Eleanor
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Eleanor Ch. 01-02 free porn video
1016, North Bay of Durness, Scotland.
Village of Lean, North Coast.
Eleanor had been finding it more and more difficult to drift to sleep these past few weeks, the lack of rest leaving her almost completely mentally and physically drained. Indeed, the hour now was just past gloaming, yet with the night breathing with its beautiful sway, at one with the waves below where she lay back on the cool grass gazing up at the starry sky, Eleanor finally relaxed. Only here, lain amongst the dew soaked marrum grass, could she find any level of peace for her tired soul. And she could only retreat to her peaceful practice when the entire village was abed. They already thought her strange enough, considering her past, or rather, her mother’s past, or lack of one.
‘Oh Mhamhi’ Eleanor sighed. Her mother had dies six years past, and still she felt the burn of her loss acutely in her chest. Her mother, Criostiona, had been looked upon as a poor soul, and had turned up in the village of Lean early one morning, beaten and bleeding. She had also been heavily pregnant with Eleanor at the time. Criostiona had not uttered a single word to anyone for the remainder of her life, and had been considered an oddity, an outcast, not included in the community. Neither was Eleanor. They lived in the tigh furthest from the village, close to the cliff edge. It suited both of them in reality, Criostiona for her solitude, and Eleanor for her quiet nature. But now, six years on from her mother’s death, Eleanor needed more than the polite conversation and prejudices for her differences. The women in the village in particular had looked upon her with barely concealed scorn and envy for her pale skin, and even paler hair. They even felt obliged to tell her that a tall woman was not a true Scot. She must be a bastard child of ‘one ‘o em’. Heathen. Outcast.
She would die old an alone if she stayed here.
Stomping her hands on the dewy ground with resolve, Eleanor rose to her feet, brushing the offending mud and grass from her tunic, and turned to move back to her tigh. It was the silvery flash that caught her attention first. Thinking a shooting star had reflected itself upon the waters. Turning fully to view the sea, she focused, squinted and focused again.
And then she dropped to the ground.
Eleanor’s heart thumped solidly in her chest as she crawled as close to the cliff edge as her courage would allow her, and fought the urge to scream to high heavens to warn the village. It had not been a shooting star. It was shield after shield after shield, all polished to a high sheen, reflecting the silver glow of the moon, casting an eerie light over the dragon heads of their boats.
Backing slowly away from the edge, she knew well that they would see her movements in the moon light if she did not move with care, Eleanor crept back into her tigh, gathering her meager belongings into one small sack.
Two tunics, two shifts, a brush and a necklace.
Yes Eleanor, you are an outcast. Pulling the rope closed, she dropped it by the door, grabbing her woolen shawl and her small blade, knocking over the table as she reached. Cursing her clumsiness, she prayed the noise had not carried to the boats.
Hearing the subtle scrap of sand against the wooden bows was enough to hurry her. She needed to be far enough away that they could not track her. Rushing out the door, she took one last look at the village, a glance of hatred to the Laird residing in his stone keep, with any luck these would recant their honor and actually kill someone. Preferably that Laird MacLean! Eleanor turned on her heel and fled west, she had made it over the first bay when the screams began.
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Bruni watched in silence as his men followed their orders. There was to be no rape, nor breaking of their honor, the Norse men knew this with no doubt. They would not risk the wrath of Freya, goddess of fertility and beauty, by leaving their seed in a female so unworthy of such a gift. His orders were explicit.
No Killing, no rape, and this time, no raiding.
Subdue the enemy. Bring that bastard Laird to Bruni’s feet. Any man who fights back should be brought down. Bruni smiled sardonically as the Laird was dragged from the keep, his rich colours flapping in the wind. He was incredibly fat, he was hardly a leader fit for the role of guarding and governing a village. But what Laird MacLean lacked in warrior stance, he made up for with sheer cruelty. Bruni’s scowl returned, as the full force of the reason behind this somber raid returned to him.
Word had arrived in Bergen last month of his younger brother’s horrific death at the hands of Laird MacLean and his men in the Eastern Bay. His brother Oleif had fallen for a pale haired beauty the last time Bruni and his men had ventured out this way 8 months ago. Within weeks he had married her, Bruni had left, heading home to Bergen, and the smitten Oleif had chosen to stay a little longer before bringing Ann back to Norway with him. He had been awaiting the boat arriving, could probably see it faintly on the horizon, when the Laird had found them. His men held Oleif as he raped his heavily pregnant wife, and then had her tied to the mooring post and burned. All the while, his stricken brother was made to watch. Iarund, Bruni’s captain of the long boat had told him they just could not get to them fast enough. Sails had been full out, crew of eight sweat soaked rowers, as they added to the speed, each one of her screams sticking with them all. The bastard MacLean had waited till the boat’s crew were close enough to see him slit Oleif’s throat, knowing it was still too far for them to attack. The cowards had then made their escape, leaving Iarund’s men with nothing they could do, but sooth a dying Oleif, and bring the bodies’ home.
Swallowing his anger and hurt, he turned cold as ice as the bastard cowered at his feet. The man was chattering so much in his bloody language that Bruni backhanded him just to shut him up.
‘Ragnar, tell me what the bastard is saying’
With a nod, Ragnar moved forward to his Leader’s ear and translated.
‘He says there is nothing here for you to raid, you break the contract by being here in this manner, and they are just poor and simple people. They have done nothing wrong.’
Bruni backhanded the Laird harder, causing the man to tumble backwards into the mud and sand. Pressing his leather booted foot over his throat, Bruni asked of Ragnar’s services again.
Ragnar addressed the Laird, ‘He said that you killed his younger brother and his wife last month in cold blood and unprecedented savagery, you broke the contract Laird MacLean, not us.’ Ragnar paused at the audible gasp that ran through the captive audience.
Interesting, he thought, the villagers really did not know of this. Casting a glance to Bruni let him know that his leader had not missed the reaction – nor its meaning. Turning his attention back to the piece of excrement beneath Bruni’s boot, he continued.
‘You and your villagers will pay for your deeds’ Ragnar finished, hearing the begging of the village that they had nothing to do with the terrible crime. Ragnar moved away as all the warriors unsheathed their swords, the combined sound enough to have most of the village weeping quietly once more, as they realised their fate.
‘Wait!!’ the Laird exclaimed. The drenched man grasping for some hold in the mud so he may stand.
‘I offer you a bargain – take the blonde female in the tigh on the cliff as repayment for my deeds and spare me’ His bargain drowned out by the shouts pf outrage from the village as they finally saw their Laird for the cowardly bastard he really was. ‘Rumor has it,’ He shouted above the din, ‘that she is one of your lot anyway.’ He sneered as his last comment had the Leader’s black haired comrade turn around, and begin his translation for Bruni.
Bruni shook his head. ‘He must be lying, saving his o
wn skin’. Seeing the Viking’s shake of the head, MacLean pushed for more. He knew happy Vikings would do anything for a blonde female, take them home as wives, away from Scotland. But these bastards were hell bent on revenge, he may as well use any bargaining chips that he had. Starting with Criostiona’s daughter. That mother of hers had left him half un-manned after he had visited her tigh one night, intent on sating his lust with the loon. Bitch. Yes, he would bargain her daughter.
‘She has a silver necklace, silver dragon or something.’ He said, putting as much confidence into his bargain as possible, as much as he could accurately remember.
Bruni turned his shocked gaze to Ragnar as his friend translated. ‘He lies!! Bjorn died over 22 years ago, ask him how old this female is.’
Following his friend’s command, Ragnar asked, and translated the answer.
‘She is 22. Bruni? It is possible.’
Bruni nodded, and saw the bastard Laird relax his pose. The man even had the audacity to allow the traces of his smirk to appear on his face. Raising his sword to the Laird’s neck, Bruni ordered Ragnar to take a woman to the tigh and bring this girl down. His initial sweeping gaze had not revealed and pale hair surrounding him apart from that of his own men.
As Ragnar moved to the top of the cliffs, the old woman in toe, Bruni motioned to the Laird and then to the Large tree before the dunes.
The panic that spread across the bloated Laird’s face was almost comical, as he was grabbed by the golden hair warriors and dragged kicking and screaming to the tree and bound with rope. Glancing to Ragnor, Bruni saw the shake of his head, and shoved the flaming torch amongst the protesting man’s robes.
Instead of screams of terror from the village as he had expected, he was met with resolved silence as they watched their Laird burn, his screams filling the dark night sky. They knew this was justice. He knew they were innocent of the bastard’s crimes, he had no intention of hurting them. His men had dealt with the Laird’s guards, dispatching them before the Laird had drawn his first breath awake.
Ragnar reached the beach once more, reaching his hand behind him to help the old woman down the rocks and took her back to her family. Bruni nodded at him, and he turned and made his announcement.
‘You are free of our revenge, go back to your homes. Break the contract yourselves, and we will come back with 1000 boats rather than a mere twenty.’
Sharing shocked looks between one another, the villagers backed away and then finally ran from the invaders, from the flare of the fire. And from the stench of burning flesh.
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Sitting on the rocks, his back to the boats, his leader looked about as ready to combust as the flames in front of him, as he walked to him.
‘Was he lying about the girl Ragnar? What did the old woman say?’ Bruni asked, still unable to draw his eyes away from the crackle of the dead Laird’s body.
‘She does exist. The woman said she has just turned 22, she has hair of pale blonde, and she is tall, said she would probably reach my shoulder. She didn’t know what the necklace looked like, but knew it was something her mother had given her, something of her father’s. Oh and this is spooky Bruni.’ Ragnar paused.
‘What is?’
‘Her name is Eleanor’
Bruni looked at his friend in utter disbelief.
‘Eleanor?’
‘Yes’
‘Then she must be Bjorn’s.’ he paused, silently adding to himself, she wore Bjorn’s mother’s name.
Bruni needed to find this female. Bjorn Haur’s female child was betrothed to his family. Since Bjorn had been killed, the contract between Haur and Auden could not be sealed. Not without a child. If she held Bjorn’s necklace, By Freya, she was his brother Nikolas’s bride.
And his duty to bring home.
Loki truly hated him to toy with him with such mischief.
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Chapter 2.
The sight of thick black smoke cloaking the stars behind her was enough to quicken her pace. The now eerie silence was deafening to her ears as she strained to hear the invading men, above her own heart beat. A variable drum, rapid beneath her breast, and the desperate breath to her lungs, sounding as loud as their war cries as she ran through the woodland. Using the moon to light her path, Eleanor reached the cool rush of the forest river, pulling a spare shift from her sack she immersed it in the rapids, using it to wash away the uncomfortable sheen of perspiration from her neck and face, breathing a sigh of sheer pleasure as rivulets of ice cold ran a chilling path under her tunic, following the smooth arch of her back, and the valley between her breasts. It was heaven, hidden in cool water.
Taming her windswept hair back into her leather strip, she blew an exasperated breath up at the escaped tendrils that seemed determined to remain uncaptured, as she repacked her meager belongings.
Eleanor smoothed her fingers over the blade against her hip. Safely hidden from view by her woolen shawl, it was in easy reach should she need it. At least that was the manner Seamus had told her to wear it, considering he was meant to be a man of God, Eleanor had found it amusing the day he had shown her how to hide a small dirk, and how to use it. She had not understood then. She understood now. As she waded carefully through the river, reveling in the thigh high water, she remembered him, the minister of the Kirk. Seamus had cared for her mother, Criostiona, after she had wandered into the village. He was the only person her mother had spoken to. That first night in his care, as he had tended her wounds, eased her pains, Criostiona had confided information to him. And then she spoke no more. Not even to Eleanor. A living husk, Criostiona had hardly been able to look at her. For the 16 years before she died, Eleanor believed truly, that she knew nothing of her mother. Perfect strangers in close confines, living day by day next to each other, and no wisdom dispensed. She had learnt to read and write in Seamus’ care, had learnt English and some of the heathen Norse he had insisted upon.
Dear God, no wonder I am an outcast. Sixteen Years of nothing, sixteen years of abandonment from society. Just a simple existence, and learning from a man she cared more for than her own mother.
When Seamus had sat her down after her mother’s funeral, he had told her Criostiona’s secret. And Eleanor had near called him a liar.
‘You are a daughter of one of them Eleanor. You bear one of their names. One day, it will happen. Those men will see you and they will know you are one of their own.’ Eleanor had stared at him, horrified. ‘They are not bad men Eleanor. They are adventurers if you will. They have a contract with us, honor bound not to harm, lest harm has befallen them.’
‘Why would they want me Seamus? I’m only just sixteen, and I dig peat!!’
God she still remembered the conversation almost verbatim. Her mother had loved him dearly, her Bjorn. The necklace she had in the bag was his. That was why the village had placed them at the outreach of their community. They had viewed poor Criostiona as the whore of the heathen as she wore his Norse necklace, too frightened to banish here lest the warriors invaded from spite, and too disgusted to treat her with kindness.
Easing from the river on the other side, Eleanor was glad for the sound of the rushing waterfall at the cliff edge, a welcome distraction from the silence, and from her thoughts.
‘Viking men’, Seamus had told her, ‘Have a shortage of women. Fair haired lasses like yourself, are bargaining chips that Lairds like MacLean can use as retribution for breaking the contract, anything to save their own hide. But you Eleanor. You are one of them. And they have the right to take you home.’
Eleanor stifled a sob at the thought. It was something she had been dreading for six years, and shameless
ly, something she had caught herself considering too. Wondering what her life would be like with the heathens. Could not really be much worse than in Lean.
Berating herself for her foolish notions, Eleanor shook her head and continued through the heavy woodland towards Loch Carnach with a quickened pace, and determined to keep her errant imagination in check, before she romanticized Seamus’ tale any more. Cresting the hill, she saw the village illuminated under the falling moon. She only hoped Kate was still here, the wandering girl and her brothers had a habit of venturing away from north Scotland often, sometimes venturing right out of Scotland itself. Stepping from the trees with relief, Eleanor moved from the cover of the canopy, and darted down the grassy hill, passing between the stonework of the village tighs.
A pair of black eyes, watching her all the way.
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Where was the girl going?
Ragnar was convinced, now after seeing the pale creature up close, that she was a daughter of the Haur. She even looked like Bjorn’s mother, her namesake. Tall, elegant, with her errant waves of pale blonde, and skin to rival even the finest porcelain. By Odin she was fast on her feet, most women would have collapsed with exhaustion after making one mile if lucky, this lithe woman had ran, and moved quickly through the dense woodland, and had covered near 5 miles in under 3 hours, hell half of the men under Bruni’s command would be exhausted after such an undertaking, but this sprightly creature even had the strength to smile as she ran like a giddy child down the swell of the hill towards the moon bathed village. Fingering the lock of hair in his hands, Ragnar stepped back into the trees, making his way back to Bruni. She had not even stopped as her long hair had become tangled in a low branch, she had simply tugged and ripped free, leaving a wave of pale gold behind. Keeping a few seconds behind her, Ragnar untangled it from the tree stayed close behind her, every footfall of hers, masking every one of his, a ghost she would never know was there. He had smiled at her child like joy of the cool water, her sigh of relief. He could imagine the decadent heat of her body flushed with exertion of a different kind. He shook the image from his head as he walked slowly and carefully back through the trees, focusing on the silken braid that was forming in his hands. Resting against a fallen pine, Ragnar cut a section of the corded plant in front of him, and tied the edges with the strong flora.
There, he thought. A token for his friend. Something to stir the blood.
Ragnar smiled at the thought. He was technically being traitorous to Nikolas and the contract between Haur and Auden, but Nikolas had no interest in marriage, he was a man of the world, immersed in his expeditions North and East. Bruni was more important to him than fulfilling the agreement, and by the end of this excursion, he would see his friend happy. Contract be damned.
Oprah
- 14.12.2020
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