Chapter Text
“Floki?”
“Yes, Floki”
Gabriela’s eyes widened as her mind spun attempting to conjure the image of being alone with a man she barely knew. There was not a person in all of Kattegat who did not know of the famous, eccentric boat builder. The success of Ragnar’s throne was due to the exploration and prosperous raids his boats carried them to. Known as a near berserker around the great hall, his fighting style was described by the men as a powerful weave of frenzied yet focussed skill. He was known as the crazy recluse. With coal lined eyes and often seen hunched forward bending a thin panel of fine wood. He lived on the water at the forest’s edge and spoke to the Gods. Most importantly to Gabriela, he was the closest friend to the King.
“He is not coming on this raid. He is staying to finish the long ships. Floki is…” Ragnar’s voice dropped, his blue eyes picking up the light from the torches, making them appear even more playful than they often were. He sighed quickly. “Well, he will look after you. We would not leave you with him if you needed to be afraid.”
“My King? Why? Why would I not stay here? In my room in the hall or back in the barn with the others?”
“Ahh, Gabriela.” He held her eyes and smiled softly. Looking as if he was watching a memory skipping through his mind. “You have the attention of every warrior who comes through those great doors. Your black eyes and milk coloured skin. It is the wrath of Lagertha that keeps them from making claims or reaching for your copper hair.” Taking a drink from his cup, he looked down to bench he straddled; a leg on either side. “I fear, with us away, someone will get foolish. It will not end as well as the previous…” his voice trailed off and his face became stern. “Floki will keep you safe.” Looking back up to her, he smirked. “Until Lagertha returns with threats of castration.”
Nodding her head subtly, “of course My King.” Looking down, Gabriela rubbed her hands on her dirty apron. “How long?” she looked back to Ragnar. “Until you return?”
“Four months.”
----
Clearing her throat had not caught the tall man with the wild hair’s attention. Sitting on the ground, a large piece of oak between his legs, his slow repetitive movements kept him held in a trance.
“Floki?” her voice croaked out, wishing she had cleared her throat one last time.
Slowly, his hands stopped. The round of pumice used to smooth the raw wood seemed magically crafted to fit in his large hand. Lifting his head, he tilted an ear listening, as if waiting for nature to summon him again.
“Food is ready, Floki.”
Turning from his waist, he peered over his shoulder to Gabriela. Brows lifting as if, in the spell of his focus, he had forgotten she had moved into his world nearly a moon ago. So accustomed to being alone, far from the city, living a life designed to keep him near the Gods. A quick nod of his head was his only acknowledgment. His body and mind still under the trance of his work’s repetition, sanding the honey-colored wood.
Nodding in return, Gabriela lifted her long dress from the path of her feet, making her way back to his funny little cottage. It was not at all an uncomfortable cottage. Well crafted, with a place for everything, and gave the distinct feeling that the man who lived there walked a different path in life. And not only because the doors were tall, and the tables so high Gabriela was forced to stand on a wooden box to prepare their meals. Floki had muffled his distinct giggle the first night he entered, seeing her sitting mending his clothes. Seated by the fire, her feet dangling from the chair nowhere near touching the floor. It had not felt awkward, though, her being in his home. There seemed a veil of respect over the entire circumstance. A consideration that had come at no surprise but still a great relief. The entire plan, of course, spun by the king himself, a live descendant of Odin and Floki’s truest friend.
Often and again on this night, while stirring their simmering meal, she thought of his curious face from that very first day. The light dull and the mist heavy the morning he had collected her from the docks. Loading her small sack of belongings onto his boat, he offered her his steady hand, as she climbed down into the dingy. The silence between them as he rowed away from Kattegat had felt like some exodus from life. Or, perhaps a departure from herself. She did not know and did not have the truth, then, to understand.
Despite being a slave, she could see that he had attempted to prepare for her arrival. Tools and squares of wood were stacked and pushed into the corners. A curtain hung, nailed to the ceiling, sectioning off a small neatly made bed. The bed had been pushed against the wall adjacent to the fire, close to its hearth, to keep her warm. Her unspoken reaction of delight had left him almost embarrassed. Uttering something about something before excusing himself back out to his work.
There was no aspect of her stay she was not enjoying so far. What little conversation they had exchanged seemed polite. Almost shy. With Floki’s eyes never staying on her long. Sitting across from him now, she watched him devour his evening meal. Assuming his creative mind must burn off her food as his body was so lean and his appetite endless.
Sliding off her seat, across the table from him, she reached for his now empty bowl. She could not help but smile at the way he looked down at his topped-up stew. Excited, as if a clay bowl of meat and broth held the most sought after wisdom. An unmarried man, he was no cook and she found herself preparing his meals with extra care, looking forward to his reaction.
“Gabriela,” her name always seemed to roll off his tongue. “I will miss your cooking when Ragnar takes you away.”
Don’t let him - her thought shook her mind but her gaze on him was unwavering. The sensation she had been living was beginning to take form. It was not only the soft work and peaceful seaside setting she was starting to love. It was him. It was all about him. Floki.