Chapter Text
Jared is merry, his hall filled with wine soaked warriors. His own cup is more water than wine, for a chief cannot risk foolishness.
The last longboat has arrived on the shore, and those men are doubtless at the gates even now. His men are home for a time, their coffers and bellies full.The captain of that last limping ship comes before him with an obsequious smile. "Fortunate are we, milord, that in our haste homeward we came upon a heavy laden ship. Its profits, through us, are yours. And what a rare, sweet treasure it is."
The hall quiets to a dull roar and the people part. One of the captain's men throws a messy bundle of limbs to the ground at Jared's feet. Clothed in a thin pale robe, the man is dirty, but strangely captivating. He looks up with bright green eyes, but lets his head bow again. There's a bag tied to his neck, twine choking and chafing.
Jared's displeased with the state of this thrall, but thanks the men and offers them wine. As the hall resumes its celebrations, Jared uses his belt knife to sever the cord. The bag in one hand, he heaves the man over one shoulder. The man is unresisting, though it cannot be comfortable to have his wrists and ankles tied.
Jared hands the man to two guards he trusts, and bids them take the man to be cleaned. A ship journey leaves all men unpleasantly ripe and grimy.
The man reaches with bound hands for the bag, but is firmly dragged off.
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Jensen can feel his ankles and wrists burning as the rope around them twists. He can barely stumble, but these Norsemen march on inexorably. They reach a large hut, and knock on the door. They drop Jensen at the threshold and with his balance undone, he drops to his knees and nearly cracks his skull on the stone doorframe. The men leave, laughing to themselves and the door is opened by a young woman. Another appears behind her and they step out and raise Jensen to his feet. With deft fingers they undo his bonds and step out of striking range rapidly. He makes no move but waits and they shove him in, not unkindly.
Inside, he blushes for women in various states of undress lay around a large stone pool. There's heat like a wall rising around him and it makes his weariness ever more unbearable. The women laugh amusedly as he hides his face and more hands pull him forward. A voice rings above the rest with words he doesn't understand. They strip him of his robe and drag him into the pool. He is eager to preserve his modesty and sinks low into the warmth, still averting his eyes from the scantily clad women and girls all around.
A woman sitting on the edge with hair as fiery as that of many of his kinsmen reaches out and tilts his head up so that he must look her in the eyes.
"How," she asks slowly and deliberately, "do you call yourself?"
"Jensen." There's no shame in sharing his name, only hope that they will not make a mockery of him and dub him something too cruel. There are hands on his back, prodding the welts and stripes across his shoulders, but they are gone as soon as he flinches.
"Jensen." She says it thoughtfully. A childish voice behind her asks something, and she smiles slightly. "She wants to know how you got so speckled."
Jensen blushes deeper, despite knowing it'll only make the freckles more visible. "The sun. I worked in the sun often."
"Worked?"
"The monastery," she looks a bit confused but nods when he imitates the folded hands of prayer, "I wrote outdoors so my inks would dry." He gestures as he speaks, keeping the water up to his elbows, and she seems to understand.
"And the marks. Our men?"
"My lady?" There's no harm in being respectful, not when she's leading this interrogation and seems quite capable of adding to those stripes.
"If one of ours made those marks, we can," she gesture a little frustrated, "thralls with bad masters can be brought before the chief and given to another household."
Oh. Jensen has given little thought to how low he is among them. "No, my lady. It was not at their hands."
She nods, and whispers to one of the slave girls who is leaning against her casually and the girl frowns and walks out.
The red haired lady introduces herself as Danneel and tells the slave girls to get on with washing him. He squeaks and tries to take the soap from them to wash himself. They laugh but allow him the dignity of washing himself from the waist down. His shoulders and back are gently taken care of by the girls, their small hands light on the stinging lines.
He is grateful when they allow him out of the pool, though the breeches and linen shirt they hand him are odd indeed. He has worn a habit so long that this seems unnatural. And it is thin, this material, and both articles of clothing drape in an unseemly way, so large are they on him. The slippers fit well enough but he harbors no illusions about being able to run in them.
A pretty, small, girl child is sent with Jensen to wherever he's being taken. She's chubby and sweet, hand curled in his, waiting for him to catch up on his aching and cold legs.
They reach another hut and she bangs on the door obnoxiously until it flies open. The chief standing in the doorway sees her bouncing on her toes, and gives the girl a kiss on her head.
Jensen stands behind her and shivers.
She tugs the chief's sleeve and waits until he indulgently bends down. He can catch his own name but nothing else. The chief repeats Jensen's name. The girl skips off, after hugging the man familiarly, leaving Jensen on his own with this bear of a man.
All Jensen knows is that he's the chief, evidenced in his wealth of fur and precious metals, and Jensen is now his.
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Jared sees the thrall shiver and realizes he's gotten lost in the man's stunning eyes. Unclasping his outermost cloak, he swirls it out and secures it in the hollow of the man's throat. Jared wants to trace the lovely lines of that throat, but the wind is brutal out here and it is no place to linger.
It's easy to drag Jensen inside where it's not icy; Jared lit the hearth earlier and it's still glowing warm.
He pushes Jensen towards the bed, piled high with furs, on a mattress well stuffed with soft rushes. This thrall is not suited for heavy work. But he's most definitely built like a bed-slave. Jensen's curled into the cape, delicate fingers holding the edges. He looks worn, hunching slightly as he sits on the bed.
Jared fills a light goblet with watered down mead and fishes for a bit of salted meat in a pouch. He offers it to Jensen like the thrall is a skittish pup.
Jensen eyes it suspiciously, and refuses it. Jared tries again, taking a small bite of it and then offering it. Jensen allows Jared to feed him, the low rumble of his stomach speaking for him. Deep shame colors the man, though he still gobbles down the food hungrily.
Jared says softly, "Jensen?" When Jensen can meet his eyes again, he points to himself and says, "Jared." None of his clan are formal outside the mead hall, and in any case, slaves taken end up as part of the household and grow familiar with their masters.
Jensen repeats it almost inaudibly. His hands are trembling in his lap where he twists them together tightly, though he betrays no emotion on his face. He lets Jared's hand play at the nape of his neck.
Jared leans in, pulling Jensen's chin up and kisses him. Jensen actually growls, "No," and almost falls on his ass shoving away from Jared. Jared's amused now. Jensen is no Viking, and his hands are soft from whatever he did before, perhaps as a cleric or something. And yet he fights like he means it, no fear just pure defiance. It's adorable is what it is. Jared puts his hands out placatingly.
Jensen growls in the back of his throat as Jared gets closer. Jared dredges up his knowledge of Jensen's language and begins, "Easy there, you will not come to harm."
"Do. Not." Jensen looks like he might actually bite.
Jared manages to herd Jensen back to the bed and then steps back, showing Jensen that he means no harm. Fearful or angry bed-slaves are more trouble than anything else. He can make a game of breaking this thrall down until he's just melted by a look from Jared. It's not like it's going to be hard.
It's hard. Jensen isn't afraid persay, he just avoids Jared like Jared is covered with elk droppings. He's dutiful but the moment he is not required, he's gone. Jared's fire is always blazing, Jared's food is always tested, and Jared's thrall is always more than an arms length away. It would be irritating if it wasn't a little sad. Jared falls asleep with Jensen in his bed, and wakes to find Jensen sleeping on the floor. It's dirty (boots track in everything) and the floor leaves ridged marks on Jensen's soft cheeks.
Jensen looks weary, eating hardly anything and clearly sleeping very little, but he perseveres with a determination unmatched. He is absolutely unwavering and refuses to compromise his boundaries an inch. It makes Jared want him even more, that flashing fire in Jensen's eyes calling him closer.
For all that Jensen is stiff with him, he is loved well by the children and their mothers. Too often, Jared finds Jensen at the end of the night, by the littlest fire, half buried by children. The children have all picked up a smattering of Jensen's language and Jensen himself has learned a great deal of Norse. He tells them tales from his home until their mothers call them to bed. And Jared, watching out of sight, has seen Jensen carry the sleepiest babes to their homes. Jensen does all his chores, works tirelessly in evading Jared, and then spends valuable time he could be sleeping entertaining the children.
Jared himself has a soft spot for the children of his clan, and Jensen's devoted smiles to them make Jared ache with an odd jealousy.
He works to show Jensen that he won't hurt him. He's not a cruel man. He'd give Jensen pleasure, and he's sure Jensen would learn to be with Jared happily. At least, if Jensen would stay near him long enough to hear him out.