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The Handmaid's War: A Short Story

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The hostility and tension of Arnarfell was beginning to wear at Rurik’s nerves, compounded even further by the fact he refused to indulge in this rage by provoking a fight with Bjorgolf. But it was pleasantly surprisingly to hear Ylva state he was right. He continued to glance over his shoulder at her, eyebrow raised and grey eyes keen on hearing all she had to say. He was finding this partnership to be quite begrudging, yet necessary when it came to information. There was a stab of worry that shot into his gut when Ylva revealed her thoughts, stating the size of the farm was unnatural, and that his labourers and men were outsiders. That was very discerning for Rurik.

At the mention of dishonesty however, Rurik had to snort, turning his attention …show more content…

This is a name known to me.” Rurik began, and though he didn’t glance at Ylva, he was grinning. “I’ve heard the Greeks use it often, and not in a kind word. I think Frank to them means some sort of unwashed and uncouth savage. Would you say it is accurate? I have never known the Greeks to be wrong about anything.” Rurik asked, seemingly innocent of the mannerisms and style that some of his own people seemed to reflect upon these so-called civilized worlds. There was a reason why Rurik was curious about these lands however, and it should be obvious to Ylva as well. He had journeyed through the eastern Baltic and had not seen anything worthwhile there, but he knew Christian kingdoms to be rich and …show more content…

By the look of the corpse and the smell, he had been dead and decaying for some time.

“Frigga’s cunt!” Rurik swore, striding forward carefully and kneeling by the corpse, careful not to touch it. A dried puddle of vomit and spittle clung to the man’s jaw, but no sign of blood could Rurik see. A natural death it seemed. Rurik instantly stood when he came to this realization, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. No wife did he seem to have, and any children must have taken the logical path and sought their fortune elsewhere. Trandil must have lived alone, isolated, and have died alone. A terrible fate. And when Rurik had knelt beside him, he saw his own face in the man’s blank stare.

Was this where he was heading? To be married to a woman he did not like, to rule over a people who resented his authority. Here in Arnarfell, his home, he felt a keen loneliness for the first time. In Miklagarðr, he had the Guard, a company of fellow men like him who bonded through war and thought. Here, he felt he was detested. And what was it all for? Why had he returned? Would he had not been at least happy with his fellow Varangians? He remembered some snatches about giving Leander and Sapphira a better life. Yet he could not unsee himself suffering a fate like this man, alone at the end of his life.

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