Of Hearts of Men
Here's an old swap fic that I thought to re-post here just to keep things in some kind of an order. :D
Title: Of Hearts of Men.
Recipient: akisilver
Pairing: Norway/Denmark.
Rating: R
Warnings: Language.
Summary: My prompt was “Viking!Norway/Denmark, could be on a raid but just something pairing-wise between them in this era.” I decided to take a bit broader view on it but I hope you still like it!
Notes: A hugebig thank you to my wonderful beta, fukkafyla!
Of Hearts of Men.
The sunlight was twinkling off the surface of the water and it made eyes hurt to look towards the ships; yet he knew now was the time of extreme caution and readiness and kept his vigil. Small waves were lapping at the shore, an otherwise pleasant sound but right now it seemed badly out of place. He tried to make an educated estimation about how large the opposing army was: perhaps fifteen thousand men? It wasn't a desperate situation, all things considered, but a wrong move and it could quickly turn into one. The men gathered around him and the king were silent, each sizing up the enemy, each pondering the near future. Sunlight from the water reflected off the shining helmets.
A man stepped out of their ranks, the brother of the king, and called out to the ships looming outside of the city asking who was the captain of them and what was his business. From the ships, another man stood up. Denmark knew this man well, oh, he did. There had been times when they had been on the same side, and other times when they had tried each others' strength in battle. He had come to respect his quick arm.
...and his knowledge, he admitted to himself. There were not many his level when it came to arts of cunning and magic, yet he was a man of great pride and courage and would not resort to those skills against humanfolk. It was no wonder that the captain of the ships had chosen him as his spokesman, Denmark mused, for he indeed knew the ways of the court and customs of talking to royalty. He saw him shrug his cape into a better position and calmly cross his arms across his chest. Then he spoke and his voice rang clear across the water:
“You will go tell your king, if you are not too busy picking your nose, that these ships belong to king Helgi. With him are many great men who'd rather avoid talking to such manwhores as you, who have dressed in women's clothes to take as many men and their horses as would come, and whom I myself buggered until you gave birth to five wolf cubs.”
Denmark fought down a grin. There would definitely be blood.
If asked, Denmark would have said he did not particularly relish in battle. Then he would lean sideways in his chair, prop his face against his hand and add with a happy smile that he did not mind them very much either. A visitor could only wonder what this possibly meant and accept a drinking horn from one of his many slaves, all the while admiring the grandiousity of his house, all spoils of war and careful politics among his own people. Denmark always made sure his company was properly taken care of and that there would be nothing lacking, and eventually he would send them on their way with magnificent gifts. And how good it felt to draw in a long breath of fresh air and congratulate one's self on still being alive!
He knew how they viewed him and it was exactly as he would have it. That was why humans rarely interested him very much. The young man who would use foul language in front of Denmark's king, he was different. There was not a touch of humility in him, nor any trace of fear or amazement. It was as if he were void of feeling altogether and this made him curious beyond belief. Denmark had wondered if his strange attraction to this man could have been due to the fact that they both were the same kind, but this was hardly so. To begin with, there was Sweden whom he hated more than he thought possible, and England who was under his thumb whenever he chose so, neither of them were otherwise interesting. And what was the name of that nobody who hung around Sweden constantly...? Denmark couldn't remember and didn't really care. If people didn't stand on their own they deserved to perish, he thought, and that meant his own people as much as anybody else's.
Conflicts came and went, one moment they were enemies and the next day they would be seated side by side at Denmark's large table. A person of keen sense of honour would have balked at such behaviour, but he found solace in the knowledge that he never let such a person leave his house alive. Besides, what was honour to him? It might be conquests and the wealth they brought, it might be education and worldliness, it might be skills of battle, weave, goldsmithing or building the best ships there were. Not many could boast about the things he took for granted, not many but that quiet young man could... except that he didn't. He hardly ever spoke at all. They could be carving from the same meat and cheese and yet there was no evidence that he wasn't planning to coldly murder him in his bed. The thought excited as much as it alarmed him.
A memory swam into his mind, uninvited. The weather had been bad, they had been lost in the north and the crew was already drenched, chilled to the bone and desperate to find land. Every single one of them was ill, himself included. He had been disregarding his worsening health so as to keep everyone's spirits up but of course he hadn't been able to fool his - well, friend, for want of a better term. His calm eyes had seemed to follow him wherever he went and every moment when he felt like collapsing he had suddenly appeared beside him, and Denmark had somehow found strength in the simple presence of him. Eventually he had decided that death could fetch him off his feet if need be but never, ever would he show any weakness in front of a man of his caliber.
Yet, when they had finally found a place to dock in he had done just that, hadn't he? For uncounted days he had been unconscious, sleeping in the way the people do when their fever will either cure or kill them. Those few moments he had woken up his friend had always been within his vision, shoveling soup into his mouth, helping him drink or simply just being there, sitting by his bedside. Denmark frowned at the memory because this was the part he did not like very much. He had seemed concerned about him.
Ever since that he had sought him out on battlefields whenever their forces were pitted against each other. His mind felt elated as he struck at him, every blow he gave rose his spirits higher. And his friend, he smiled at him under his axe and blocked him deftly time and time again. Indeed, Denmark thought, the only worthy death was at this young man's hands.
There were no waves now, just red water splashing all around him, cries of men on both sides and the maddening din of metal against metal, wood and flesh. He saw the young man wade towards him in the shallow water, searching for him as Denmark had been searching for him. They would find each other, and eventually they would part; Denmark held onto his axe with a joyous grin on his face and readied himself for the attack. For today he would stand his ground and send him and his men back home on their beautiful, dragon-headed ships; let them meet again some other day and perhaps, then, in peace.
The bath house was dark and the warm water rose sweetly over his chest as he sat down. He knew it didn't make him popular among the barbarians of the south and west but as a man of high position he would rather have ran across his biggest city naked than forfeited bathing regularly. His hair fell over his shoulders, fine and well-combed, and he changed his clothes every few days, and all of this seemed to provoke his enemies further. It was like they reveled in their filth and lice, expecting him to listen to them criticize him for not steeping to their level, he mused. For him it was just one more reason to never hold back his hand when he went to war against those disgusting animals.
His thoughts were disturbed by the door opening and closing quietly. He knew to expect a slave girl - why, he had so many of them and sometimes he liked some company just as much as the next man - but this one had rather heavy footsteps to be one of them. For a split second the air seemed to hang heavy around him. He had no weapons near him and this was a damned embarrassing way to go... yet the man who had entered the room didn't seem too hasty in taking his life. Denmark decided to gamble on it. “Took you long enough” he said, his voice carrying a mere hint of sharpness. “Come now, wash my hair.”
Now everything depended on what the intruder decided to do. If he would try to sneak closer, well, Denmark knew a thing or two about wrestling. If he tried to charge at him he would be ready for that too.
Yet the hands that lit on his shoulders still managed to surprise him. The fingers were long and the palms oddly soft for a man, and he wore his rings like someone he knew very well. Now utterly confused, Denmark closed his eyes to not let it show. He bowed his head forward for the visitor to pour water over his head. Now that he knew who it was all thoughts of fighting him were out of the question, and attacking someone in such a sneaky fashion was not something he would do. As to why he was here now Denmark had no idea and he knew questions would only be met with the customary silence; he would have to wait and see if his friend would speak first.
He didn't seem to be in a rush to do so. Instead he worked soap into his hair and Denmark felt both cold and feverish at the same time as he slid his fingers into his hair and along his scalp and he thanked quietly in his mind his own bathhouse for being rather dark and his bath tub for being deep enough to hide what was going on somewhere below all that water. Helpless against the gentle touch he leaned back against the hands that were now skillfully massaging his head, behind his ears and the sides of his neck. He drew a shaky, hissing breath between his teeth and the hands stopped, abruptly, as if afraid of having done something unwanted. “It's just a scar”, he mumbled unable to put a stop to this strange act at the only chance he got. “Norway caught me a good one on that side, still stings after all these years...”
The person behind him seemed to relax and continued rubbing his neck and shoulders. Something by his silence told Denmark he was smiling at him again.
End notes:
The little speech Norway makes in the beginning was indeed an appropriate form for a situation where the other side wanted to make clear they came with a fight in mind. I borrowed bits of it from the Völsunga Saga, so in case you think it sounds oddly familiar that might be the reason. :D
Generousity was considered a form of good behaviour in the Viking era north, so hospitality and presents were the norm among the nobles. It also strenghtened friendships, which were very important at a time when a man's honour was calculated by his strength in arms and the amount of loyal friends he had around him.
A dragon head on a ship was only attached when the idea was to raid someone. They were not used on peaceful journeys, and returning home it was forbidden to have one still attached lest it frighten away the otherwise helpful spirits of one's own homeland.
Vikings bathed regularly, changed their clothes often, combed and bleached their hair (especially the men were keen on using a certain type of soap that had a bleaching effect), trimmed their beards and wore colourful, ornate jewellery. This was considered highly non-Christian and suspicious behaviour by other, less hygienic countries where taking care of appearances was considered sinful, but for the Viking era people cleanliness was so important that one was not allowed to even pray without first washing at least the hands and the face.
Every house had a bath, and these varied somewhat from country to country. Icelanders bathed in hot springs, the Sweden-Finland area had saunas, and in fact it can be said that sauna-like bathing rooms have perhaps existed elsewhere as well. Bathing in bath tubs definitely did happen too, although one would have to be quite wealthy to afford one of the size Denmark used in this fic.
Homosexuality was frowned upon, but strangely only the “passive” side of it. Men could attack other men in a sexual way without being, er, gay at all, but it was considered a lethal wound to treat a man thusly and therefore it has been debated how homosexual relationships of this era would even have been possible - after all, you don't want to cause such harm to someone you love.
Using a slave for this would not have been considered a homosexual act, but there were special derogatory terms for men who preferred bedding men instead of women (same went for women who liked their own gender better). Still, preferences aside one had to get married and have children first.
Washing or combing someone's hair was a highly flirtatious act among the Viking era people, by the way! :D
Title: Of Hearts of Men.
Recipient: akisilver
Pairing: Norway/Denmark.
Rating: R
Warnings: Language.
Summary: My prompt was “Viking!Norway/Denmark, could be on a raid but just something pairing-wise between them in this era.” I decided to take a bit broader view on it but I hope you still like it!
Notes: A hugebig thank you to my wonderful beta, fukkafyla!
Of Hearts of Men.
The sunlight was twinkling off the surface of the water and it made eyes hurt to look towards the ships; yet he knew now was the time of extreme caution and readiness and kept his vigil. Small waves were lapping at the shore, an otherwise pleasant sound but right now it seemed badly out of place. He tried to make an educated estimation about how large the opposing army was: perhaps fifteen thousand men? It wasn't a desperate situation, all things considered, but a wrong move and it could quickly turn into one. The men gathered around him and the king were silent, each sizing up the enemy, each pondering the near future. Sunlight from the water reflected off the shining helmets.
A man stepped out of their ranks, the brother of the king, and called out to the ships looming outside of the city asking who was the captain of them and what was his business. From the ships, another man stood up. Denmark knew this man well, oh, he did. There had been times when they had been on the same side, and other times when they had tried each others' strength in battle. He had come to respect his quick arm.
...and his knowledge, he admitted to himself. There were not many his level when it came to arts of cunning and magic, yet he was a man of great pride and courage and would not resort to those skills against humanfolk. It was no wonder that the captain of the ships had chosen him as his spokesman, Denmark mused, for he indeed knew the ways of the court and customs of talking to royalty. He saw him shrug his cape into a better position and calmly cross his arms across his chest. Then he spoke and his voice rang clear across the water:
“You will go tell your king, if you are not too busy picking your nose, that these ships belong to king Helgi. With him are many great men who'd rather avoid talking to such manwhores as you, who have dressed in women's clothes to take as many men and their horses as would come, and whom I myself buggered until you gave birth to five wolf cubs.”
Denmark fought down a grin. There would definitely be blood.
If asked, Denmark would have said he did not particularly relish in battle. Then he would lean sideways in his chair, prop his face against his hand and add with a happy smile that he did not mind them very much either. A visitor could only wonder what this possibly meant and accept a drinking horn from one of his many slaves, all the while admiring the grandiousity of his house, all spoils of war and careful politics among his own people. Denmark always made sure his company was properly taken care of and that there would be nothing lacking, and eventually he would send them on their way with magnificent gifts. And how good it felt to draw in a long breath of fresh air and congratulate one's self on still being alive!
He knew how they viewed him and it was exactly as he would have it. That was why humans rarely interested him very much. The young man who would use foul language in front of Denmark's king, he was different. There was not a touch of humility in him, nor any trace of fear or amazement. It was as if he were void of feeling altogether and this made him curious beyond belief. Denmark had wondered if his strange attraction to this man could have been due to the fact that they both were the same kind, but this was hardly so. To begin with, there was Sweden whom he hated more than he thought possible, and England who was under his thumb whenever he chose so, neither of them were otherwise interesting. And what was the name of that nobody who hung around Sweden constantly...? Denmark couldn't remember and didn't really care. If people didn't stand on their own they deserved to perish, he thought, and that meant his own people as much as anybody else's.
Conflicts came and went, one moment they were enemies and the next day they would be seated side by side at Denmark's large table. A person of keen sense of honour would have balked at such behaviour, but he found solace in the knowledge that he never let such a person leave his house alive. Besides, what was honour to him? It might be conquests and the wealth they brought, it might be education and worldliness, it might be skills of battle, weave, goldsmithing or building the best ships there were. Not many could boast about the things he took for granted, not many but that quiet young man could... except that he didn't. He hardly ever spoke at all. They could be carving from the same meat and cheese and yet there was no evidence that he wasn't planning to coldly murder him in his bed. The thought excited as much as it alarmed him.
A memory swam into his mind, uninvited. The weather had been bad, they had been lost in the north and the crew was already drenched, chilled to the bone and desperate to find land. Every single one of them was ill, himself included. He had been disregarding his worsening health so as to keep everyone's spirits up but of course he hadn't been able to fool his - well, friend, for want of a better term. His calm eyes had seemed to follow him wherever he went and every moment when he felt like collapsing he had suddenly appeared beside him, and Denmark had somehow found strength in the simple presence of him. Eventually he had decided that death could fetch him off his feet if need be but never, ever would he show any weakness in front of a man of his caliber.
Yet, when they had finally found a place to dock in he had done just that, hadn't he? For uncounted days he had been unconscious, sleeping in the way the people do when their fever will either cure or kill them. Those few moments he had woken up his friend had always been within his vision, shoveling soup into his mouth, helping him drink or simply just being there, sitting by his bedside. Denmark frowned at the memory because this was the part he did not like very much. He had seemed concerned about him.
Ever since that he had sought him out on battlefields whenever their forces were pitted against each other. His mind felt elated as he struck at him, every blow he gave rose his spirits higher. And his friend, he smiled at him under his axe and blocked him deftly time and time again. Indeed, Denmark thought, the only worthy death was at this young man's hands.
There were no waves now, just red water splashing all around him, cries of men on both sides and the maddening din of metal against metal, wood and flesh. He saw the young man wade towards him in the shallow water, searching for him as Denmark had been searching for him. They would find each other, and eventually they would part; Denmark held onto his axe with a joyous grin on his face and readied himself for the attack. For today he would stand his ground and send him and his men back home on their beautiful, dragon-headed ships; let them meet again some other day and perhaps, then, in peace.
The bath house was dark and the warm water rose sweetly over his chest as he sat down. He knew it didn't make him popular among the barbarians of the south and west but as a man of high position he would rather have ran across his biggest city naked than forfeited bathing regularly. His hair fell over his shoulders, fine and well-combed, and he changed his clothes every few days, and all of this seemed to provoke his enemies further. It was like they reveled in their filth and lice, expecting him to listen to them criticize him for not steeping to their level, he mused. For him it was just one more reason to never hold back his hand when he went to war against those disgusting animals.
His thoughts were disturbed by the door opening and closing quietly. He knew to expect a slave girl - why, he had so many of them and sometimes he liked some company just as much as the next man - but this one had rather heavy footsteps to be one of them. For a split second the air seemed to hang heavy around him. He had no weapons near him and this was a damned embarrassing way to go... yet the man who had entered the room didn't seem too hasty in taking his life. Denmark decided to gamble on it. “Took you long enough” he said, his voice carrying a mere hint of sharpness. “Come now, wash my hair.”
Now everything depended on what the intruder decided to do. If he would try to sneak closer, well, Denmark knew a thing or two about wrestling. If he tried to charge at him he would be ready for that too.
Yet the hands that lit on his shoulders still managed to surprise him. The fingers were long and the palms oddly soft for a man, and he wore his rings like someone he knew very well. Now utterly confused, Denmark closed his eyes to not let it show. He bowed his head forward for the visitor to pour water over his head. Now that he knew who it was all thoughts of fighting him were out of the question, and attacking someone in such a sneaky fashion was not something he would do. As to why he was here now Denmark had no idea and he knew questions would only be met with the customary silence; he would have to wait and see if his friend would speak first.
He didn't seem to be in a rush to do so. Instead he worked soap into his hair and Denmark felt both cold and feverish at the same time as he slid his fingers into his hair and along his scalp and he thanked quietly in his mind his own bathhouse for being rather dark and his bath tub for being deep enough to hide what was going on somewhere below all that water. Helpless against the gentle touch he leaned back against the hands that were now skillfully massaging his head, behind his ears and the sides of his neck. He drew a shaky, hissing breath between his teeth and the hands stopped, abruptly, as if afraid of having done something unwanted. “It's just a scar”, he mumbled unable to put a stop to this strange act at the only chance he got. “Norway caught me a good one on that side, still stings after all these years...”
The person behind him seemed to relax and continued rubbing his neck and shoulders. Something by his silence told Denmark he was smiling at him again.
End notes:
The little speech Norway makes in the beginning was indeed an appropriate form for a situation where the other side wanted to make clear they came with a fight in mind. I borrowed bits of it from the Völsunga Saga, so in case you think it sounds oddly familiar that might be the reason. :D
Generousity was considered a form of good behaviour in the Viking era north, so hospitality and presents were the norm among the nobles. It also strenghtened friendships, which were very important at a time when a man's honour was calculated by his strength in arms and the amount of loyal friends he had around him.
A dragon head on a ship was only attached when the idea was to raid someone. They were not used on peaceful journeys, and returning home it was forbidden to have one still attached lest it frighten away the otherwise helpful spirits of one's own homeland.
Vikings bathed regularly, changed their clothes often, combed and bleached their hair (especially the men were keen on using a certain type of soap that had a bleaching effect), trimmed their beards and wore colourful, ornate jewellery. This was considered highly non-Christian and suspicious behaviour by other, less hygienic countries where taking care of appearances was considered sinful, but for the Viking era people cleanliness was so important that one was not allowed to even pray without first washing at least the hands and the face.
Every house had a bath, and these varied somewhat from country to country. Icelanders bathed in hot springs, the Sweden-Finland area had saunas, and in fact it can be said that sauna-like bathing rooms have perhaps existed elsewhere as well. Bathing in bath tubs definitely did happen too, although one would have to be quite wealthy to afford one of the size Denmark used in this fic.
Homosexuality was frowned upon, but strangely only the “passive” side of it. Men could attack other men in a sexual way without being, er, gay at all, but it was considered a lethal wound to treat a man thusly and therefore it has been debated how homosexual relationships of this era would even have been possible - after all, you don't want to cause such harm to someone you love.
Using a slave for this would not have been considered a homosexual act, but there were special derogatory terms for men who preferred bedding men instead of women (same went for women who liked their own gender better). Still, preferences aside one had to get married and have children first.
Washing or combing someone's hair was a highly flirtatious act among the Viking era people, by the way! :D