Chapter Text
The sun rose slowly, seeming to climb up out of the ocean. The sky and all of its clouds were touched with rich light. It was a beautiful sight to behold, overwhelming all who looked upon it with colours that could not quite be recreated.
John walked along the beach, carrying a basket and a small spade. His eyes were only for the sand below his feet as he went, ignoring the sunrise completely. Pretty things weren’t as important as food.
Halting, he spotted a tiny hole. Bubbles squeezed promisingly out of it, bursting quietly in the sand. Kneeling down, John quickly began to dig. The sand was still cold in the mornings even though Spring had brought warmth to the coast. His fingers were growing numb from the chill. Just one more would do, he told himself.
Quickly, he thrust his arm down the hole he’d dug. Drawing his hand back out he shook wet sand from the spoot he’d caught. It was one of the fatter ones he’d managed in the past hour. Abigail would be pleased and they’d have some decent stew after such a harsh winter. They needed all of their strength as it was time to begin plowing their small field for planting.
He only had a little more time before the tide came back in on this part of the beach, and he wanted to be back at the farm soon. John dropped the spoot in the basket and stood.
“Heill!”
John froze, and looked up. There weren’t usually any other people around for quite some distance. The closest was a family on a farm a bit larger than his and Abigail’s. They traded once in a while.
But this was a stranger approaching him across the wet sand.
Where had he come from?
He was so tall. Easily standing taller than John who was not a small man himself. He was broad too, dressed in a linen shirt, fitted trousers and woolen legwraps under what looked like a leather gambeson. His hair was cut in a strange way. Shorn close everywhere but on top where dark blond hair hung down less than a finger’s length. His modest beard was neatly combed. A shield was strapped to his back and a sword and axe hung from his belt.
John only had a knife, the small spade and his squarehead axe that hung on his own belt. His heart jumped to his throat, and he quickly realized that he was in some danger. If he made a run for it, there was a chance he might not be caught. But he couldn’t risk leading any threats back to his home or to Abigail.
As John reached nervously to his axe.
The man outstretched his hands in a display of peace. And he smiled tentatively and said slowly, “Góðan morgin!”
Unsure of what the stranger had just said, John simply replied, “Hello…?”
But then he saw the big man’s eyes. They were so…remarkably blue. He’d never seen anything like them before.
But then the stranger was speaking again, this time faster and with such excitement that John couldn’t separate his strange words.
He stared at him with uncertainty. “Sorry. I dinnae ken what yer saying.” He shook his head gently and shrugged his shoulders to attempt to get his words across. This finally slowed the stranger’s talking down. A small wave of frustration came over his face, and he looked down, “Fyrirgef þú...Ek,” but then he gave pause.
John followed the gaze of the stranger’s deep blue eyes and found him looking into his basket. Then the bigger man smiled, bright and awed, instantly stealing away John’s breath, “Oh! Skelfisk!”
“Uh,”
He pointed into the basket and said again, “Skelfisk.”
John couldn’t help but smile as the man suddenly turned about, looking at the sand all around him. It was the childlike glee of seeing something familiar and it was hard to be afraid. He watched as he slipped the shield off of his back and jammed it sticking straight up into the sand with surprising strength. Then he took up John’s small spade, “Gørvel,” and set to digging a short distance away.
John, for his part, shook his head in disbelief at the turn his morning had taken. He had come out to collect the long, thin clams that frequented the beaches, looking forward to the resulting stew. As long as he could keep Abigail away from it, that is. And now he was watching a strange, large man, speaking an unfamiliar language dig for spoots with a borrowed spade.
His eyes fell upon the round shield. It was freshly painted half black and half red. There were faint scars along its face, and dents in the circle of iron in the middle. It was a shield that had seen battle. Water suddenly splashed gently against it.
“Vér hafa skelfiskur hryggr heima.” The stranger laughed, holding up a spoot, looking around for more.
John glanced at the ocean. “Uh...the tide’s coming in.”
The big man looked over his shoulder at him, blinking questionly. “Hm?”
John pointed out towards the ocean. The water was rolling in, closer and closer to where they were. In a matter of moments, it would be licking at their heels. “The tide.”
“Oh,” The stranger uttered, standing. They walked back towards the shoreline together, picking up the basket and shield along the way. No longer in danger of getting wet, the two men looked curiously at one another.
The big man cleared his throat and dropped the spoot he’d dug up into John’s basket. Then he held a large, sand-covered hand against his own chest, “Arnþórr.”
Turning his chin slightly to one side, and shrugging, John tried to indicate for the stranger to repeat himself.
Understanding, he tapped his chest with his hand, “Arnþórr.”
It was his name.
John nodded, “Arth...Arn, uh, Arntor...thor…Arthor.”
He nodded back, smiling patiently, saying again, “Arnþórr.”
The name felt strange in his mouth. But it almost sounded like “Artair” as his Pict father might have said, or “Arthur” as his Northumbrian mother might have said. Holding a hand to his own chest, he said, “John.”
“...Yawn...”
John burst out laughing.
Arnþórr smirked, placing his hands on his belt in an easy way. Licking his lips, he tried again, “Yeh...Yon,” but the result was the same.
This time they laughed together.
John shook his head. He had never heard such a language or dialect. It wasn’t that they saw many strangers around in general. Perhaps the occasional group of Saxonfolk came North to throw their weight around. Try and settle. And find that the Highlands didn’t agree with them. But this was...new.
“Where did ye come from?” John asked, pointing at him, raising his hands, and looking around.
Arnþórr pointed out to sea, “Aust.”
That gave John pause. He looked towards the sunrise. Arnþórr had come from the sea. From across the sea. And it hit him.
Tall. Strange clothes and a rocky language. Iron swords, sharpened axes. Round, painted shields with scars of battle on their faces.
Word had traveled of people like this before. The clans this far North hadn’t any worry, for no one was rich. No one was a terribly devout Christian. And they all had a good chuckle at the expense of the Saxonfolk.
But now they were here.
The Northfolk were here.
“Vér hafa landnám,” Arnþórr said, crouching. With his finger, he began to draw in the sand. John watched as the big man drew trees, a fat river with fish, a strange boat, and tents. And people. He pointed off slightly North, “Nei fjarri.”
“There are more of ye?” John asked, swallowing. From the drawing, he knew the area where they were camped. Up some ways, a river emptied into the ocean. Further upriver, there was a lake where John would go to fish sometimes. It was close. Far enough for them not to have noticed each other just yet. But still close.
Arnþórr looked back at him, frowning. “Yon?” His pronunciation was still off, but that wasn’t an issue. He had instantly sensed the sudden change and uneasiness in John.
“More Northfolk…” he murmured, settling his hand on his squarehead axe, looking fearfully in the direction Arnþórr had indicated.
Seeming to recognize that word and the reputation that followed it in this side of the world,
Arnþórr shook his head, and stood. Reaching into a leather pouch hanging from his belt, he drew out a small linen bag. “Nei strið. Nei barðagi. Nei víking. Vér landnámamaðr. Vér hús. Steðfesta.” He said, sounding more and more frustrated with each word.
John flinched when Arnþórr grabbed his hand. But then he took the small bag and shook some of the contents out into John’s palm.
Seeds.
They were seeds. Some sort of fat, flat bean seed.
Arnþórr gently let go of John’s hand and took a step back. He pointed to the seeds and then gestured to himself, “Steðfesta.”
“Yer…farmers.” John said in disbelief, pushing the seeds around in his hand. With rumours he’d heard about Northfolk, it was hard to imagine them as...people. For some time, they’d been the tales of devils, appearing on dragon ships that could endure the ocean and somehow sail up rivers. Bloodthirsty giants who came, stole what they wanted, killed mercilessly and then disappeared into the sea again.
John mulled it over. If Arnþórr had wished him harm, he could have killed him long before this moment. Fairly easily too. John might have been able to put up a bit of a fight but not for too long. Then Arnþórr could have taken the basket of spoots, and left him there dead on the beach.
But he didn’t.
John looked back up at the big man. His blue eyes were solemn and wary, willing John to believe him. To not be afraid of him. He clutched the linen bag of seeds preciously in his hand.
“Nyr líf,” Arnþórr murmured, gesturing widely to the land around them. The lush green of Spring, the beauty of the sunrise.
Smiling softly, John nodded, and made to give back the seeds. But Arnþórr shook his head, reaching out to close John’s fingers around them with his own. “Góðvili.”
And with that, the big man smiled, gave a nod and then turned back the way he’d come. John watched him walk away for a long moment before turning back to go back to his own little farm.
At some point, he paused and looked over his shoulder. Arnþórr had climbed up some rocks just off the beach, and turned back to look at just about the same time. In the distance, he raised an arm, and waved.
John raised his hand in reply, and then continued on his way. Abigail would never believe him.