mlyn
in
13_warrior
Gods and Monsters, Part 2 (13th Warrior slash)
Gods and Monsters, Part 2
Rated R for vague descriptions of male rape
Notes: continuation of what was started with part 1
Archive: my LJ and 13_warrior
Many thanks to ixchel55 for agreeing to the idea of being my writing partner, fact checker/walking encyclopedia, cheerleader, chat buddy, and everything else behind this. I couldn't do it without her. /maudlin
Ahmed Ibn Fahdlan watched the shore fall away from the boat, the current taking him farther from his friend waving to him on the land. He stopped waving himself when Herger was out of sight. He felt happier than he had in months, even being back on a Northman long boat, because he was finally traveling home.
He walked along the deck of the ship, staying out of the way of the crew but enjoying the fresh air and scenery. He knew, with a thrill, that it would be the last time he would be seeing Jutland, so he wanted to remember it clearly for his writings.
Beyond the deck was the land where Ahmed had spent so many weeks, miles of forests dotted with small settlements. He could see little of civilization from this view, if the Northmen had what could be called a proper civilization. Regardless, the shoreline of dense forests and stony beaches remained as silent and unknowable as the men who lived there.
Shore birds wheeled above his head, singing their abrasive calls as if to bid him a hasty goodbye. He looked up at them for a few minutes, mentally giving his goodbye in return.
He felt strange, like he had developed a kinship with this place but not had the time to acquaint himself with the feeling. He knew he'd miss all of this, but he'd never fallen in love with it to begin with.
He would not be taken all the way back to the region where he had encountered the Northmen, the land of the Tartars. The trading vessel would instead take him as far as they saw fit, and then he'd have to continue on his own, whether by horseback with his mare Asiya, or on another trading ship. The person he'd been months earlier would have been afraid of traveling alone in a foreign country, but after his time as the thirteenth warrior, he felt up to the challenge.
The ship stopped to take on more trade wares and made camp on the shore for the night. As they continued on with the second day, Ahmed realized that the seas were calm here and the sailors frequently had little to do. They asked Ahmed about the battles against the wendol, hungry for the violent, gory details. He enjoyed talking about the other warriors more, living up to his promise of honoring Buliwyf after death through stories. He was already working on an epic poem, though he could only write it in his mind.
In the afternoon he concentrated on talking about his friend Herger, letting the words flow from his lips as easily as how he had once sung poetry for the caliph. His skill with the Norse language was getting better with practice.
Suddenly one man stood up angrily and threw the remains of his meal overboard. He spat the rest, a mouthful of tough bread, onto the deck.
"That argr bastard is too short to swing his own sword. Shut your stupid mouth about him."
Ahmed stared at him, not understanding both the man's language and his anger. He spoke slowly, confused and not wanting to attract the man's irritation. "He fought bravely and well. He was one of the few to live."
"Bah. He is a bastard son of a whore." The man spat again and turned away, bracing his hands on the rail and glaring at the water.
Ahmed stood. "I will not stand here and listen to you curse his name. I demand your apology!"
The other sailors on deck moved around them uneasily. A few still tended to their duties, pulling on sail lines or throwing a slop bucket's contents overboard, but they were distracted by the argument.
The first man stomped across the deck and towered over him, sour breath washing over Ahmed's face. "Who are you? Filthy seiðskratti, skin the color of shit. We should never have let you on this vessel."
A few of the sailors laughed at this new string of curses. Ahmed's face burned, not knowing what the man was calling him. He reached for his sword to make a bigger presence, but the man saw him going for his weapon and moved faster. A fist slammed into his jaw, making his head spin and pain pound through his skull. He shook his head to clear it and spat out blood.
"Stupid milk cow," he shot back, temper overcoming his sense of propriety. "Did some farmer whip all the sense out of your head?"
Another sailor lunged for him, pushing him hard against the rail. The wood pushed hard into his back. "Take it back," the second man ground out between clenched teeth.
"Not until he does!"
The first man reached between them and grabbed Ahmed by his dishdashah, the long robe he wore. The Northman threw him to the middle of the boat. He landed hard on his hip, his hand skidding into the gob of half-chewed bread. He made a disgusted face, and then the Northman was on him.
"Perhaps you want this." The Northman shoved him onto his stomach and began jerking on his clothing. "Make you feel like you're back in the lodge with your precious Herger breathing down your neck." He got Ahmed's robe up around his waist.
Finally understanding his meaning, Ahmed began to struggle, but the other sailors had gathered around. One grabbed his hands and pushed his face into the deck, holding him down with a strength honed through sailing and fighting. His pants were torn down, the waistband jerking hard on his soft genitals. He became aware of a chant starting, "Klámhogg" filling his ears.
The man's hard rod shoved into his body, tearing and burning with such force that tears immediately sprang to his eyes. He cried out. There was laughter around him now, mixed in with the chant. The man thrust again, tearing deeper.
He'd heard "klámhogg" used in a joke a few months prior. Herger had explained it meant "shame-stroke" and was inflicted on the buttocks, but had let Ahmed believe it meant caning. Obviously he was wrong.
After an indeterminable time, the sailor grunted his release and pulled away. Ahmed felt the skin around his entrance stretch as the man pulled out, but the exit was easier than the breaching. He realized he'd become slick with something, and shuddered to think what it might be.
Another sailor tried to take the place of the first man, but there was a scuffle. Someone stepped on his leg and a hand pressed heavily on his hip as a man struggled for balance.
"No more!" someone shouted. "We are finished with this. It is settled."
Ahmed thanked Allah and turned his cheek to the deck, relaxing. His hands were released. Before he could regain his feet, multiple hands pulled him up.
He was steered roughly to the rail of the ship. Realizing the Northmen's intention, he struggled briefly, but was thrown overboard before he could help himself. He fell a short distance and hit his head on an oar, losing consciousness to the bright flare of light behind his eyes.
Ahmed awoke choking on salt water. Instinctively coughing, he flailed in the water for a few moments before settling into a treading motion and clearing his lungs. Gulping in air, he looked blearily around him.
Water surrounded him on all sides. In the distance he could see the ship rowing away. Behind him there was land, but it was a long swim away, and he was only used to swimming in the Tigris River running through Baghdad. There, the banks were a narrower distance than the open sea of this strange land. But with no other option, he decided to swim.
First he wrestled off his waterlogged dishdashah, shumagg, and boots, but saved the beaded ogal that had kept his head covering in place. It was a family heirloom; the rest could be replaced when he got back to civilization. His horse, Asiya, could not be replaced, but he could not think of her while nearly drowning himself. Clutching his ogal in one hand, he continued paddling toward shore.
As he got closer to land the waves got rougher, and he began to be tossed around in the surf. He realized that the shore was not a calm pebbled beach, as he'd hoped, but instead a dense maze of sharp dark rock. A wave started to swamp him and with a burst of fear, he sucked in a breath just before losing consciousness again.
Part 3
Rated R for vague descriptions of male rape
Notes: continuation of what was started with part 1
Archive: my LJ and 13_warrior
Many thanks to ixchel55 for agreeing to the idea of being my writing partner, fact checker/walking encyclopedia, cheerleader, chat buddy, and everything else behind this. I couldn't do it without her. /maudlin
Ahmed Ibn Fahdlan watched the shore fall away from the boat, the current taking him farther from his friend waving to him on the land. He stopped waving himself when Herger was out of sight. He felt happier than he had in months, even being back on a Northman long boat, because he was finally traveling home.
He walked along the deck of the ship, staying out of the way of the crew but enjoying the fresh air and scenery. He knew, with a thrill, that it would be the last time he would be seeing Jutland, so he wanted to remember it clearly for his writings.
Beyond the deck was the land where Ahmed had spent so many weeks, miles of forests dotted with small settlements. He could see little of civilization from this view, if the Northmen had what could be called a proper civilization. Regardless, the shoreline of dense forests and stony beaches remained as silent and unknowable as the men who lived there.
Shore birds wheeled above his head, singing their abrasive calls as if to bid him a hasty goodbye. He looked up at them for a few minutes, mentally giving his goodbye in return.
He felt strange, like he had developed a kinship with this place but not had the time to acquaint himself with the feeling. He knew he'd miss all of this, but he'd never fallen in love with it to begin with.
He would not be taken all the way back to the region where he had encountered the Northmen, the land of the Tartars. The trading vessel would instead take him as far as they saw fit, and then he'd have to continue on his own, whether by horseback with his mare Asiya, or on another trading ship. The person he'd been months earlier would have been afraid of traveling alone in a foreign country, but after his time as the thirteenth warrior, he felt up to the challenge.
The ship stopped to take on more trade wares and made camp on the shore for the night. As they continued on with the second day, Ahmed realized that the seas were calm here and the sailors frequently had little to do. They asked Ahmed about the battles against the wendol, hungry for the violent, gory details. He enjoyed talking about the other warriors more, living up to his promise of honoring Buliwyf after death through stories. He was already working on an epic poem, though he could only write it in his mind.
In the afternoon he concentrated on talking about his friend Herger, letting the words flow from his lips as easily as how he had once sung poetry for the caliph. His skill with the Norse language was getting better with practice.
Suddenly one man stood up angrily and threw the remains of his meal overboard. He spat the rest, a mouthful of tough bread, onto the deck.
"That argr bastard is too short to swing his own sword. Shut your stupid mouth about him."
Ahmed stared at him, not understanding both the man's language and his anger. He spoke slowly, confused and not wanting to attract the man's irritation. "He fought bravely and well. He was one of the few to live."
"Bah. He is a bastard son of a whore." The man spat again and turned away, bracing his hands on the rail and glaring at the water.
Ahmed stood. "I will not stand here and listen to you curse his name. I demand your apology!"
The other sailors on deck moved around them uneasily. A few still tended to their duties, pulling on sail lines or throwing a slop bucket's contents overboard, but they were distracted by the argument.
The first man stomped across the deck and towered over him, sour breath washing over Ahmed's face. "Who are you? Filthy seiðskratti, skin the color of shit. We should never have let you on this vessel."
A few of the sailors laughed at this new string of curses. Ahmed's face burned, not knowing what the man was calling him. He reached for his sword to make a bigger presence, but the man saw him going for his weapon and moved faster. A fist slammed into his jaw, making his head spin and pain pound through his skull. He shook his head to clear it and spat out blood.
"Stupid milk cow," he shot back, temper overcoming his sense of propriety. "Did some farmer whip all the sense out of your head?"
Another sailor lunged for him, pushing him hard against the rail. The wood pushed hard into his back. "Take it back," the second man ground out between clenched teeth.
"Not until he does!"
The first man reached between them and grabbed Ahmed by his dishdashah, the long robe he wore. The Northman threw him to the middle of the boat. He landed hard on his hip, his hand skidding into the gob of half-chewed bread. He made a disgusted face, and then the Northman was on him.
"Perhaps you want this." The Northman shoved him onto his stomach and began jerking on his clothing. "Make you feel like you're back in the lodge with your precious Herger breathing down your neck." He got Ahmed's robe up around his waist.
Finally understanding his meaning, Ahmed began to struggle, but the other sailors had gathered around. One grabbed his hands and pushed his face into the deck, holding him down with a strength honed through sailing and fighting. His pants were torn down, the waistband jerking hard on his soft genitals. He became aware of a chant starting, "Klámhogg" filling his ears.
The man's hard rod shoved into his body, tearing and burning with such force that tears immediately sprang to his eyes. He cried out. There was laughter around him now, mixed in with the chant. The man thrust again, tearing deeper.
He'd heard "klámhogg" used in a joke a few months prior. Herger had explained it meant "shame-stroke" and was inflicted on the buttocks, but had let Ahmed believe it meant caning. Obviously he was wrong.
After an indeterminable time, the sailor grunted his release and pulled away. Ahmed felt the skin around his entrance stretch as the man pulled out, but the exit was easier than the breaching. He realized he'd become slick with something, and shuddered to think what it might be.
Another sailor tried to take the place of the first man, but there was a scuffle. Someone stepped on his leg and a hand pressed heavily on his hip as a man struggled for balance.
"No more!" someone shouted. "We are finished with this. It is settled."
Ahmed thanked Allah and turned his cheek to the deck, relaxing. His hands were released. Before he could regain his feet, multiple hands pulled him up.
He was steered roughly to the rail of the ship. Realizing the Northmen's intention, he struggled briefly, but was thrown overboard before he could help himself. He fell a short distance and hit his head on an oar, losing consciousness to the bright flare of light behind his eyes.
Ahmed awoke choking on salt water. Instinctively coughing, he flailed in the water for a few moments before settling into a treading motion and clearing his lungs. Gulping in air, he looked blearily around him.
Water surrounded him on all sides. In the distance he could see the ship rowing away. Behind him there was land, but it was a long swim away, and he was only used to swimming in the Tigris River running through Baghdad. There, the banks were a narrower distance than the open sea of this strange land. But with no other option, he decided to swim.
First he wrestled off his waterlogged dishdashah, shumagg, and boots, but saved the beaded ogal that had kept his head covering in place. It was a family heirloom; the rest could be replaced when he got back to civilization. His horse, Asiya, could not be replaced, but he could not think of her while nearly drowning himself. Clutching his ogal in one hand, he continued paddling toward shore.
As he got closer to land the waves got rougher, and he began to be tossed around in the surf. He realized that the shore was not a calm pebbled beach, as he'd hoped, but instead a dense maze of sharp dark rock. A wave started to swamp him and with a burst of fear, he sucked in a breath just before losing consciousness again.
Part 3