Thread: From the Land of Ice and Snow (Novocaine & Jolie)

The Abbot had prayed that Saint Paul would appear in a flash of light and protect God's Monastery from the Vikings. He had let slip into his mind the possibility that God would simply strike them dead as he had the entire cities of Sodom and Gomorrah. It wasn't to be. Before he even had the presence of mind to flinch or cower, he found himself lying on the ground, blood from a torn cheek flooding his mouth and having trouble breathing from the weight of the barbaric foot pushing down on his chest. He wanted to answer back the Viking's mocking of his faith and his God, but terror seemed to have frozen his vocal chords. He knew he was about to die and while he liked to think he was noble, he was only able to focus on his own terror and eminent demise. As the Vikings began to obey there leader's orders, Caoimhe cried out and fell to her knees before the Viking leader. Please spare my papa, she begged. He is a good man. Tears sprang to her eyes as the Viking leader pulled her to her feet by her long, thick braid. She had never cut her hair, because she had learned in the weekly lessons by her father and other monk's that a woman's glory was in part found in her long, beautiful hair. To have a man touch her hair and control her by it made her feel ashamed and helpless. But as her whisky colored eyed stared helplessly over at her father, tears falling from her copper lashes, she suppressed her natural instinct to lash out or scream at the man holding her. Instead, she trembled and forced herself to stay still. It wasn't as if resistance would have helped. Instead, very conscious of his hand holding tight to her braid, the way her body was pulled next to his, she tried to appeal to his humanity. Papa good man, she said. Me do anything to help papa. Please spare papa. Thank God, her mother had taught her the language that she had learned during her period of enslavement. It had always seemed stranger that her mother would insist on this, but then her mother was not just a healer with great knowledge of herbs. The villagers had oft whispered that she must have the second sight and perhaps her mother had known that one day, her daughter would need this skill. Her hand reached up to her braid, where the Viking's calloused hand held her. Resting her hand on his, she looked away from her father and up to the man who held her. Please. She said again. Even as she spoke, the man called Leif lifted her father bodily into the air and then sat him down and began to tie him. It was like her father's weight was a mere feather pillow compared to the viking's strength. She had no particular thought of prayer as her eyes stayed locked on the leader's gaze, begging him silently with her expression as words failed her, Show mercy on my father. Behind her, she heard screams from the monks and the villagers as they Viking dealt with them individually. She could smell smoke. A fire had broken out in the monastery. Perhaps a lantern had been knocked over. It began to spread as the valuables of the church were dragged out and piled in front of the Viking leader along with animals, women, and whatever coin the simple villagers had.