Chapter Text
ཐི𓆩 ♱ 𓆪ཋྀ
On the day where Castiel needed his guidance most, God denied him his council.
The bile tried escaping again. Going against his natural instincts and continuously swallowing it down was its own kind of torture, but Castiel endured it with grim determination.
By this point, the acrid itch in the back of his throat was burning as if he’d poured molten tar down his maw.
In the autumn months, the seas tended to grow restless and wicked, and the boat that’d waited for them at the beach was but a nutshell on the ever-rising and falling canyons of foaming grey.
But no matter the circumstances; strength and steadfastness were all he was to project today. Emptying his stomach contents over the side of the boat from this short a crossing simply wasn’t an option. The soon-to-be anointed heir to the kingdom of Dál Riata – and the effigy to its might and purpose– couldn’t be observed being weak.
A particularly harsh drop into the valley between two mountainous waves wrangled an involuntary groan from Castiel. The way his stomach churned along with that dreadful heartbeat of weightlessness taking hold of the boat time and time again, it evoked a brand of terror rarely met anywhere else.
One that kept posing the same question over and over again, with every descent into the waves’ throughs:
Would the boat cut straight into the bottomless maelstrom waiting beneath the tides instead of staying buoyant? Would it betray its very nature and deliver them down into a cold, wet grave? Would he die here and now, before it’d all really begun?
“Must I remind you of what’s at stake?”
Eardwulf spoke under his breath, his voice tense and low. Castiel shot him a vexed look out of the corner of his eye, which the bastard took without flinching.
“I’m aware.”
Castiel straightened his back in an attempt to liberate his mind from the shackles of his thoughts. None of their panicked conjurings would come to pass. They’d made it this far, and they would safely make the last hundred yards as well.
He just had to believe they would.
“Go ahead and wipe that pitiful look off your face, then.”
Castiel refrained from giving in to the urge of hurling Eardwulf over the railing. He really wanted to. If nothing else, it would at least give him something to take his mind off the trepidations of finding his end within the frigid seas.
Regrettably, Eardwulf was right. Descendants of Adam did not get seasick, and what waited for him in the monastery would only be bestowed if there wasn’t the smallest chip in the metaphorical armour he wore—no blemish, not even the most unassuming little dent.
Castiel somehow managed to hold onto his breakfast until they made landfall. If it was out of sheer force of will or fear of what’d happen if he failed, he couldn’t tell. All he knew was that he’d seldom been more relieved to feel solid ground beneath his feet.
A procession of monks and peasants from the nearby village awaited them where the beach crawled beneath an overhang of unkempt grass and weeds. The townspeople were well aware that the heir to the throne gracing them with his presence was a great honour, and they were eager to make their gratitude known with gifts and praises to his family’s name.
“Welcome to Ioua Insula , your highness.”
One of the monks stepped forward and bowed in his direction, once Castiel and the small convoy consisting of his guards and Eardwulf arrived in front of the gathered crowd. It’d taken more effort than it should to conceal the wobbly feeling in his knees while treading the sand.
“We have awaited your arrival with great anticipation. Crìsdean Dubh, I’m the Abbot of Iona Abbey.”
Castiel cleared his throat.
“Well met, Abbot Crìsdean.”
The Abbot stepped aside and gestured for him to go ahead and take the stoned path that led up the hill, toward the monastery grounds. Judging by its condition, it’d been quite a while since someone had bothered to tend to the gashes the passing of time had torn into the trail.
As was his duty, Castiel greeted his eager subjects before following suit, and accepted their gifts and well wishes with regal gratitude.
Groups of strangers always made his heart beat uncomfortably in his throat.
The chances were small, but any one of them could be a fellow Descendant of Adam. All it would take then was a bit of bad luck and sheer coincidence, and the carefully spun web of lies and deceit that’d brought him to this point would tear apart, and would expose what was hidden beneath.
The best kept secret in Dál Riata , if not all of Britannia.
Because Castiel, the singular heir to the lands and titles of Dál Riata , the miracle Descendant of Adam in the bloodline of his father and supposed salvation and peace bringer, was not what he made everyone believe he was.
A descendant of the first humans, he was– so much was true. But he wasn’t the blessed Alpha that would make these lands prosper with God’s grace.
He wasn’t Alpha.
He was Omega.
ཐི═──── ☽𓆩 ♱ 𓆪☾ ────═ཋྀ
The pearl of sweat ran down Castiel’s spine, agonizingly slowly.
Every Descendant of Adam who was to rise to the throne needed to be granted the blessing in a place of God that ordained them to the role they were to assume in the future, and pronounced fit of their station.
In Castiel’s case, he’d be pronounced all the things he wasn’t.
" Surge fili ade, et suscipe benedictionem domini ,” the Abbot called out with foreboding vigour and signed for Castiel to rise from his knees.
He followed suit, stepped forward, and presented the underside of his wrist. Abbot Crísdean grasped the thin pole that’d rested in the fire bowl beside him until now.
" Deus vult! "
The glowing iron painted a fleeting vision of ochre and scarlet into the air as the priest swung it above his head. A sharp hiss echoed once it fell. Castiel barely took notice of the pain produced by his sizzling flesh, gaze fixed on the statuette of the son of God hanging on the stone wall behind the altar with fervent devotion.
" Ave filius adae! "
Once the Abbot pulled the branding rod away, Castiel turned to the rows of wooden benches that were filled to the brim with monks and villagers and raised his arm above his head, with his palm facing forward.
" Ave filius adae ,” the choir of voices answered the abbot’s call three times.
Each declaration felt like the strike of or needled whip on Castiel’s back. Even though nothing of the elation he should feel about having successfully fulfilled his mission came, he triumphantly smiled into the assembly while he descended the steps leading up to the altar and marched down the aisle.
Hand still lingering above his head, displaying the sigil of the almighty to the witnesses.
" Per deos immortalis! " he called out once he arrived at the chapel’s gates, and stepped into the crowd that’d gathered outside.
Flanked by the guards that’d waited for his emergence, he tended to his subjects once more. Made sure each and every single one of them saw the mark on his wrist while they congratulated, thanked, gifted, and promised they’d pray for the health of him and his family.
The process felt like he was moving through honey. It was a strenuous and ungiving thing, to inch closer and closer towards the rooms that’d been prepared for him to stay the night while he kept smiling, kept acting like he hadn’t just defiled the only thing he held dear.
At some point, the door finally fell closed behind him. Without missing a beat, he fished the sterling rosary out of his collar and knelt on the barren stone floor.
He begged for forgiveness until the daylight faded and the room fell into the twilight of dusk.
It was bad enough that he was what he was. A miscreant of Eve, not a blessed scion of Adam. The personification of the temptress in paradise, the likeness of the wicked fiend that’d lured the first man to sin. The one that, with her actions, had expelled humanity from Elysium everlasting.
Akin to his predecessor, what he’d done today was unforgivable. Something that brought him dangerously close to ensuring a spot in the devil’s domain, to burn away in the pits of hell for eternity upon his death.
It already was a more than delicate affair because of the sin he entertained simply by drawing breath, but this was different. He’d lied in a house of God. Claimed a blessing that wasn’t his to attain. Assumed a position he should’ve never been assigned to in the first place.
His wrist pounded and ached.
The skin around the mark that’d been scorched into his flesh was fiery red and already threw blisters, and yet, he welcomed the pain, and included it in his prayer. Asked God to prevent it from healing, and to make it hurt for the rest of his life. Make it an eternal reminder and grant him the opportunity to repent each and every day.
And– in the end– to allow his eternal soul to enter the heavens upon his death after all.
The knock on the door pulled him back to reality. With a muffled groan, he pushed himself to his feet and headed for the table on stiff legs. The flame that hissed to life in the oil lamp a moment later chased away the impending darkness.
“Come in.”
Two of the guards– Steafan and Beornræd– stepped into the room, sporting wide smirks. Although technically, they weren’t just guards, they were also friends.
Not that he’d ever be granted the luxury of having real friends, but they’d come as close to the concept as one could get over the years.
While Beornræd closed the door, Steafan already sauntered up to Castiel with a laugh and opened his arms.
“You did it, you bastard!”
Castiel reciprocated the bear hug Steafan pulled him into with the expected elation.
“Did you doubt me, brother?”
Steafan enthusiastically patted his back a few times before he pulled back.
“Do you take me for a fool? I would never dare doubt the King to be.”
“Hm-hm.”
Castiel snorted and stepped back to pull two chairs from the table for Beornræd and Steafan to sit on. Beornræd hugged him just as enthusiastically once Steafan was out of the way.
“Didn’t even flinch, did you?” The second he pulled back, he raised Castiel’s wrist with his hand to take a closer look at the branding. “The villagers wouldn’t shut up about it.”
“That’s the point, isn’t it?”
“Well, obviously.” Beornræd shot him a disgruntled look. “We all know how many men struggle to stay composed when these bench-fuckers sizzle their flesh away, no matter their blessings.”
Castiel chose to cockily smirk for an answer, which produced a sigh and barely audible grumblings about ‘insolent bastards’. Once they were all seated, Steafan slid the cups across the table he’d filled with wine from the jug that’d already waited for Castiel here.
“And? Overjoyed, I’d wager.”
“Not really,” Castiel said and shrugged his shoulders. With a nudge towards his wrist, he added: “This was never a question to begin with. I’m mostly glad I got it over with and can get back to attending to the important things back home.”
“As insufferable as ever.” Steafan said and poured a generous gulp of wine down his throat. “Do you think it’s wise to be, for a King?”
“I’m no King yet.”
And Castiel hoped it would stay that way for a long time. Keeping up the charade as just the successor was perilous enough, he couldn’t even begin to imagine having to attend to the duties of a King while doing so.
“You will be soon enough,” Beornræd said with a wink.
Castiel opted for the wine. What did one even say to words spoken in such blithe unawareness? In his friends’ minds, kingship was the highest honour anyone could ever ascend to, and him being excited about the prospect was a foregone conclusion.
He couldn’t even fault them for it, objectively, but he loathed their understated glee whenever the topic came up with a passion either way.
“It’s a strange thought, I must admit,” Steafan said while he contemplatively swirled the cardinal liquid in his cup. “Knowing the overweening little shitter you were just a few years ago, imagining you as King doesn’t come easily.”
Castiel scowled.
He’d gotten to the point where playing his role came to him naturally, but at the beginning, where Eardwulf hadn’t yet been appointed to him, he’d overcompensated to the point where it was a miracle no one had simply ended it all by hitting him over the head with any blunt object in reach.
“The misjudgements of youth befall the best of us, wouldn’t you say?” Castiel said, and performatively sighed. “I remember quite a few instances where the both of you influenced behaviour of mine that could be called unruly.”
“I’ve not the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
Beornræd innocently smiled, but he betrayed himself momentraily with the mischievous glint in his eyes. He raised his cup to his lips to conceal their quivering, at which Steafan raised a questioning brow.
“Remember when you bet me ten silverlings that you could steal the old man’s bible out of his private chambers and ran in on him mounting that old-”
“That’ll do it,” Beornræd barked and emptied his cup with a revolted huff. “Why would you remind me of that? I’d blissfully forgotten the sight of Beothric’s wart-spiked ass just a moon ago.”
Castiel chortled at Steafan observing Beornræd’s vaguely nauseous expression with juvenile pride.
“Who would I be if I didn’t-”
The creak and following thud of the door hitting the wall kept Steafan from finishing his thought. They all knew that the only person who dared to just waltz into any room Castiel was resting in unannounced was going by the name of Eardwulf.
Indeed, the advisor stood in the doorframe and eyed the small congregation with open disapproval.
“You have a job to do. Get to it.”
“Yes, of course,” Steafan rumbled and poignantly rolled his eyes in Castiel’s direction before he stood and headed for the door, closely followed by Beornræd.
Castiel bit the inside of his cheek to stop the grin from forming on his lips. Eardwulf slammed the door shut once the perceived nuisances were gone, headed for the table, and sat down.
“You did well today,” he said after a moment of silent staring.
Castiel shot him a wide-eyed look.
“Praise? To think that I’d live to see the day.”
The sentiment earned him a heated glare.
“Don’t patronise me, boy. Such infantile mockery isn’t fit for a King.”
Eardwulf snatched Steafan’s cup from the table and poured the rest of the wine, down to the last few drops. Castiel watched and bit back another sarcastic remark. As much as he tired of the Alpha’s condescending advice, it was thanks to him that he’d gotten this far in the first place.
“Now, as I was saying, everything went off without a hitch,” Eardwulf continued, once he’d taken an overly indulgent sip. “The cleric is satisfied with what they saw and the villagers were impressed, to say the least. They will confirm to any and everyone what a formidable Descendant of Adam is to follow their King onto the throne.”
Castiel eyed his reflection’s unsteady frame dancing around on the surface of the opaque liquid in his cup. The sardonic edge in Eardwulf’s voice wasn’t lost on him. It never was. Not when the topic of the ruse was cut into, even just in passing.
“Good.”
“But this is just the beginning.” Eardwulf clicked his tongue and waved at nothing in particular. “What transpired today will do its part, but the word on the streets beyond our borders still speaks of conquest. And to make matters worse, our dear-old northern plague has taken on entirely new magnitudes of impudence.”
" Lindisfarena? "
“You’ve heard the tidings, I take it?”
“Only whispers,” Castiel said and emptied his cup with a grim huff.
If true– which it seemed to be, given that a man like Eardwulf deemed it noteworthy– then another conflict was looming on the horizon. What’d been done to the monastery on Lindisfarena was sacrilege of the highest order.
“They’re true, every last one of them. One of our merchants confirmed as much to me before I joined you in Dún Att . These devils raided the monastery, sacked all the riches they could find, and slaughtered every monk that wasn’t quick enough to hide. The village nearby was torched and many are missing. Abducted to be sold as slaves, I assume.”
Castiel felt the heat of anger roar to life in his chest. Up until now, it had only been hearsay. Tales so fragmented from being told and retold countless times until they arrived in Dál Riata that they shouldn’t be taken as fact. But now it was reality.
“Was it them?” he said flatly, knuckles showing white on the back of the hand that still clasped his empty cup.
“A girl that survived by hiding beneath her mother’s corpse described them as ‘gargantuan demons with hides of blood and death in their eyes’.”
“Godless bastards,” Castiel growled, twisting and turning the cup in his hands.
He’d read a lot about the Norsemen back in the day. From the few and far between positive encounters and trading missions that’d been recorded before they’d started burning Britannic land and abducting inhabitants, he’d even learned a bit of their culture and language.
Enough to be sure that they were brutish heathens who believed in a pantheon of strange gods and worshipped death. More animals than anything else, that was all Castiel needed to know.
“They need to be brought to justice, especially now, that they dared touch places of worship. No one defiles a place of God and lives to tell the tale.”
“You speak true, but we can’t wage war on a people we barely know or understand. All we can do for now is arm our monasteries as best as we can and pray that they do not come for our lands. They tasted blood now, and given the riches they acquired in Lindisfarena , I fear it’ll only be a matter of time.”
Castiel placed the cup on the table before it shattered in his hands.
He hated it with a burning fervour, but Eardwulf was right once more. Norsemen were known for the fierceness of their warriors and even more so for their unmatched competence as seafarers. Dál Riata – and most other Britannic kingdoms for that matter– simply lacked the funds and manpower to organise armed expeditions into the northern seas.
“We have taken a substantial leap forward with our mission. That shall suffice for today. Tomorrow, we ride for Dún Att and get the word out that your father’s legacy boasts a Descendant of Adam now. That should give us breathing room to plan our next steps accordingly.”
“Any success on the other front?”
Eardwulf huffed and shook his head.
“You underestimate the challenge of finding a blessed girl with a status that would make her worthy of your hand. Give it time.”
“We do not have time.”
“Patience, boy.” Eardwulf pushed himself to his feet and slammed his cup onto the tabletop with a mighty bit more force than was necessary. The quiet, but all the more grating and hollow gong rang in Castiel’s ears. “You’ll get your bride soon enough.”
Castiel grumbled inaudible nothings into the lacklustre beard he was able to grow. For him, that day couldn’t come soon enough. He still harboured hope that he could escape the claws of the crown by producing an heir that was truly of Adam’s descent.
One who would grow old enough to take his grandfather’s place when he died. It would relieve Castiel from having to extend this charade onto the throne and anger God even further by sporting a crown in his name that wasn’t his to bear.
“Rest now, we have a long ride ahead of us,” Eardwulf said and headed for the door. Handle in hand, he turned his head before pushing it down. “Oh, and Castiel? You reek .”
With that, he disappeared into the night.
“Shite,” Castiel mumbled and stood to find his backpack.
All the stress in the church must’ve caused him to sweat more than usual. He should’ve taken notice himself. A mistake like that at the wrong time could cost them everything they’d worked so tirelessly for.
He rummaged through his bag until he found the little flask and popped the cork. His special tincture, made of Eardwulf’s spit, a blend of earth-scented herbs to conceal that it was originating from Eardwulf in the first place and not Castiel’s natural musk, and lard.
It was crude and disgusting, but it was the only way of ensuring that no fellow Descendant of Adam would find out what he really was by accident.
After he was done smearing the viscous liquid onto his neck, he put the bottle back into his bag, and got rid of his leather jerkin and shirt.
A hand clasped around the cross of his rosary, he returned to his earlier position, and resumed his prayers.
ཐི═──── ☽𓆩 ♱ 𓆪☾ ────═ཋྀ
Castiel rattled awake and lazily blinked into the distinct lack of complete darkness the dead of night usually entailed.
A flickering gloom danced on the walls instead, which prompted him to push himself up and rub the sleep from his eyes. Swarms of glimmering dust particles danced in the columns of light that fell into the room through the window.
The next inhale brought the distinct tinge of charred wood, along with an aroma he would never forget. There were only few kinds of flesh that produced this acridly sweet fragrance when it burned.
Faint rumbling echoed from the direction of the door, followed by a muffled but guttural scream that made the hairs all over his body stand upright in a heartbeat.
At once, he scrambled out of the bed and hastily slid into his pants and tunic. Sword in hand, he rushed to the door, and ripped it open.
Someone glared back at him, decidedly surprised.
A man– so tall and broad that his frame almost took up the entire door frame. In the dim, unsteady light, Castiel saw the raised hand, as if it’d been about to grasp for the handle. The outlines of the beard sprouting from the man’s lower face were like a curtain that fell and fused into the darkness obscuring his chest.
An eager, crazed look swirled in the little Castiel saw of the man’s eyes. It was hungry. Starved. The same one a wolf sported when it’s managed to injure its prey to a point where its death was inevitable. Where the potential meal had become reality.
Castiel’s body moved on its own.
The hand that was already raised shot forward, but it wasn’t fast enough to grasp his wrist before his blade cut beneath the thicket of wiry hair. Fingers dug into the skin of Castiel’s forearm a fraction of a second later– calloused, and with bone-aching force– but it was accompanied by the distinct sensation of driving a sharpened tool into the barely-there resistance of soft flesh.
A choked grunt sounded, followed by a fist hurtling towards Castiel’s face. With a jerk, he managed to pull his head away enough for it to only graze his cheek. His blade arm was locked in place, but with a strained huff, he twisted his wrist, and snapped the steel around its axis.
The iron-like grip on his forearm wavered. Castiel ripped his arm free and stumbled back to evade the hand searching for his neck with reckless abandon. Dull thuds echoed up from the ground once Castiel hastily swung his sword for the hand.
What would’ve been a pained shout came out as a wet gurgle. There was a fleeting moment where Castiel met his enemies eyes with his own, saw the cold fury and hatred burning within them.
Gurgling and retching, the man tried to steady himself against the doorframe, but his hand lacked both the strength and the fingers to get a proper hold. For another second, he held himself upright, but then, he tipped back, and collapsed to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
Crimson light flickered over foreign features. Sharp and hawkish, framed by strands of thick, blood-soaked hairs. More of it gushed from his mouth as the attacker tried to suck in air, soaked through the braided beard while he twitched and convulsed.
A second later, his fight ceased.
And Castiel just glared at the strange bulk of human remains. Unmoving, with his senses dialled up to a hundred, sensitive to even the movements of the smallest air currents in the room, he stood there before he snapped out of his stasis and sucked in air to ease the aching burn in his chest.
Only once he heard the noise, he realised that the deafening roar of his blood rushing in his ears had drowned out the sounds all around. But now, they returned with a vengeance. And the story they told made Castiel stagger forward in a panic, over the body in the door and out into the churchyard.
The serene place of pious beauty was no more. All the flowerbeds were trampled and littered with contorted bodies, as were the colonnades that encircled the square. Up ahead, the chapel rising above the thicket of smoke was engulfed in flames, the light of which reflected on scarlet-drenched earth and blood-smeared tiles.
A myriad of flickering sparks erratically escaped up into the night sky in a desperate attempt to flee their inevitable fate of burning out, out of the holes that’d once housed the beautiful stained glass windows where now, only fiery demise licked over blackened stone.
The shadowy frames of humans moved in the haze, but the billows of smoke were too thick for Castiel to make out any details. Combined with what’d just happened, what little he could see was enough to confirm what was going on, and it made the blood in his veins come to a boiling point at once.
A Norse raid. In his homeland. In his kingdom. On grounds that were his to rule and govern one day. The holiest place in Dál Riata , desecrated by devil spawn.
Without thinking, Castiel stepped out into the colonnade and advanced into the fuming purgatory.
These devils would die. All of them would die, and if he had to kill every single one of them himself.
“Castiel!”
Castiel snapped his head around and spotted Steafan stumbling out of the smoke-ridden colonnade to his left, sword in one hand with the other pressed to his chest. A mask of blood and dirt covered half of his face, with more and more of his life’s essence dripping from a cut above his brow.
“Get back inside, you need to-”
“Calm yourself, brother.” Castiel roughly took hold of Steafan’s shoulder as soon as he was in reach. “What’s the situation?”
Steafan drew a shaky breath, but visibly relaxed, the moment he saw the grim determination in Castiel’s eyes.
“T-they came in the night, set fire to the village. They’re already inside the chapel and are taking everything even remotely shiny. God help us, they slaughtered the monks and ran us over with smiles on their faces. Tòmas and Ailbeart are dead, I… I lost Beornræd in the chaos. We can’t hold them off, they’re… they’re…”
“Breathe,” Castiel rumbled and gave Steafan’s shoulder a stern squeeze. “If we can’t stop them, we will kill as many of them as it takes for them to back off. Make them pay for this godless assault until we can take to the seas and burn their cities to the ground. Are you with me, brother?”
Steafan drew a rattling breath and grinned.
“Alwa-”
With a dull crack, Steafan disappeared. Something warm and wet dusted Castiel’s face, the second the shoulder he’d been holding onto was yanked from his grasp. He turned his head in confusion, prompted by the sounds of someone collapsing beside him.
Steafan lay there, contorted and abnormally twitching.
A small axe protruded from what’d once been his face. Shattered bone pierced out of perforated skin around the point of impact while gushes of blood pulsated out of the sliced-apart remnants of Steafan’s cheek and eye, menacingly steaming as the cold breeze eagerly sucked the warmth from the human ichor as soon as it spilled.
A wet sound left Steafan’s lips, then his body lost all tension and went limp.
“ᛋᛚᛖᚨᛉᚤ ᚲᛟᚹᚨᚱᛞ.”
Castiel tore his gaze away and slowly turned his head.
A mountain of a man stood two dozen feet away from him, one arm still extended. He was drenched in blood, but it wasn’t his own, staining the strange-looking garments he wore and slicking up his braided hair and beard. The manner in which it dribbled off the animal pelt that was draped upon his shoulders and the sword he held was almost serene.
A grin split apart the Norseman’s weathered face at the sight of Castiel’s disbelieving expression, and he shrugged his shoulders in a macabre caricature of innocence.
“ᛟᛟᛈᛋ.”
The heat that engulfed Castiel’s heart was unlike anything he’d felt before. It roared to life with the force of an injured bull and had his muscles burn with the bone-melting heat of murderous intent. This whoreson had just killed Steafan, and he now used it to taunt him?
Before he could come to terms with what’d just happened, before he could do so much as form a plan of action, he was already flying across the square. The Norseman’s grin grew even wider and he opened his arms, bellowing more foreign words along with the welcoming gesture.
Time itself seemed to slow down once Castiel came up on his enemy. Just as he tensed the muscles in his sword arm to raise it, the Norse devil ripped his sword over his head, and swung down. The strike was immaculately placed, and would’ve probably split Castiel’s shoulder down to his stomach if it were to connect.
Which it wouldn’t.
Castiel was a Descendant of Eve, and no matter how dearly he wished it to be different, it had been, and still was, impossible for him to bulk up like seasoned warriors did when they ate well and steeled their bodies day in and day out. No matter what, his strength would never measure up to men like the behemoth in front of him.
For that reason, Eardwulf had forwent tradition, and had focused his education in the arts of war on his imposed ‘weakness’ from the start. Agility and impeccable technique instead of brute strength; never meeting his opponent on a physical level alone, but instead using his comparatively slender frame and fleet footedness to its full advantage.
It was the exact opposite of what the knights and noblemen of the realms considered to be an honourable way of doing battle, but on the few occasions where he’d been put to the test in a real battle, his unorthodox approach had worked wonders in taking the common brutes by surprise.
It wouldn’t be different this time.
He saw the path that the Norseman’s blade would take in front of his inner eye, shifted his centre of gravity, and turned his torso and hips, the moment his foot connected with the earth on the next step.
The blade fell and passed Castiel’s face and chest by a hair’s width, so closely that he felt the air it displaced on its way down on the tip of his nose. The moment it cut into the ground, he ripped his sword up, and rammed it into his opponent’s throat.
For a second that felt like an eternity, they just stared at each other.
Grim satisfaction is Castiel’s glare, honest confusion in his enemies’. As if this simpletons’ mind was yet to connect the dots, was incapable of understanding why Castiel was standing so close to him instead of being a cut-open bag of steaming innards to his feet.
Castiel drove his sword deeper with another stern push, and all but relished in the way in which he felt it sever muscle and sinew. The Norseman opened his mouth, but the words he wanted to speak came out warped and broken because of the stream of blood that bubbled out of his mouth in their stead.
Castiel ripped his sword out of the man’s throat and shuffled back to evade the hand that clutched thin air, exactly where he’d just stood. It was always the same. These mountains of muscle never did him the favour of going out without a last, spiteful attempt at vengeance.
Wet squelches sounded from the Norseman while he retched up more blood and took a shaky step in Castiel’s direction. The wildfire that still burned in his eyes stood in stark contrast to the scarlet river that was streaming out of the sliced-apart remnants of his throttle and mouth.
He didn’t get far before he stumbled and fell to his hands and knees. A second later, his limbs gave out and he fell onto his face, jerked and shuddered for a second or two. Then, he stopped moving.
Castiel looked up.
The light of the fire behind the remains of his bested foe illuminated the frames of two more Norsemen as a gust of wind blew the haze apart. They looked like they’d stepped out of the gates of hell themselves, with their outlines drenched in the glow of the ruinous gloom.
Now that Castiel focused on his surroundings, shadowy frames moved through the haze around him as well. There was still the odd, sharp clink of steel meeting its kin or a muffled scream, but the noises of the slaughter were nowhere near as plentiful as before.
The gazes of the two devils in front of him clung onto the remains of their comrade lying at Castiel’s feet before they slowly climbed. The inquisitive but enticed looks they studied him with then seemed comically misplaced.
As if they were little boys who’d found something new, and were evaluating if and how they could play with it most effectively.
Castiel sneered a challenge.
Apart from an amused snort, neither of them looked interested in taking him up on it.
“Come here, you godless pigfuckers,” Castiel roared and brandished his sword at them. “I’ll kill every single one of you and I shall piss and dance on your corpses when I’m done!”
“ᚨ ᛚᛁᚡᛖᛚᚤ ᛟᚾᛖ. He ᚹᛁᛚᛚ ᛗᚨᚴᛖ ᚨ ᚠᛁᚾᛖ thrall ,” one of them said to the other with a smirk tugging at the edges of his mouth.
Castiel didn’t know half of the words that he used, but he knew the norse word for slave. If these bastards thought that he’d let himself get captured, then they had another thing coming.
The other Norseman smiled while he adjusted the huge battleaxe resting on his shoulder.
“ᛒᛖᚻᛁᚾᛞ ᚤᛟᚢ, ᛈᚢᚾᚤ ᚹᚱᛖᛏᚲᚺ.”
Why weren’t they attacking? Why were they just…
Fuck!
Castiel started to whirl around, but he was too slow. Blinding agony erupted on the back of his head.
The last thing he perceived was the horrid feeling of his eyes involuntarily rolling up into his skull.
Then, darkness swallowed the world.
ཐི𓆩 ♱ 𓆪ཋྀ