Accords Pt. III

Guess what? There's a part 3! While nothing is concrete, I'm trying to flesh out Iona and Bjarke's world a bit. I was so excited about finally writing again that I didn't sleep at all. Maybe an hour. So thank you for inspiring, facesless masses of the Interwebs. I still don't have a real title, so I'm still calling it Accords. Again, this is cross posted from reddit's Writing Prompts.



It took another, nonstop complaining by Iona and several more threats by Bjarke before they reached home. Bjarke was not one to be homesick, but seeing the buildings come into view always made him feel warm inside. The village had been built in the shelter the high cliffs of a cove several generations before Bjarke had been born. The sturdily built wooden homes showed their age through faded colors and weather-worn wood but each home was cared for by its occupants.

A crowd had gathered on the shore to welcome the men home. Bjarke could see children running around the crowd, eager to get a first look at the plundered treasure they were carrying home. Tore, a hulking, grizzled man caught the thick rope tossed to him by Rangvald and helped pull the longship to shore. He strode up the wooden gangplank to greet the Viking.

“How were the spoils of war?” he asked Bjarke as his men began to unload the large pile of loot.

“Profitable.”

Tore caught sight of Iona, still naked and holding her head high amidst them activity. His wild greying eyebrows shot almost into his hair line as he assessed the Siren.

“Clearly,” he said before clasping Bjarke’s forearm and welcoming him home.

The younger Viking watched as the stolen goods were carted into the great hall at the center of the village where their return would be celebrated tonight. Iona joined him at the rail, causing some distractions in the crowd and a low murmur of curious voices.

“Am I to live on the ship forever?” she asked. “Or do I get to leave?”

Bjarke sighed, rubbing his forehead. Since meeting Iona and making the deal, it was as if someone planted an ax in the middle of his forehead. There was a constant pounding between his eyes. She was flat out vexing.

“We will go ashore in a minute,” he said.

The Siren clapped her hands.

“Fantastic! I know you love this thing and all,” she said gesturing to the ship, “but I will be so happy to get off of it.”

As the last of the loot was unloaded from the ship, the bearded Viking let Iona disembark ahead of him. In her usual overly dramatic manner, she strode down the wooden place and to the shore, her long silver hair streaming behind her like a banner. Nothing was left to the villagers’ imaginations as the Siren’s toes hit solid ground for the first time in weeks.

The women gawked at her and she paid them no mind as she turned and looked at him expectantly. Fighting the urge to bang his head against the longship’s mast, Bjarke followed Iona ashore. One of his men’s wives, Ylva, stepped forward.

“Who is this… interesting creature?” she asked for the whole group.

“Um, this is Iona,” the Viking said. “I saved her from a Siren who was keeping her prisoner.”

The gathered women cooed and clucked their sympathies. While Bjarke didn’t doubt their misplaced pity, he knew they were looking for something to gossip about.

“And why was she naked before everyone?” Ylva admonished. “Did no one offer you clothing?”

Iona let out a laugh that sounded like a babbling brook. She had found the queen bitch of the village and already disliked her.

“Why would I hide my perfection from anyone?” she asked, eliciting surprised twitters from the group.

Ylva sputtered in shock.

“Surely you cannot walk around the village in the nude!” she exclaimed. “Asta will give you something to wear as you are about the same size.”

Iona made matters worse by wrinkling her nose in distaste. Great. In a matter of minutes she had managed to insult a whole group of people. Seeing the crowd of women become more irate, Bjarke decided, while it was fun to watch the Siren dig her own grave, he did not want them to run the beast out of town after only a few minutes. With a hurried goodbye, the Viking steered Iona to his house, only nodding at those he passed. Most of the people in the village stopped in their tracks to stare at them as they passed. Thankfully, they reached Bjarke’s home without further incident.

“What hateful little harpies,” Iona said, seething. “Don’t those nasty creatures have anything better to do?”

“They’ll run you out of the village if you aren’t careful,” Bjarke said, stripping off his kyrtill and tunic, baring his battle scars and leaving him only in his trousers and calf high boots.

All he wanted was to be clean. Being gone for weeks at a time made it hard to stay completely clean, but he made an effort as did some of his men. Bjarke gave up long ago at worrying about it, but if given the opportunity, he would ty and bathe as often as possible. Behind him, Iona tsked in disappointment.

“If only you desired the love of a woman,” she said wistfully, appraising him.

Byarke was definitely easy on the yes, the Siren thought. He had broad shoulders that connected to a muscular back and a solid waist. His stomach muscles rippled with strength. Iona imagined that everything hidden beneath her new companion’s remaining clothing was just as glorious. His face was pleasant to look at. Greyish-blue eyes peeked out beneath strong brows and Bjarke’s nose was proud and straight, not yet broken in battle. His thick, tightly braided blonde hair gave way to a rugged beard that almost hid his well-formed lips.

“I would devour you,” Iona sighed. “Are you sure you are not the bastard child of a god?”

“Devour me as a wanton woman or to take a nice big bite out of my neck?” Bjarke asked. “And last time I checked, I was not a product of a god’s wanderings.”

“Both,” she admitted. “But for all our ‘monsterness,’ I find the taste of man to be bitter. I’d rather eat something different. It sets me apart from my sisters, who have no problem devouring the flesh of men.”

When he and Iona first struck their bargain, the Viking had been unsure of what the Siren ate. When he asked, she had replied ‘the souls of men’ without blinking and a deadpan tone. Starve was all he said to her. Iona had burst in a fit of laughter, amused by her own joke. She assured Bjarke she at real food and it had been at least 100 years since she had feasted on a man’s flesh. After all, her territory had been in a tucked away corner of the world, almost never passed by. She had to sustain herself somehow.

“Lucky for you, fish is most likely not on the menu for tonight’s feast,” he told her, since she complained about the amount of fish devoured during the journey.

A timid knock on the door interrupted their conversation and Bjarke went to open it. Standing at the threshold was a blonde-haired beauty, who blushed at the man’s state of undress. In her hands were a linen dress and a green woolen tunic. She also had a pair of thick socks and supple leather shoes.

“Hello, Asta,” Bjarke said. “Are those for Iona?”

“Y-yes,” the young woman stuttered, holding them out to the scarred Viking. “Will you be at the f-fe-feast tonight?”

He smiled kindly at her as he took the clothing.

“Of course, we shall see you there.”

She barely squeaked out a response before fleeing.

“Poor thing,” Iona tutted. “She’s so in love with you she can barely stand upright.”

Bjarke looked uncomfortable as he offered the Siren the borrowed clothing.

“I try not to encourage anyone’s affections,” he said tightly.

“You can’t help that you’re so darn manly and attractive,” she said cheekily, inspecting the clothing before her. “How do I put this nonsense on?”

“I’m not sure to be honest,” Bjarke said, feeling the need to tease her. “Want me to call Asta back or get Ylva?”

Iona scowled at him.

“So I can watch that girl simper at you the entire time or have that old she-wolf get her fangs in me?” she asked. “No thanks.”

The Viking let out a chuckle and headed to the bathhouse, leaving the sea beast to figure out the garments on her own. When he returned, Iona had more or less figured out how it went. The woolen tunic was slightly crooked and the linen dress was bunched in some places. The Siren almost looked human. She kept pulling and adjusting the dress like a fidgeting child.

“This is awful,” she complained, pulling at the dress’s collar. “I’m hot and itchy and this is heavy.”

“It’s like you were born to complain rather than lure men to their death,” Bjarke said, heading to his bed where a fresh kyrtill lay.

Iona sniffed and put her nose in the air, a picture of perfect arrogance.

“I’m quite efficient at both, thank you very much. But honestly, how can anyone stand to wear all this?”

The burly Viking shrugged before donning his own clothing. It was nice to finally have a proper bath, even if everyone at the bathhouse bombarded him with questions about his supposed war bride.

“Because it isn’t polite to waltz about in the nude whenever you feel like it,” Bjarke said, pulling on a thick pair of socks and his boots.

“Humans are strange creatures,” Iona mused, following him into the room.

“Speak for yourself, sea beastie.”

She gave him an indignant stare. What a heathen to call her a ‘sea beastie.’ She was practically a goddess. She was made to be worshiped.