Thread: The Warrior's Claim (Rivine & darkangel76)

Arnarr should have gotten back to the steering oar, but for some reason he lingered after he had spoken to her. There was something about the way she was holding herself now, looking at him... She spoke to him soon after he had wrapped the cloak around her. Her speech had been a little broken, but Arnarr had understood most of what she had said, well, he thought he had. He nodded and was about to say something about thanks being unnecessary, that he wanted her to be well when they reached port. After all, a healthy slave fetched a higher price at market. But before he could even speak, she did something completely unexpected. He was confused as he watched her reach out, but he did not turn or flinch away. Her hand was cold, but not as cold as the wind outside of the leather tent. In fact, compared to what he had just been standing in, her touch was warm, inviting. But that was quickly followed by an even more unexpected action a kiss placed upon his cheek. Her lips had been soft, warm, and he found his heart racing a little bit faster from the intimate contact. His eyes locked onto her face, her eyes. She had thanked him, thanked him for saving her... virtue? Yes, that had been the word. The use of the word was, odd, at least to him. In his culture virtue was something that warriors displayed in battle, by their actions. But the context she had use the word in was foreign to him. It seemed to imply virtue of another kind, one that Arnarr was unfamiliar with. It was then that he noticed something around her neck, a symbol that seemed to be encroaching more and more on his world the cross. Might this have something to do with their beliefs? He knew all to well that the Christians extolled a different set of morals, or at least they professed to. More often then not he had seen many of them act worse towards their fellow man, especially to non Christians. So many of them seemed to espouse a certain set of beliefs, but did not actually follow them. At least his gods did not pretend to be what they were not they were violent, lustful, vengeful... human. But she had spoken of a virtue, something that seemed that she was supposed to have innately. Regardless of weather or not he understood what she was speaking of, he could see that she was, indeed, thankful. That was undoubtedly the most important thing, at least in his mind. It was then that he began to realize something as he looked at the young woman before him she had done something that no slave had ever managed to do, she was breaking through the barrier he had made in his mind. When she spoke again, saying she would repay him, but that she had nothing, he shook his head. Arnarr was silent for a moment, trying to find the words, then spoke to her, You are my... charge. My responsibility. I will provide. The only reason he knew some of her language was because his teacher had been a slave from the isles. The dialect was different, but close enough, for Arnarr to understand most of what she was saying. He noticed how she had averted her eyes after the last time she spoke and wondered what she was thinking about. She seemed to have a conflict within herself, one he did not have a window too. After a few moments of silence she spoke again, apologizing again for not having anything to give him. She caressed his cheek once more, then withdrew her hand. Arnarr stayed there, looking at her, then reached out, one of his index fingers slowly caressing her cheek. He spoke then, his words coming out slowly, yet firmly, You are mine. I will care for you. Having said that Arnarr rose. He had a duty to see too to get the ship through the storm. He looked down at her, speaking, Cover yourself, stay warm. He pointed then to the holes in the gunwales where the oars normally went, Stay away from those, on a bench. That said Arnarr turned away from her. He strode back to the back of the ship then, taking hold of the oar once more. Already the waves were larger and the wind was beginning to whip up more. Arnarr turned the prow of the longship into the wind, smiling. This was something he lived for, the challenge, the thrill. He could see from his position the men he had forced to sit without cloaks, could see several of them shivering already. If they died, he wasn't sure if he really cared. They had picked the wrong day to cross him. On my mark, he yelled loudly in Danish, Row! Row! His cadence was taken up by the crew and, soon enough, they were all calling it out and rowing as they called it out. The storm was vicious. Arnarr stayed at the steering oar, guiding the ship through the waves. Throughout it all his voice was steady, unwavering as he called out orders over again and again. The storm lasted hours and, by the end of it, many of the crewmen were exhausted. Those that Arnarr had stripped of their cloaks had collapsed, all but one, a younger large lad who had the attitude of a farmer more then a warrior. The young man slumped when Arnarr ordered the oars stored and a hot meal prepared. He walked forward, passed the limp, lifeless form of the man who's jaw he had broken. Two others were in an identical condition. Arnarr put his hand on the young man's should and spoke softly, This is a lesson. There are honorable actions and unhonorable ones. The gods have chosen to see you through this, to test your strength. That is because you have not yet dishonored yourself in their eyes. The younger man looked up at him, speaking softly, I am your man sir. Arnarr nodded and smiled, Get some food and sleep, we will discuss that later. He turned away then as his men began to see of those that were dead. He ducked under the leather tent, checking on the prisoners. It was then that he came to her, her curled up form. He squatted down next to her, speaking softly, Food coming soon... are you well?