explain the procedure. The interrogator stars with baseline yes and no, and then more difficult questions that require an explanation. Lagertha’s mind is in a fog, much like the mist off the coast of Sweden, the fog she often sailed in. His voice warps, becomes familiar, somehow - it sounds so much like the old Master. And oh, she would never lie to him. The fogginess grows darker, and there is only a small pinprick of light - she must follow it! Follow the lighthouse light, for it will lead the ship to safety. The water is calm right now, the waves lapping at the keel tap out questions that she could answer in her sleep.
”Is your name Lagertha Lothbrok?”
“Yes.”
”Were you born in Sweden?”
“Yes.”
“Are you twenty-seven?”
“No.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
Baseline established. Her ship - no, boat - seems to have transformed from the modern vessels that she’s used to, to some primitive, much smaller vehicle. No more than forty feet long, she can walk it in twelve paces, and where cannons should be, there are benches and holes for massive oars. She looks to the front of the boat and bow curves up and over - the figurehead unclear until she leaps to find out what it is. Stepping up onto a little foothold where the sides come together, she leans forward and runs her hands over a fearsome dragon. From somewhere deep within, a humming begins, and she laughs; a joyful, full-bodied laugh, for this is home? Yes, home. This is where she’s meant to be! On the open water, with the salt spray in her windswept hair, and a weapon in her hand. She almost forgot the joy she’d felt while sailing from Sweden to Illea: how quickly she got her sea legs, and how the rocking motion gently lulled her to sleep every night. It is where she feels most comfortable, where everyone is a foreigner. Where the crew speaks five different languages and she is not the barbarian, but a valuable member.
In the blink of an eye, the boat is full of people - her people, her merc company - and they are talking about Illea. Dressed in boiled leathers and dark colors, it’s nothing like the modern garments of today. It’s odd, but she thinks nothing of it. The Captain commands fulls speed ahead! and those at the oars heave backwards and then forwards, pulling and pushing the heavy wooden oars in rhythm. Ramming speed! he calls out, and the rowers quicken their pace, kept in time by either the pounding of her heart or an actual drum beat. Ba dum, ba dum, ba dum Lagertha crouches behind a shield (where did she get that?), bracing herself for impact with whatever boat they’re bound to run into. She cannot see five feet ahead of her. Whatever they’re headed for is completely unknown. And yet, she is ready and eager to meet it.
Follows orders… militant… dangerous…
Lagertha peers through the darkness, squinting to try and make out the shadowed shapes that move just beyond her perception. One of them appears before her, all wavy like a mirage - a flat, square barge that is filled with poorly armed peasants, instead of warriors. The vessels crash together, seeming to dare her with the unspoken question,who are you, what do you do? A woman, a warrior, a killer! screams her blood in return, and as the peasants are thrown off balance, she leaps forward to skewer one of them upon her ravenous sword. They resist to the best of their ability, but their movements are mechanical, clunky, and no match for a trained soldier. Her blade is quickly covered in blood, and it flows down its length, coating her hands in a slick, crimson glove. I kill for a living. Five fall beneath her vicious attack, until her sword becomes entangled in something almost invisible to the naked eye. She jerks her shield up, and while yanking her sword back, realizes that it is caught on marionette strings.
Her eyes widen in horror; these peasants were not acting of their own free will. Her face twists in unanticipated agony, and Lagertha drops her weapon as if it were a red-hot piece of metal. Why? Why does this affect her? No one comes to attack her, and as she turns in a tight circle to survey the fighting, the peasants take on the faces of the people she knows and cares for; Maeve, Ami, Pierre, her landlady, Jean the tailor, the crippled begging boy that lives outside the tavern. No! No, no no. I am not a killer of these folk. “Stop! These people are not our enemies” she yell to her company - and somehow, her voice now has power. The power to command and inspire. The water battle falls silent, save for the brown-red water that lap against the wreckage and debris. It mocks her, it asks her again: Where does your loyalty lie, Lagertha?
The Resistance, the poor, the people who need her help are not the enemy. She looks up through the dark grey smoke that has replaced the fog, and as if through a spyglass, Count Odo and Celine swim into view. They are perched in a pristine, cream-colored tower, watching the massacre from afar. His hands are outstretched, and in them are tiny little puppets, yanked hither and thither by his fat hands. She spies the King and Queen and various pompous court officials behind them, looking on, but there is no sign of Francis. Oh. Oh. That is good. He will not die today, not if she can help it.
Lagertha bends down to pick up the dropped blade and emphatically thrusts her blood-drenched sword in Odo’s direction, wishing that its tip could extend to pierce his heart. “THEY are the enemies. In the ivory tower. They are the ones we should be fighting! The King! The Count!” As one, the mass of people on the water turn to look at the aristocracy, and then at each other. The water beneath their boats turns suddenly turns solid, the rolling of the boats and the lapping of the waves ceasing to exist in order to pave an easy way to the Ivory Tower.
Their gazes all turn to her, and Lagertha heaves her shield onto her forearm, taking the first step off the boats and onto the solid land. She doesn’t have to look back to know that they follow her. She has a foot in each world, and a third, and a fourth. Lagertha knows the way.
Empathy… Protector… Perspective… Fearlessness
The road before them vanishes, and Lagertha is suddenly at the front door of the castle, three familiar, and yet unfamiliar men stand before the door. Two of them already bear the marks of death, purple wounds and coagulated blood marking where her and Philipe’s blades slid through their heads. No, this is not right. “I killed you already,” she says, though it is more of a question than a statement. “You should not be here.” The dead men look silently at each other, nod, and then disappear, leaving the door to a single guard - the one she hit with the candlestick.
“Do you want to kill them?” He asks, and Lagertha is struck by the question. The words crawl into her through her fingernails and find their way to her heart, wrapping themselves around it and squeezing tightly. Want to? No. She never wants to kill anybody. It’s her job, it’s the only thing she knows how to do. Except now - she knows how to eat with three different forks and dance a waltz and curtsey properly. Superficial things, but she can clearly learn other skills. There could be a place for her elsewhere. “No. Of course not. But something has to change, and if they won’t do it, then I will. By force, if necessary.” The guard reaches out and places his hand on Lagertha’s arm, pressing it gently downward. She finds she can’t move it anywhere except in the direction he wants, so she lets her arm fall to her side. The sword falls out of her hand and clatters to the ground.
The scene changes again, and though she cannot remember climbing the Ivory Tower’s stairs, her legs burn with the effort. The King and Queen stand before her, but again there is no sign of Francis. It’s odd, she knows the events leading up to being in this room have been about The Resistance, but in the end, it feels more like she’s been trying to protect him - or find him - or both? “Where’s Francis?” she blurts out, and they both turn a scathing gaze towards her. “Why?” they say as one, their voices discordant and demanding. “You are a Rebel, what do you want with him? Why have you come here? What were your plans? ”
Again, her heart clenches and her stomach flip flops. It’s so funny, she thinks, that she can disembowel a man and never blink an eye, but the thought of truthfully expressing her feelings makes her want to vomit. Word vomit. All over herself and the room. Not to extol his virtues, or her own. But to explain the conflicting emotions that bubble up inside her. “I want to kiss him,” she says first. It is the truth, but not exactly the first thing she wanted to say. “I mean, I want to make sure he’s safe. I want to talk more with him and hear what he has to say about Illea. I want to give him ideas, and I want him to want me too. Physically. And emotionally. I want to somehow persuade him to keep me around, because we could be a great team.” No, that’s not right. That’s not quite right at all. “I mean, I have feelings for him, and I’m not sure what love is because I’ve never been in love before. Lust, I know. Love? Not really. But I think this might be it?” Yes. That’s it. That’s the truth.
As for the second and third question… there’s no escaping it. The need to answer burns at the inside of her mouth, forcing it open. “I came here because I wanted to. I had no plans, except to win. No one sent me. No one told me to come and infiltrate The Palace. I had no idea what was going to happen. I thought that if I won, I might be able to help change some of the problems I saw every day. You are so removed from the people out there, how can you know how to govern them properly? I could help him be a good King by being a strong Queen. A Queen the people could love. And if I lost, then yes, I could at least give The Resistance some valuable information.”
She falls silent, because there is nothing more to say. The King and Queen remain silent, their faces seemingly of marble, for they do not move an inch. Oh, but her head starts to swim and in an effort to relieve it, she sits cross legged on the floor of the Ivory Tower, and presses her forehead to the ground. The world goes black again.
---------------------------
Lagertha wakens to silence in her room, Maeve sitting by her bed side again. Her head aches and her throat burns as it often does after a spicy meal. Acid reflux. There’s a foul taste in her mouth, and it makes her think she might have actually vomited.
The blonde woman notices her movement, hands her a glass of water, and leaves the room without a word. Lagertha sighs. She’s been revealed, she’s confessed - and yet, she is not in chains, so perhaps there is hope after all. After a silent prayer to the gods above, she waits. It’s either a rope, a horse, or a ring - there are no other options. If it’s the first, well, she’s made peace with death years ago. If it’s the second, she probably won’t take Blackie back to the blacksmith… it would be time to find a new Kingdom to live in. And if it’s the third… well, that could just be the scariest of them all.
It’s a good thing Lagertha is always up for a challenge.
Lagertha
Warrior Queen of the Amazons
permission given via PM for an extension.