04-29-2016, 02:06 PM
I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF
The sun creeps through a crack in her makeshift, ragged curtains, and hits Lagertha in a strip right across her eyes. She groans, and lifts a hand to block it out; but alas, the day waits for no one, and as the single window in her little attic apartment faces East, the light comes streaming in whether she likes it or not. This morning is one of the ‘not’ variety. She crushes her eyes shut and rolls over, pulling the blanket over her head, trying to block out the noise of street as it begins to come to life. The smell of freshly baked bread wafts up from below and makes her stomach growl, so she curls herself into a smaller ball. Last night’s activities had taken more out of her than she’d thought they would; the aches and full-body soreness that persist like the sun only confirm her exhaustion. The last thing Lagertha wants to do right now is get out of bed.
The Resistance, however, is worth it if it brings change, so she grits her teeth and throws the blanket off, finally opening her eyes. The single bed creaks in protest as she pushes herself upright, glancing around the room as if one day, she would wake up and it would all be different. Maybe one day, it would be: the poor would not be so poor and sick, the rich, less rich and fat. Lagertha could feed herself with a day of honest work, but only if she continued to show up for it - there were many women far worse off than she, who had to turn to selling their bodies. Not that anyone would want her, she muses, as she strips off her nightshirt and walks over to the porcelain wash basin. Her body is muscle-hard and wiry; there is no softness to her, not in the blue-gray steel of her eyes or the lines of her jaw, not in the firmness of her legs, or scars that paint a picture across her torso. She is a man in all but name, and a novelty amongst the soldiers for hire. The court (those that choose to take a chance on her) only do so after she has proven herself thrice over, and then they still offer her less pay, as if her life were worth less than her male counterparts.
At least she has her self-respect, and the respect of her fellow mercenaries. Lagertha is the strange foreigner, the woman with the barbarous hair, and while she’s been in Illea for more than two years, she still elicits stares when she walks down the street. Those who have taken the time to get to know her welcome her with a slap on the back and a heartfelt hello, but there will always be others who hide behind their fears and whisper behind her back. Once, she’d considered twisting her hair up like the women do, but her fingers are far more adept at whisking her long blonde hair into intricate braids than they are at making it conform to demure elegance. Besides, she kind of enjoyed the looks she got. Weary eyes peer into the mirror above her wash basin and she chuckles before splashing some water on her face to wake herself up. Time to wrestle herself into some sort of civilized look.
Joining The Resistance was the best decision she’d made recently - even if it often made for long nights and even longer days. The thrill of working for something she believed in, versus simply guarding over-perfumed assholes was just the spark she needed. There is a certain act to all of it, she muses as she washes off last night’s film of sweat and dirt. The nobility never think of the woman who pretends to know very little of the Illean language; they speak freely in front of her, convinced that because she appears to be disinterested, because when she does talk, it is in broken Illean, and most importantly, because she is a foreign woman, that she does not fully comprehend the importance what they are saying. Lagertha is a safe choice to take into secret meetings. Lagertha is the Resistance’s secret weapon.
The bell tower loudly chimes the 7 o’clock hour, rousing Lagertha from her musings and prompting her to grab a fresh set of undergarments. She doesn’t wear the typical ladies’ pantaloons, but a free flowing men’s set. She takes a piece of linen and wraps it tightly around her breasts, pinning it securely in front. Can’t have those babies (small as they are) bouncing around and distracting her. Her current assignment is with Count Odo, and if she’s late, she’ll not only miss a hearty breakfast with the rest of the guards, but could potentially find herself out of a job, which would be terrible for the Resistance, as Odo is one of the King’s right hand men. Lagertha is not permitted to live in the barracks. Even the temptation of such a… tough woman such as herself could be too much temptation for the rest of the men. Ha! As if they didn’t know she would cut off their balls if they laid a hand on her. But the ‘rules’ gave her privacy, and despite the early morning and long walk, she is fond of her bare, tiny little attic room.
Finding her previous day’s clothes discarded on the lone chair in her room, she slips them back on, sporing worn black pants, heavy black leather boots, a cream colored linen shirt, gun holster, and a hip-length jacket bearing the Count’s colors of emerald and gold. From underneath her pillow, she grabs a pistol and tucks it into the holster, hiding it safely against her side. From a drawer in the table that holds the basin, she pulls two throwing knives and tucks one into each of her boots. That’s it for now, the Count outfits her with a bayonet and rifle.
Her stomach growls again, and Lagertha takes one last look into the mirror before taking five or six steps across the room to the door, and locks it behind her. Taking care not to clatter loudly down the stair of the house, Lagertha exits the three story, brick building and turns north, towards the city center. Already, bikes and horse-drawn carriages are beginning to fill the streets as the working class starts their day. Lagertha joins them, walking quickly from the edge of the run-down part, through the merchant’s neighborhoods, and up the sloping, stone-paved roadways, to the few walled estates. Like many cities in Illea, this one is laid out in a wide sort of spiral, with the ruling nobility’s estate at the top, then the merchants and upper class, then the working class, and so forth. The wealthy lived in Uptown, and the poor lived in Downtown. There was, however, only one market square, though another was being built Uptown, which means that it was the only place where the classes are brought together. Illea is very separated in that way. Only by wearing the Count’s colors is she ‘allowed’ to pass from one social circle to the next. Any street rat from Downtown would be be stopped.
Pass, she does, and with a friendly nod to the actual soldiers that patrol each segment of the city. They nod in return, as she is a familiar face by now. Luckily, Lagertha makes it to the servant’s entrance of Count Odo’s vast estate in time for breakfast, where she seems to inhale porridge and salt meat like a teenage boy. One of her friends, and fellow Resistance member, Philipe, cracks a joke about her having the insides of a man - and how did she work up such an appetite last night, by bringing home a whore? Lagertha laughs and silently thanks him, lest anything seem out of the ordinary. Her peers know only that she plays up the ‘dumb foreigner’ act, so in front of them, she is almost as proficient as she truly is. In true military fashion, she retorts by saying his father fucked her last night, and that he should expect a bastard sibling in nine months. The company roars with laughter.
The idea that anyone would want to lie with her is always hilarious to them. Their jesting is interrupted by the Captain, who comes into the small side kitchen to deliver the day’s assignment. Most of them were sent to guard the halls and walls, a few were selected for their turn with the Count’s personal guard… and Lagertha? The Captain said he had an important assignment for her. As the men disperse to their duties, the Captain pulls Lagertha to one side and tells her that their is going to be a special announcement in the market square today, and that he needs her to make sure the coast is clear for the Count and his family to come and listen to it. Her curiosity is piqued; their other spies had passed down word of a royal decree sometime soon, but they hadn’t been able to pin down when, or what it would be about. They couldn’t be too careful, the Captain said, what with the whispers of rebellion in the air. She nods, and sets out down the road to the square, shedding Odo’s colors in favor of a medallion with his personal seal on it - in order to ‘blend in with the crowds’ better.
Unfortunately, this is not the time for the Resistance to strike. As the hours pass and the sun climbs in the sky, the tension in the square is palpable. The herald comes with his own royal guard, creating an overwhelming police and military presence. The people are not used to this, and even though they go about their normal duties, many move uneasily through the crowded area. A few who know her call out her name, and Lagertha raises a hand to greet them, though she does not stop her observant eyes. The old man, Jean, at the tailore shoppe, the one who every now and then makes her custom garments beckons her over to inquire how business is and bemoan the pitfalls of growing old. She listens for a moment, to be polite, but ultimately her attention wanders back to her job and she politely excuses herself. Jean would talk all day, if someone let him.
As she continues her patrol, one particularly disgruntled woman, and a fellow member of The Resistance even goes so far as to whisper, to her “You’d think we were rioting with all the police and royal guard present.” Lagertha nods in agreement, but alas, she doesn’t have much time to ponder, as the Captain appears upon the erected dais, searching for her. The members know her double agent status, and she proved her loyalty to the movement long ago. There is blood on her hands. Blood that was shed outside of her job, and that blood proved a point. It is safe for her to be seen walking between the two worlds, so Lagertha heads the Captain’s way and confirms that to her best knowledge, the area is safe for the Count. She is instructed to rejoin the ranks of his guards, though she is still in plain clothes. Every man is needed. So Lagertha moves back through the crowd, weaving between the people with an uncanny ease until she reaches the back of the Count’s guards, and climbs atop a wine barrel to see above the masses.
A fat, tall man waddles up to the podium and unfolds a fancy letter, reading the words written there in a loud, clear voice. A hush falls, and he has their undivided attention. “By Royal Decree, I am authorized…” he begins, and by the end, you could feel the tension turn to unbridled excitement. Almost as soon as the herald finishes, squeals erupt as other women realize that this is their one and only chance to become a Queen. Lagertha rools her eyes at the shrill sound, but as she turns her gaze towards Count Odo, she can see his daughter’s eyes shining (as if she didn’t already have everything she could possibly want) with greed. Luckily, Lagertha doesn’t have much time to dwell on the meaning of this decree (and what it could possibly mean for her), as she has to finish out the work day, but as soon as she is dismissed, and she begins the slow walk home, the day’s events come drifting back into her mind.
Whether it is her feet that unconsciously carry her into a detour to the Administrative building, or it is a conscious decision, she doesn’t know. But somehow, the wild-haired woman finds herself before the marble building, then crossing the threshold and standing before an old man with flimsy looking, wire-rimmed glasses. “Excuse me, I can have application, please?” He looks up at her from beneath wild, white brows, seeing only the sweat stains on her shirt, and dirt on her face, and her lack of… appropriate clothing. “You?” he asks incredulously. “What hope could you ever have at winning? Are you even within the age limit” Lagertha’s lips pinch together in a tight line, her eyes smoldering in anger. She knows she looks far older than she is, but Lagertha has been training in combat since she was 13, and it has taken a toll on her body. The sun has weathered her face, and she’s never bothered to use lotion or makeup. The truth, however, is that she is only a few weeks from 24, and therefore safely within the age limit. “Yes. Is not your choice,” she spits out, thrusting a callused, rough hand forward to demand a piece of paper. The little old man laughs some more and waves her away, going right back to reading his book. It isn’t until one of Lagertha’s knives ends up in the middle of a page that that he looks back up, with a stunned and terrified look on his face. “Application,” Lagertha says firmly. “Now.”
She makes the man stay until she finishes the whole thing, then turns around and stalks back out into the night. She rarely second guesses her decisions, and this would not be one of them. You can’t win if you don’t fight.
-----
Two weeks later, they hear about the selected applicants, and it turns out that only Lagertha and Count Odo’s daughter, Celine, are wanted from their city. Everyone, from the nobility down to the peasants seem rather flabbergasted that Lagertha is one of the chosen few. Hell, even Lagertha herself is, though she spends the rest of the day irritably brushing off jokes from her fellow guards, until she finally snaps and threatens one of the more persistent taunters with a knife. They make sure to keep quiet after that. Count Odo, however, isn’t exactly pleased that his precious Celine will be competing with one of his own guards, and uses the excuse of that incident to ‘let her go.’ Without severance. Which means that she hasn’t nearly enough money to take care of… well, any preparations within the next couple of days.
Angry, frustrated, and feeling more than a little dejected, Lagertha wanders into a pub, to spend what little bit of coin she has. The five cents that the lowgrade wine cost won’t buy anything else, so she might as well spend it on drowning her sorrows. Four cups in (two were free), when the world is pleasantly numb and her head is buzzing, she closes her eyes for just a little nap and passes out. When she awakes with the rising of the sun, she finds herself in her bed, fully clothed, head pounding, and a hefty sack of coins at her side. She squints, rolling over to to look for some sort of explanation, but all she can find is an unsigned note, which says We believe in you. Disbelieving fingers open the pouch to find it filled almost half with gold, and half with silver - more than enough to outfit her with nicer clothes (though she’d be damned if she starts wearing dresses), decent good, and a swift ride to the Palace. She laughs, squealing like the younger girls she’d only recently mocked. Oh gods in heaven, it must have been the Resistance! It is a blessing, and also a subtle reminder of who she is, and the cause she believes in.
Lagertha spends the rest of her day taking care of loose ends and preparing herself for the journey; a visit to Jean and the tailore shoppe gets her some fine black leather pants and a silk blouse (decidedly more feminine than her usual shirt). She passes on the corset, saying only “I like being able to breathe” before moving on the subject of dresses. Jean insists that she should have one, just in case, and brings out a loose fitting frock that is wildly out of style. Although beautiful, in a cobalt blue, it seems to be made for a dancer than a ‘proper lady.’ The fabric flows about her thin frame, but with a few practice martial arts moves, and with the addition of a silver belt (in which she can hide a small knife), she finds it acceptable. She also buys a pair of new shoes; a finer pair of black flats, that would match the dress and leather pants. No heels. She wouldn’t know how to walk in those.
The next day dawns the same as before, except that it is wildly different from the others. Today is the day Lagertha sets out for the Palace. There is no one come to bid her farewell; no business save to pay for her room through the end of the month (just in case), and to lock it when she leaves. She has no family, and Philipe is working, like the rest of her friends. So here she goes, with only a small case of clothes and personal items, and lacking any sort of fanfare. No, that was saved for Celine. Preferring to save the rest of her money, she opts to buy a strong, if not terribly attractive horse from the blacksmith instead of splurging on a train ride. He, who has more than once mended her knives, hands the black stallion off while demanding the promise to bring it back if she should fail. If not, he says to think of it as a wedding gift. Lagertha chuckles and promises to take good care of Blackie. She strokes the stallion’s nose and he nudges her shoulder in what seems to be a show of goodwill. She smiles. He should do jusssst fine.
She hauls herself into the saddle, and settles her few belongings into sort of basket attached to the back side of the seat. With a click of her tongue, and a gentle prod of her brown booted feet, she urges Blackie forward, and they move down and out of the city while the day is still very young. Her selection had come with a map to the palace and the various ways to get there, so she pauses right outside the Downtown city gates to assess which way would be best. It seems to be only about a day’s travel north, and with the King’s Road not far away, she should make decent time. Lagertha folds her papers back up and tucks them into a purse that is hidden next to one of the knives in her boots. She would need that paper to get in, so best to keep it in a safe place.
The Road is about a mile away, and Lagertha feels the urge to let Blackie run. She pats him on the neck and then leans forward a bit, squeezing her her legs together. He lurches forward, and when he realizes that he has free rein, he leaps into a canter, carrying Lagertha quickly over the flat, green and gold fields, past several farms of wheat and corn and cows. Her hair is tied back in interlocking braids, and it flies behind her crouched form until it it is a windswept mess - but oh, how good it feels to have the wind in her face and a powerful beast between her legs. When they reach the Road, she slows Blackie back down to a walk as they merge into the northbound foot and carriage traffic. They make pretty darn good time, stopping every now and then to buy water and food from a streetside vendor, or to let Blackie rest and eat his own lunch. They travel all day, and it isn’t until the sun begins to paint beautiful streaks of pink and purple across the sky that the lights of the Palace loom before them.
When the pair do finally arrive at the Palace gaits, Lagertha cannot help but stare up at the massive building - it is easily three times the size of Count Odo’s house! It is white and long, and oh god - the number of rooms it must have! And yet, it is beautiful too - and far more stately than she could even have begun to imagine. This is so very far from the village where she was born. One of the guards at the gate steps forward, and from beneath his very tall, furry hat (what could it’s purpose be, except for decoration? He is only a target when he wears it), and calls out, “Halt! Who seeks entry to the Palace?” Lagertha hesitates, and then takes the letter of introduction out of her boot and answers in perfect Illean (though she does have an accent), “Lagertha Lothbrok, I am one of the chosen applicants.” Her voice does not break, despite the overwhelming feeling of awe inside her. Yes, this is indeed happening.
The guard takes her paper and looks it over, deciding that everything is in order. He makes a motion to some three men behind him, who open the gate to let her through, one of them even telling a boy to run and fetch Fiona, because another girl is here. Another man scuttles out of the shadows to help her from Blackie, while a third, in finer clothes, emerges from a small side door to take her belongings (without comment as to how little it seems to be). Of course, Lagertha doesn’t know this, so she moves to stop him, and he murmurs to her, “Do not fret, miss. Your belongings will be unpacked in your room for you. No one will take anything.”
At that moment, Fiona, an older, gray-haired woman in simple, but far more fashionable clothing descends from the main set of doors and flies down the marble steps to meet her. “Oh! You’re finally here, thank goodness. We were starting to worry that you weren’t going to make it in time. Come, come - oh -” she stops mid-sentence, hand flying to her mouth, as her shrewd eyes widen at the sight of the Lagertha. “Oh my.” Another long pause. “I’d heard you were foreign, but this is… this is entirely unexpected.” What? Had they mistaken her application with another’s? She’d clearly put all her combat skills and mercenary experience, her proficiency in three languages, on the application, as well as a detailed account of her near-death experience. What had this woman expected? “Well, this is me…”, she says awkwardly, throwing her arms wide into a shrug. “I’m Lagertha.” A frown crosses her face, and she straightens up, throwing her shoulders back, and planting her feet solidly shoulder's width apart. Let's try that again. "I am Lagertha Lothbrook, of Kattegat. I have been chosen from the applicants, and I do not intend to lose."
Even if the 'competition' is full of curtseying and tea etiquette. She wouldn't go down without a fight.
“Well." Fiona's brown eyes look her up and down again."It seems everything just got a lot more interesting… I’m Fiona, the head housekeeper here, and temporary escort of the applicants.” Fiona says, as she finally offers a hand to the wild-haired young foreigner. A sly smile creeps across the woman’s face, pulling at the crow’s feet around her eyes. “Come on, we’ll have a maid draw you a bath, and have some supper sent to your room. This way.” Fiona turns on her heels and marches back into the massive block of a home, leaving Lagertha to quickly hurry after her.
She can feel their bold stares as she follows at Fiona’s heels. Even if the staff were not staring, she might feel out of place. The entry hall left her mouth agape, and as the turned down a hall, she noted that it was cushioned in bright red velvet, and lights keep them bright and merry. The whole places shines, whether it is from the brilliant gold mirroirs that line the walls, or the doorknobs, or the shiny, clean faces of the employees. The maids and butlers turn their heads to follow their progress down the halls (so many turns, she’s sure she’ll never find her way back without a guide). They don’t cross but one or two of the nobility who are lucky enough to have chambers here, but when they do, they seem to throw themselves against the wall and comment rudely about the smell of horses and shit that have suddenly assaulted their delicate sensibilities. Lagertha only looks straight, or at the back of Fiona’s head, giving her back a make believe iron rod, and taking comfort in the fact that she could probably kill them in 30 seconds. Ten, if she can get to one of her knives. It is a small consolation, but it is enough to make her smile on the inside. That, and remember to store some knowledge for later - for The Resistance.
They ascend a staircase, and all the while Fiona has been silence, save to point out something notable every now and then. The sound of girls voices travel down, and it is obvious they’ve come to the wing - or area - that houses the applicants. Fiona’s head appears first, and they greet her enthusiastically, as if she were an old friend. Lagertha appears immediately after, and one girl squeaks in surprise, while the others fall silent. She gazes calmly (though her insides are tumbling around like a boiling sea) at the pretty girls, all of whom seem to be wearing beautiful dresses, with their hair curled or twisted up. She is painfully aware of her rat's nest of a hair, and her man's clothes. They all seem to be younger than she is - though that may just be her skewed perception. The girls fall to the side, hushed whispers reaching her ear after she passes. However, like the trained warrior that she is, she holds her head high and continues to follow Fiona to the end of the hall, where the last room awaits a visitor.
“Thank you, Fiona,” she says as she steps into the richly decorated room. “There should be a tub of hot water behind that screen,” the older woman points out, “and I’ll have the kitchen send leftovers, since you missed dinner with the girls.” Lagertha turns around and forces herself to smile, and nod. It must not have been as successful as she’d wanted, because something in it makes the housekeeper soften a bit. “Don’t worry about them, you’re just… exotic and perhaps even scary to a couple of them. Now get a good night’s sleep and don’t let them get your head, you have a big day tomorrow.” Lagertha nods, saying simply, “Of course. I appreciate your kindness.” Fiona dips her head in return and steps backwards, out of the room, pulling the doors shut with her.
Lagertha is alone again, and she allows her gaze to travel across the sumptuous chambers, deciding to explore before taking a bath, even if it means the water will be tepid instead of hot. The closet it made of polished mahogany, and whens she opens it, she finds her few sets of clothing already hanging, as promised. The rest of the items remain in her satchel, at the bottom of the boudoir. She turns to the bed, and it is so much larger than the one she has in her little attic room. Four posters, a canopy, and covered in a silk brocade in a beautiful sky blue and cream pattern. The pillows seem as light as air, and when she falls backwards onto the bed, for a moment she thinks she never wants to leave. But the bath is waiting, and her stomach growls again, and oh - she is so very tired.
Lagertha strips and sinks into the warm water, sighing in relief as it starts to soothe her aching quads and glutes. The silence in here, and the echoes of the girl’s excited, high-pitched chatter outside remind her that she is alone, again. But then it seems that she has always been alone, from the moments her parents died, to the moment that she decided to come to Illea, to this morning, when she had no one to bid farewell to. The is not like these girls, who may or may not come from wealthy families, or even those who come from poor ones - she imagines they still have families. Lagertha has nothing, and that makes her all the more dangerous. Who else can risk it all, who else has nothing to lose? Ah, but the water is cold now, and as she steps out of the wooden tub, the smell of food hits her - and then it is only a matter of short time before she stuffs her face and passes out - to a hopefully dreamless sleep.
The Resistance, however, is worth it if it brings change, so she grits her teeth and throws the blanket off, finally opening her eyes. The single bed creaks in protest as she pushes herself upright, glancing around the room as if one day, she would wake up and it would all be different. Maybe one day, it would be: the poor would not be so poor and sick, the rich, less rich and fat. Lagertha could feed herself with a day of honest work, but only if she continued to show up for it - there were many women far worse off than she, who had to turn to selling their bodies. Not that anyone would want her, she muses, as she strips off her nightshirt and walks over to the porcelain wash basin. Her body is muscle-hard and wiry; there is no softness to her, not in the blue-gray steel of her eyes or the lines of her jaw, not in the firmness of her legs, or scars that paint a picture across her torso. She is a man in all but name, and a novelty amongst the soldiers for hire. The court (those that choose to take a chance on her) only do so after she has proven herself thrice over, and then they still offer her less pay, as if her life were worth less than her male counterparts.
At least she has her self-respect, and the respect of her fellow mercenaries. Lagertha is the strange foreigner, the woman with the barbarous hair, and while she’s been in Illea for more than two years, she still elicits stares when she walks down the street. Those who have taken the time to get to know her welcome her with a slap on the back and a heartfelt hello, but there will always be others who hide behind their fears and whisper behind her back. Once, she’d considered twisting her hair up like the women do, but her fingers are far more adept at whisking her long blonde hair into intricate braids than they are at making it conform to demure elegance. Besides, she kind of enjoyed the looks she got. Weary eyes peer into the mirror above her wash basin and she chuckles before splashing some water on her face to wake herself up. Time to wrestle herself into some sort of civilized look.
Joining The Resistance was the best decision she’d made recently - even if it often made for long nights and even longer days. The thrill of working for something she believed in, versus simply guarding over-perfumed assholes was just the spark she needed. There is a certain act to all of it, she muses as she washes off last night’s film of sweat and dirt. The nobility never think of the woman who pretends to know very little of the Illean language; they speak freely in front of her, convinced that because she appears to be disinterested, because when she does talk, it is in broken Illean, and most importantly, because she is a foreign woman, that she does not fully comprehend the importance what they are saying. Lagertha is a safe choice to take into secret meetings. Lagertha is the Resistance’s secret weapon.
The bell tower loudly chimes the 7 o’clock hour, rousing Lagertha from her musings and prompting her to grab a fresh set of undergarments. She doesn’t wear the typical ladies’ pantaloons, but a free flowing men’s set. She takes a piece of linen and wraps it tightly around her breasts, pinning it securely in front. Can’t have those babies (small as they are) bouncing around and distracting her. Her current assignment is with Count Odo, and if she’s late, she’ll not only miss a hearty breakfast with the rest of the guards, but could potentially find herself out of a job, which would be terrible for the Resistance, as Odo is one of the King’s right hand men. Lagertha is not permitted to live in the barracks. Even the temptation of such a… tough woman such as herself could be too much temptation for the rest of the men. Ha! As if they didn’t know she would cut off their balls if they laid a hand on her. But the ‘rules’ gave her privacy, and despite the early morning and long walk, she is fond of her bare, tiny little attic room.
Finding her previous day’s clothes discarded on the lone chair in her room, she slips them back on, sporing worn black pants, heavy black leather boots, a cream colored linen shirt, gun holster, and a hip-length jacket bearing the Count’s colors of emerald and gold. From underneath her pillow, she grabs a pistol and tucks it into the holster, hiding it safely against her side. From a drawer in the table that holds the basin, she pulls two throwing knives and tucks one into each of her boots. That’s it for now, the Count outfits her with a bayonet and rifle.
Her stomach growls again, and Lagertha takes one last look into the mirror before taking five or six steps across the room to the door, and locks it behind her. Taking care not to clatter loudly down the stair of the house, Lagertha exits the three story, brick building and turns north, towards the city center. Already, bikes and horse-drawn carriages are beginning to fill the streets as the working class starts their day. Lagertha joins them, walking quickly from the edge of the run-down part, through the merchant’s neighborhoods, and up the sloping, stone-paved roadways, to the few walled estates. Like many cities in Illea, this one is laid out in a wide sort of spiral, with the ruling nobility’s estate at the top, then the merchants and upper class, then the working class, and so forth. The wealthy lived in Uptown, and the poor lived in Downtown. There was, however, only one market square, though another was being built Uptown, which means that it was the only place where the classes are brought together. Illea is very separated in that way. Only by wearing the Count’s colors is she ‘allowed’ to pass from one social circle to the next. Any street rat from Downtown would be be stopped.
Pass, she does, and with a friendly nod to the actual soldiers that patrol each segment of the city. They nod in return, as she is a familiar face by now. Luckily, Lagertha makes it to the servant’s entrance of Count Odo’s vast estate in time for breakfast, where she seems to inhale porridge and salt meat like a teenage boy. One of her friends, and fellow Resistance member, Philipe, cracks a joke about her having the insides of a man - and how did she work up such an appetite last night, by bringing home a whore? Lagertha laughs and silently thanks him, lest anything seem out of the ordinary. Her peers know only that she plays up the ‘dumb foreigner’ act, so in front of them, she is almost as proficient as she truly is. In true military fashion, she retorts by saying his father fucked her last night, and that he should expect a bastard sibling in nine months. The company roars with laughter.
The idea that anyone would want to lie with her is always hilarious to them. Their jesting is interrupted by the Captain, who comes into the small side kitchen to deliver the day’s assignment. Most of them were sent to guard the halls and walls, a few were selected for their turn with the Count’s personal guard… and Lagertha? The Captain said he had an important assignment for her. As the men disperse to their duties, the Captain pulls Lagertha to one side and tells her that their is going to be a special announcement in the market square today, and that he needs her to make sure the coast is clear for the Count and his family to come and listen to it. Her curiosity is piqued; their other spies had passed down word of a royal decree sometime soon, but they hadn’t been able to pin down when, or what it would be about. They couldn’t be too careful, the Captain said, what with the whispers of rebellion in the air. She nods, and sets out down the road to the square, shedding Odo’s colors in favor of a medallion with his personal seal on it - in order to ‘blend in with the crowds’ better.
Unfortunately, this is not the time for the Resistance to strike. As the hours pass and the sun climbs in the sky, the tension in the square is palpable. The herald comes with his own royal guard, creating an overwhelming police and military presence. The people are not used to this, and even though they go about their normal duties, many move uneasily through the crowded area. A few who know her call out her name, and Lagertha raises a hand to greet them, though she does not stop her observant eyes. The old man, Jean, at the tailore shoppe, the one who every now and then makes her custom garments beckons her over to inquire how business is and bemoan the pitfalls of growing old. She listens for a moment, to be polite, but ultimately her attention wanders back to her job and she politely excuses herself. Jean would talk all day, if someone let him.
As she continues her patrol, one particularly disgruntled woman, and a fellow member of The Resistance even goes so far as to whisper, to her “You’d think we were rioting with all the police and royal guard present.” Lagertha nods in agreement, but alas, she doesn’t have much time to ponder, as the Captain appears upon the erected dais, searching for her. The members know her double agent status, and she proved her loyalty to the movement long ago. There is blood on her hands. Blood that was shed outside of her job, and that blood proved a point. It is safe for her to be seen walking between the two worlds, so Lagertha heads the Captain’s way and confirms that to her best knowledge, the area is safe for the Count. She is instructed to rejoin the ranks of his guards, though she is still in plain clothes. Every man is needed. So Lagertha moves back through the crowd, weaving between the people with an uncanny ease until she reaches the back of the Count’s guards, and climbs atop a wine barrel to see above the masses.
A fat, tall man waddles up to the podium and unfolds a fancy letter, reading the words written there in a loud, clear voice. A hush falls, and he has their undivided attention. “By Royal Decree, I am authorized…” he begins, and by the end, you could feel the tension turn to unbridled excitement. Almost as soon as the herald finishes, squeals erupt as other women realize that this is their one and only chance to become a Queen. Lagertha rools her eyes at the shrill sound, but as she turns her gaze towards Count Odo, she can see his daughter’s eyes shining (as if she didn’t already have everything she could possibly want) with greed. Luckily, Lagertha doesn’t have much time to dwell on the meaning of this decree (and what it could possibly mean for her), as she has to finish out the work day, but as soon as she is dismissed, and she begins the slow walk home, the day’s events come drifting back into her mind.
Whether it is her feet that unconsciously carry her into a detour to the Administrative building, or it is a conscious decision, she doesn’t know. But somehow, the wild-haired woman finds herself before the marble building, then crossing the threshold and standing before an old man with flimsy looking, wire-rimmed glasses. “Excuse me, I can have application, please?” He looks up at her from beneath wild, white brows, seeing only the sweat stains on her shirt, and dirt on her face, and her lack of… appropriate clothing. “You?” he asks incredulously. “What hope could you ever have at winning? Are you even within the age limit” Lagertha’s lips pinch together in a tight line, her eyes smoldering in anger. She knows she looks far older than she is, but Lagertha has been training in combat since she was 13, and it has taken a toll on her body. The sun has weathered her face, and she’s never bothered to use lotion or makeup. The truth, however, is that she is only a few weeks from 24, and therefore safely within the age limit. “Yes. Is not your choice,” she spits out, thrusting a callused, rough hand forward to demand a piece of paper. The little old man laughs some more and waves her away, going right back to reading his book. It isn’t until one of Lagertha’s knives ends up in the middle of a page that that he looks back up, with a stunned and terrified look on his face. “Application,” Lagertha says firmly. “Now.”
She makes the man stay until she finishes the whole thing, then turns around and stalks back out into the night. She rarely second guesses her decisions, and this would not be one of them. You can’t win if you don’t fight.
-----
Two weeks later, they hear about the selected applicants, and it turns out that only Lagertha and Count Odo’s daughter, Celine, are wanted from their city. Everyone, from the nobility down to the peasants seem rather flabbergasted that Lagertha is one of the chosen few. Hell, even Lagertha herself is, though she spends the rest of the day irritably brushing off jokes from her fellow guards, until she finally snaps and threatens one of the more persistent taunters with a knife. They make sure to keep quiet after that. Count Odo, however, isn’t exactly pleased that his precious Celine will be competing with one of his own guards, and uses the excuse of that incident to ‘let her go.’ Without severance. Which means that she hasn’t nearly enough money to take care of… well, any preparations within the next couple of days.
Angry, frustrated, and feeling more than a little dejected, Lagertha wanders into a pub, to spend what little bit of coin she has. The five cents that the lowgrade wine cost won’t buy anything else, so she might as well spend it on drowning her sorrows. Four cups in (two were free), when the world is pleasantly numb and her head is buzzing, she closes her eyes for just a little nap and passes out. When she awakes with the rising of the sun, she finds herself in her bed, fully clothed, head pounding, and a hefty sack of coins at her side. She squints, rolling over to to look for some sort of explanation, but all she can find is an unsigned note, which says We believe in you. Disbelieving fingers open the pouch to find it filled almost half with gold, and half with silver - more than enough to outfit her with nicer clothes (though she’d be damned if she starts wearing dresses), decent good, and a swift ride to the Palace. She laughs, squealing like the younger girls she’d only recently mocked. Oh gods in heaven, it must have been the Resistance! It is a blessing, and also a subtle reminder of who she is, and the cause she believes in.
Lagertha spends the rest of her day taking care of loose ends and preparing herself for the journey; a visit to Jean and the tailore shoppe gets her some fine black leather pants and a silk blouse (decidedly more feminine than her usual shirt). She passes on the corset, saying only “I like being able to breathe” before moving on the subject of dresses. Jean insists that she should have one, just in case, and brings out a loose fitting frock that is wildly out of style. Although beautiful, in a cobalt blue, it seems to be made for a dancer than a ‘proper lady.’ The fabric flows about her thin frame, but with a few practice martial arts moves, and with the addition of a silver belt (in which she can hide a small knife), she finds it acceptable. She also buys a pair of new shoes; a finer pair of black flats, that would match the dress and leather pants. No heels. She wouldn’t know how to walk in those.
The next day dawns the same as before, except that it is wildly different from the others. Today is the day Lagertha sets out for the Palace. There is no one come to bid her farewell; no business save to pay for her room through the end of the month (just in case), and to lock it when she leaves. She has no family, and Philipe is working, like the rest of her friends. So here she goes, with only a small case of clothes and personal items, and lacking any sort of fanfare. No, that was saved for Celine. Preferring to save the rest of her money, she opts to buy a strong, if not terribly attractive horse from the blacksmith instead of splurging on a train ride. He, who has more than once mended her knives, hands the black stallion off while demanding the promise to bring it back if she should fail. If not, he says to think of it as a wedding gift. Lagertha chuckles and promises to take good care of Blackie. She strokes the stallion’s nose and he nudges her shoulder in what seems to be a show of goodwill. She smiles. He should do jusssst fine.
She hauls herself into the saddle, and settles her few belongings into sort of basket attached to the back side of the seat. With a click of her tongue, and a gentle prod of her brown booted feet, she urges Blackie forward, and they move down and out of the city while the day is still very young. Her selection had come with a map to the palace and the various ways to get there, so she pauses right outside the Downtown city gates to assess which way would be best. It seems to be only about a day’s travel north, and with the King’s Road not far away, she should make decent time. Lagertha folds her papers back up and tucks them into a purse that is hidden next to one of the knives in her boots. She would need that paper to get in, so best to keep it in a safe place.
The Road is about a mile away, and Lagertha feels the urge to let Blackie run. She pats him on the neck and then leans forward a bit, squeezing her her legs together. He lurches forward, and when he realizes that he has free rein, he leaps into a canter, carrying Lagertha quickly over the flat, green and gold fields, past several farms of wheat and corn and cows. Her hair is tied back in interlocking braids, and it flies behind her crouched form until it it is a windswept mess - but oh, how good it feels to have the wind in her face and a powerful beast between her legs. When they reach the Road, she slows Blackie back down to a walk as they merge into the northbound foot and carriage traffic. They make pretty darn good time, stopping every now and then to buy water and food from a streetside vendor, or to let Blackie rest and eat his own lunch. They travel all day, and it isn’t until the sun begins to paint beautiful streaks of pink and purple across the sky that the lights of the Palace loom before them.
When the pair do finally arrive at the Palace gaits, Lagertha cannot help but stare up at the massive building - it is easily three times the size of Count Odo’s house! It is white and long, and oh god - the number of rooms it must have! And yet, it is beautiful too - and far more stately than she could even have begun to imagine. This is so very far from the village where she was born. One of the guards at the gate steps forward, and from beneath his very tall, furry hat (what could it’s purpose be, except for decoration? He is only a target when he wears it), and calls out, “Halt! Who seeks entry to the Palace?” Lagertha hesitates, and then takes the letter of introduction out of her boot and answers in perfect Illean (though she does have an accent), “Lagertha Lothbrok, I am one of the chosen applicants.” Her voice does not break, despite the overwhelming feeling of awe inside her. Yes, this is indeed happening.
The guard takes her paper and looks it over, deciding that everything is in order. He makes a motion to some three men behind him, who open the gate to let her through, one of them even telling a boy to run and fetch Fiona, because another girl is here. Another man scuttles out of the shadows to help her from Blackie, while a third, in finer clothes, emerges from a small side door to take her belongings (without comment as to how little it seems to be). Of course, Lagertha doesn’t know this, so she moves to stop him, and he murmurs to her, “Do not fret, miss. Your belongings will be unpacked in your room for you. No one will take anything.”
At that moment, Fiona, an older, gray-haired woman in simple, but far more fashionable clothing descends from the main set of doors and flies down the marble steps to meet her. “Oh! You’re finally here, thank goodness. We were starting to worry that you weren’t going to make it in time. Come, come - oh -” she stops mid-sentence, hand flying to her mouth, as her shrewd eyes widen at the sight of the Lagertha. “Oh my.” Another long pause. “I’d heard you were foreign, but this is… this is entirely unexpected.” What? Had they mistaken her application with another’s? She’d clearly put all her combat skills and mercenary experience, her proficiency in three languages, on the application, as well as a detailed account of her near-death experience. What had this woman expected? “Well, this is me…”, she says awkwardly, throwing her arms wide into a shrug. “I’m Lagertha.” A frown crosses her face, and she straightens up, throwing her shoulders back, and planting her feet solidly shoulder's width apart. Let's try that again. "I am Lagertha Lothbrook, of Kattegat. I have been chosen from the applicants, and I do not intend to lose."
Even if the 'competition' is full of curtseying and tea etiquette. She wouldn't go down without a fight.
“Well." Fiona's brown eyes look her up and down again."It seems everything just got a lot more interesting… I’m Fiona, the head housekeeper here, and temporary escort of the applicants.” Fiona says, as she finally offers a hand to the wild-haired young foreigner. A sly smile creeps across the woman’s face, pulling at the crow’s feet around her eyes. “Come on, we’ll have a maid draw you a bath, and have some supper sent to your room. This way.” Fiona turns on her heels and marches back into the massive block of a home, leaving Lagertha to quickly hurry after her.
She can feel their bold stares as she follows at Fiona’s heels. Even if the staff were not staring, she might feel out of place. The entry hall left her mouth agape, and as the turned down a hall, she noted that it was cushioned in bright red velvet, and lights keep them bright and merry. The whole places shines, whether it is from the brilliant gold mirroirs that line the walls, or the doorknobs, or the shiny, clean faces of the employees. The maids and butlers turn their heads to follow their progress down the halls (so many turns, she’s sure she’ll never find her way back without a guide). They don’t cross but one or two of the nobility who are lucky enough to have chambers here, but when they do, they seem to throw themselves against the wall and comment rudely about the smell of horses and shit that have suddenly assaulted their delicate sensibilities. Lagertha only looks straight, or at the back of Fiona’s head, giving her back a make believe iron rod, and taking comfort in the fact that she could probably kill them in 30 seconds. Ten, if she can get to one of her knives. It is a small consolation, but it is enough to make her smile on the inside. That, and remember to store some knowledge for later - for The Resistance.
They ascend a staircase, and all the while Fiona has been silence, save to point out something notable every now and then. The sound of girls voices travel down, and it is obvious they’ve come to the wing - or area - that houses the applicants. Fiona’s head appears first, and they greet her enthusiastically, as if she were an old friend. Lagertha appears immediately after, and one girl squeaks in surprise, while the others fall silent. She gazes calmly (though her insides are tumbling around like a boiling sea) at the pretty girls, all of whom seem to be wearing beautiful dresses, with their hair curled or twisted up. She is painfully aware of her rat's nest of a hair, and her man's clothes. They all seem to be younger than she is - though that may just be her skewed perception. The girls fall to the side, hushed whispers reaching her ear after she passes. However, like the trained warrior that she is, she holds her head high and continues to follow Fiona to the end of the hall, where the last room awaits a visitor.
“Thank you, Fiona,” she says as she steps into the richly decorated room. “There should be a tub of hot water behind that screen,” the older woman points out, “and I’ll have the kitchen send leftovers, since you missed dinner with the girls.” Lagertha turns around and forces herself to smile, and nod. It must not have been as successful as she’d wanted, because something in it makes the housekeeper soften a bit. “Don’t worry about them, you’re just… exotic and perhaps even scary to a couple of them. Now get a good night’s sleep and don’t let them get your head, you have a big day tomorrow.” Lagertha nods, saying simply, “Of course. I appreciate your kindness.” Fiona dips her head in return and steps backwards, out of the room, pulling the doors shut with her.
Lagertha is alone again, and she allows her gaze to travel across the sumptuous chambers, deciding to explore before taking a bath, even if it means the water will be tepid instead of hot. The closet it made of polished mahogany, and whens she opens it, she finds her few sets of clothing already hanging, as promised. The rest of the items remain in her satchel, at the bottom of the boudoir. She turns to the bed, and it is so much larger than the one she has in her little attic room. Four posters, a canopy, and covered in a silk brocade in a beautiful sky blue and cream pattern. The pillows seem as light as air, and when she falls backwards onto the bed, for a moment she thinks she never wants to leave. But the bath is waiting, and her stomach growls again, and oh - she is so very tired.
Lagertha strips and sinks into the warm water, sighing in relief as it starts to soothe her aching quads and glutes. The silence in here, and the echoes of the girl’s excited, high-pitched chatter outside remind her that she is alone, again. But then it seems that she has always been alone, from the moments her parents died, to the moment that she decided to come to Illea, to this morning, when she had no one to bid farewell to. The is not like these girls, who may or may not come from wealthy families, or even those who come from poor ones - she imagines they still have families. Lagertha has nothing, and that makes her all the more dangerous. Who else can risk it all, who else has nothing to lose? Ah, but the water is cold now, and as she steps out of the wooden tub, the smell of food hits her - and then it is only a matter of short time before she stuffs her face and passes out - to a hopefully dreamless sleep.
Lagertha
Warrior Queen of the Amazons