Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

He was gone. She would never hear him laugh again, never feel his arm about her, never see him smile. It felt as though she was adrift at sea, lost wandering the mist, alone without an anchor. How could she go on living without him? Why did he die, instead of her? More than ever, she longed for the comfort of his arm around her.

Memories of him flashed through her head, fragmented in her sobs. The first time he had spoken to her, when he happened upon her after she had killed a deer. The first time he had joined her as she hunted. The first meal they had shared together. All the moments when he had made her laugh, the moments of perfect joy. The first time he had told her he loved her, the first time he had held her in his arms. Every time he had strengthened her, and given her courage.

It was only Niamh’s cries that pulled her back to reality. Overhead, the flames were crackling on the roof. A constant snapping noise surrounded her, and the fire hissed as the rain fell. The little room was choked with smothering smoke, filling her eyes, her lungs.

She picked up Niamh, and turned back. He lay there against the wall, his eyes closed. A heavy weight sat on her chest, and she gave a shuddering breath. Leaving meant saying goodbye, forever. She couldn’t let him go.

But in the end, she had to. In the end she left him behind, knowing she would never see him again. Knowing she wouldn’t even be able to give him the dignity of a proper burial, as the flames would consume him. She could not weep anymore, all her tears were shed. Running through the village, past flaming houses, through thick smoke, in the cold lashing rain, careless of the Vikings she saw like vague shadows in the distance, she felt none of it. All she could feel was a gaping hole in her chest, a void that threatened to consume her.

She clutched Niamh to herself tightly, beginning up the mountain path. Shrieking wind howled around her, the rain hammered down, the black clouds blotted out the stars. The sound of Viking shouts and the storm filled her ears, and still she could smell the smoke. Pausing at the top of the ridge she looked back down at her home. The monastery tower stood out over the rest of the houses, tall and proud, burning like a torch. It was utterly consumed by flame, a fiery ruin. He was truly gone.

Fiora turned her back, and walked on. She had many miles to go, before she could rest. The forest loomed ahead of her, black and sharp. Under the darkness of the trees the rain was less harsh, but she could see nothing, only trusting to hope that she was going in the right direction. Niamh had fallen asleep on her hip, oblivious to the raging weather, protected by a fold of Fiora’s cloak.

It was a long night, a long walk. Mud coated her clothes, scratches covered her arms. Eventually, a grey sort of light began to show in the east. The night was coming to a close.

Now she could see the leaves on the trees, burning red, orange and yellow. Few had fallen to the ground. As the light in the easy grew to a bright glow, the trees began to blaze as a fire. The air was cold and sharp, hinting of the coming winter days.

The fiery trees enveloped her. She struggled on, putting one weary foot before the other. At least now with the coming of the light she knew that she was going the right way, and that she was nearly there. Every step felt heavy, her feet seemed to be made of stone.

At last, she saw it! A clearing up ahead, at the foot of the mountain. It marked the entrance to the caves where she would find what remained of the tribe. She stumbled out of the line of trees, and over the dead leaves. There, standing by the entrance of one of the smaller caves, was Laoise. She looked so relieved to see Fiora, so happy, that it was too much. As soon as she reached her sister, Fiora burst into tears, and fell into her arms.

*sniffs* Thank you so much for reading!

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Quite a short chapter today guys, but I hope you enjoy!

Fiora stood frozen. The smoke still filled her lungs, the rain and crackling flames still resounded through the night, Ronan was still before her, the Viking was still dead. But now, Ronan had sunk to the ground.

And then whatever spell had gripped her broke when she heard his pained groan, and she practically dropped Niamh and dashed forward, falling to her knees and scraping them in her hurry. Fumbling fingers tried to use his cloak to hold over the wound, pressing tightly to stop the flow of blood, but there was too much.

“Leave it. You know it is useless.”

Still she refused to accept it, refused to believe it. It couldn’t be real, not to her, not to Ronan. How could God let this happen? Everything seemed blurry and far away, and she realized that tears were falling from her eyes.

She felt pressure, and realized that he was pressing his hand into hers. But his grip was weak.

“Fiora… Fiora… do not weep, my love. I am… glad. I had hoped… to grow old with you.”

His voice cracked a little, and for an instant his mask of calm slipped, and something broken and desperate stared out at her.

“To watch our children grow up, and their children.” He wept now too.

“But I would have it no other way.”

His face was strained by the pain. How could she not weep? Her world was collapsing around her, and she could change nothing!

“Don’t leave me. Please! I need you, I need you so much. Your people need you! And I love you! I love you, Ronan! So much. Stay with me! You can’t go, you can’t”

She repeated herself, going round and round in circles. As if in an echo, she remembered his words on the cliff as the sun went down. “I promise to protect you to the end.”

With a crash, the roof began to collapse, but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t leave him to die alone. The flames cast flickering lights over his face, and strange misshapen shadows. Outside the rain fell harder, pounding down in an angry tumult.

Ronan closed his eyes.

“Fiora. Before I die, please, sing me a song. A song of our people.”

And so there she sang for him.

Come Home:

When Autumn ends, and leaves are falling

I’ll walk beneath the trees

When Winter comes and frost appears

I’ll hear you on the breeze

Come home my love, and rest your head,

For you’ve traveled many a mile

Come home to where the sun is warm

Come home and rest awhile.

When I traverse the paths we trod

I’ll think of all you said,

And when among the woodland trees,

The promise that you kept.

Come home my love, and rest your head,

For you’ve traveled many a mile

Come home to where the grass is green

Come home and rest awhile.

I know it is a dream I dream,

You’ll ne’er be seen again

The leaves have fallen from the tree

And all is falling rain

Her voice quivered at first, dim over the noise of the crackling flame. But it grew stronger, and as she drew near the end, and the final haunting note died away, his eyes closed again. His lips moved in a final prayer, and he whispered her name.

“Fiora.” She leant closer, desperate to hear his voice just one more time, refusing to let him go. But the only sounds left were the crackling flames, and the falling rain.

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

The last rays of the sun dropped below the horizon, leaving a blood red sky. Dark, heavy clouds hung low over the land. The first few fat drops of rain were falling. Fiora looked backwards. Before her, the forest stretched, dark and cold. Behind was the hut she had lived in for years, the monastery she had worshipped in, and the man she loved.

She was surrounded by fleeing villagers. A young woman beside her held a newly born baby in her arms, softly crooning to it as it wailed. Tears ran down her face. Caitlin was a little ahead, riding on Brant, her ankle bandaged tightly. Her mother walked at the back of the crowd with a stooped back. Remaining to fight were Caitlin’s three brothers and her father.

Walking at the head was Aisling. Ronan had set her to lead the people, and although she had resisted at first, she had eventually agreed. Now her face was set forward, and she didn’t turn around.

Only about sixty people were leaving, but it was loud and confusing, filled with the sound of wailing, and young children crying. Laoise walked at her side.

“Fiora.” It was Maeve, Caitlin’s mother. “Is Niamh with you?” Caitlin’s younger sister, only three years old. “We’ve looked everywhere for her… Caitlin thinks — Caitlin thinks she was left behind. I thought she was riding ahead with Caitlin, but Caitlin hasn’t seen her since we left.” Laoise gasped.

“Surely she couldn’t have been forgotten?”

Fiora looked around through the shifting mass of people. Nowhere could she see a curly blonde head or red shift.

Maeve wrung her hands. “I don’t understand how I could have forgotten her!”

“I’ll go back, and look for her,” Laoise offered quickly.

“Nonsense! I’ll go, she’s my daughter.”

Fiora shook her head firmly.

“No, you have to stay with Caitlin. She needs you. I’ll go back. I know the places she would hide.”

Unwillingly, Maeve and Laoise agreed, and Fiora turned back alone. The path was cloaked in shadow. The sky was black and heavy above, like the clouds were reaching down towards Cluain na Gréne Érgthe. Fiora crested a hill, and the whole plain leading down the cliffs was spread out before her. The rain was pelting down, ice cold and cruel. And on the cliffside, before the land curved away, she could see a hundred red specks, moving closer. The Vikings. And halfway in between the torches and her, Cluain na Gréne Érgthe stood, alone above the sea.

She scrambled down the steep and slippery path, mud and stones sliding under her feet. Several times she fell, grazing her elbow and dirtying her clothes. Her hair clung limp and wet to her face. Across the village the Vikings were nearly there.

She decided to start by searching Caitlin’s hut, in case Niamh had returned home. It was a little way in. She rushed through the houses, empty and abandoned. The men would be waiting towards the south edge of the village, where the Vikings would meet them. The earth had turned to puddles, connected by thin lines of mud. She reached the hut, and plunged through the black doorway, as the first yells and sounds of fighting began.

“Niamh!” she called, her voice hushed, masked by the thudding of the rain on the thatch roof. Inside the hut was illuminated by the dying embers of the fire in the center. Across the room was the sleeping bench, and there, curled up into a little ball was Niamh.

She must have returned home and fallen asleep, thought Fiora.

She hurried across the room.

“Niamh! It’s time to go.” She scooped up the toddler, but Niamh opened her eyes, and began to cry. Fiora struggled to quiet her down, aware that the sounds of fighting were growing louder and closer. Firelight and smoke were flooding through the door, and she realized that they must be setting the huts on fire.

“Niamh! Hush now!” She turned around and faced the door, beginning to walk towards it, but Niamh’s wails intensified.

And then a figure appeared at the door, wearing a fur lined cloak pinned at the shoulder, and holding a sword in one hand and a lit torch in the other. He spoke a word in a language she could not understand, and raised his sword.

A scream ripped from Fiora’s throat, and she stumbled back until her back was pressed towards the wall. Niamh wailed louder still at this new development. Fiora clung on to her tightly.

He looked young, perhaps not much older than Ronan, but there was no pity in his face. She tried to close her eyes, but she couldn’t look away. And then, behind him, another figure burst into the hut with his own sword, and his face was one that Fiora knew and loved.

“Ronan!”

He took in the situation - Fiora, against the wall, shielding Niamh with her body, and the Viking, who had swung around to face him - and yelled out a challenge, drawing his sword. And then their weapons were clashing, and they moved around the hut in a terrifying and intricate dance.

Fiora had no weapon, and could only watch in terror, holding tightly onto Niamh. First it seemed that Ronan gained the upper hand, then he was retreating, completely on the defensive.

He slashed to the left, but the Viking countered, forcing Ronan to step back quickly. He then feinted to the left again, but at the last second brought his sword up towards the Viking’s chest, but he twisted to the side, and Ronan’s sword went by harmlessly.

The sound of their laboured breathing filled the room, along with steel on steel. The Viking had cast down his torch, and flames had begun to lick up the walls. Fierce red light streamed in, and it looked like a sea of flame.

The Viking’s sword was larger, and he seemed to wield it with greater strength, bringing it crashing down again and again on Ronan’s smaller sword. A small cut here and there showed the superiority of his skill, although it was too close a thing to be sure. But with a sudden battle cry Ronan leaped forward, ducking under the Viking’s arm, and his sword entered the chest of his opponent. The flames had reached the roof of the hut.

The Viking sank down to his knees, red already beginning to stain his garment. A look of surprise crossed his face. It was over. Ronan turned towards her, a look of exhaustion and yet such deep relief in his eyes. He let out a deep exhale.

And then, even as Fiora let out a cry of happiness, even as she ran towards Ronan, the Viking, with the last of his strength lifted up his sword, and drove it — straight into Ronan’s heart.

Thank you everyone so much for reading!

Chapter 2

Caitlin crept silently through the undergrowth, her movements slow and careful. Just a little further and she would be able to see over the plain. She was on top of a tall hill covered in trees and bushes. Back in the forest, tied loosely to a tree, was Brant, a small pony that she often borrowed from the monastery. Cian, the monk who took care of the horses, had let her do this for years now, and the pony had been her companion many times.

She held a sling loosely in her hand, a pouch full of stones hung by her side. The trees came to an end, and she eased her way low to the ground, covered by the summer grasses. She gazed around the plain, hoping to see a deer or a rabbit. But then, eyes widening, she let out a gasp. On the grey sea beyond the plain were four large ships!

With red and white striped sails and dragon carvings at the prow, there was only one thing they could be… Vikings! The smoke of a fire from the beach rose up, carried away by the wind. Caitlin stood up, shading her eyes to see better. From back in the forest, a desperate whinny caught her ears!

Brant! She began to run. Her hunting was forgotten. As she ran she pulled out one of the rough iron daggers she carried in her belt. Crashing through bushes, all thought of silence forgotten. Branches snapping in her eyes, tangling her neat braid.

She burst out of the trees into the glade with a cry. Four men stood about Brant. One of them was rifling through the saddle bag she had left on the ground, another was tugging Brant along.

Without hesitation, Caitlin threw the knife towards the man dragging Brant. It flew straight, catching him in his chest, and he sank to the ground; whether dead or wounded she could not tell. Quicker than thought, she loaded a stone into her sling, and began to spin it.

Her first stone caught the man closest to her, but it glanced off his arm, bouncing on the ground. Caitlin began to back away slowly, while fitting in another stone.

The men had spread out, one coming towards her from each side, one in front. She turned, and began to run. Her only hope was to lose them in the forest, and circle back for Brant. But they followed her. Though she was more agile, they were faster.

Tree branches whipped into her face. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. Her footfalls drummed into the ground, and a sharp pain grew in her side. The trees rushed by in a blur, her eyes skittering frantically for anything that could help her. And then she felt a tug on her foot, and the ground was rising up to meet her.

The grimy taste of dirt filled her mouth, and a warm drip of blood trickled down her forehead from where she had hit a root. She rolled around onto her back, trying with a desperate heave to get up, but falling back with a twinge in her ankle. “Lord God, save me” she cried out, as the foremost Viking shouted exultantly.

And then… out of nowhere, a dagger appeared-planted in the Viking’s throat. His eyes bulged in his head, his hand clutching uselessly at his neck, covered in blood, and he staggered and fell.

From somewhere behind her a young man appeared. He had pulled a sword from his belt, and held it in both hands, leaning forward with his feet apart, tensed like a wolf about to spring. His eyes met Caitlin’s for a brief instant.

The two remaining Vikings began to move, trying to circle around him warily, but he moved with them, keeping a tree to his back. “Leave. Now,” he warned in a low voice. Snarling something in their own language, they charged towards him, a sword raised on each side of him. Caitlin gave a hushed cry as it looked like it was inevitable that he would be killed.

He ducked down, and the Viking’s momentum carried him forward, nearly hitting his companion. But he had left himself vulnerable. The other Viking, a blond man who stood a full half head taller than Caitlin’s protector brought his sword down heavily, catching the young man’s left arm. He grunted, his eyes squeezed shut for an instant, blood beginning to soak through his sleeve.

He swung his sword up, holding it with only his right hand now, exchanging a volley of blows with the Viking. But behind him, not two meters from where Caitlin lay, the other man had regained his footing, and was walking towards him with his sword upraised. Caitlin gasped, pulling herself up as she yelled out a warning, and throwing the dagger she held in her hand. It landed directly in his chest, where lay his heart. He drew his last breath and died.

But the young man had been distracted. His last foe lifted his sword again, raised it for the killing blow. Caitlin screamed out another warning, but she knew it was too late. Still, somehow he managed to dodge a little bit-the blow slashed his right arm this time, not his chest as had been intended. But it was a serious blow.

Now his sword dangled uselessly at his side. He shot Caitlin a glance that was both desperate and apologetic, but he stood to face his end.

With a powerful wrench which nearly made her scream at the fire that ran down her ankle, Caitlin pulled her foot clear of the root. She lunged forward, pulling her dagger free of the dead Viking, and sent it flying. And just like that it was over.

The sky was dark grey and brooding, although no rain fell. A few lonely birds wheeled above. Fiora stood by the well on the outskirts of the monastery, away from the huts. The well was nothing more than a low wall built around a spring bubbling out of the ground. She held two buckets.

A smile brightened her face, as she looked to where Ronan’s hut stood.

It isn’t long until we marry now.

She hummed a snatch of an old song absentmindedly, dipping her bucket into the water. Looking up towards the forest, she shaded her eyes. A figure on horseback was coming towards the village, riding at a gallop, bent over the ponies neck as if encouraging it onward.

Minutes later, Caitlin reached her. She had a large cut on her forehead and a trail of dried blood coming from it, and her left leg had a cloth wrapped around the ankle. Her face was pale.

“Fiora! Vikings! The Vikings are here!”

A great weight seemed to stop Fiora from breathing. Her brain seemed to be moving through a fog, and a heavy coldness filled her. Her worst fears were coming to life.

The first thing she did was check that Caitlin was all right, while questioning her about what had happened. The wound on her head was shallow, but her ankle was badly sprained.

“Where did you see them? How many were there? Are they coming this way?”

The questions spilled out, and she forced herself to breath deeply, trying to calm her racing heart.

“There were four ships, by the coast. They had set up a Longphort by the shore, as though they were here to stay, perhaps for months. I don’t know if they’re coming here, but they looked like they were preparing to move. They’re not more than half an hours walk away though.”

Her inspection done, she stepped back. “I’ll go and find Ronan. So we can warn the people. And you, go and see if your mother can do anything about your ankle. And dress your wound!”

She wrapped Caitlin in a tight hug, before turning and running towards Ronan’s hut. She burst in, and stopped short. He wasn’t there. Instead, a girl sat bent over, her dark hair falling over her face as she sobbed into her hands.

“Aisling!”

Aisling whipped up her face. Her eyes were red and her face was wet.

“What happened?” Aisling rolled her eyes.

“Leave me alone, it’s not your concern!” she muttered harshly.

Stung by the harsh response, Fiora shrugged her shoulders.

“I see. Where is Ronan?”

“Who do you think I’m waiting for?” replied Aisling, in a tone that implied Fiora should have known better than to ask such an obvious question. She gave a shuddering breath, blinking back more tears.

Fiora frowned. She felt sorry for Aisling, and as she was Ronan’s cousin and so they would soon be family, she wanted to be patient with her but was quickly losing patience with her hostility. She had opened her mouth to give a sharp retort, but from behind footsteps sounded, and Ronan entered the hut.

Aisling jumped up, opening her mouth to speak, but Fiora spoke first.

“There are Vikings camped not two miles down the coast!”

Aisling and Ronan stared at her in disbelief, and the rabbit he carried dropped unnoticed from Ronan’s hand.

“Caitlin saw them when she was out hunting. They injured her, she barely escaped with her life. Four long ships, and they’ve set up a Longphort. She says they looked as though they would soon be on the move, and we are the only large settlement for several days!”

Ronan closed his eyes, and his lips moved in a silent prayer.

“We have prepared for this. We know what we must do. Aisling, go to the monastery. Tell the monks to ring the bells in warning.”

She hesitated for a second, as if she was about to say something.

“Now!” Her lip trembling again, she left the hut.

“Fiora, I will need you to lead the people straight away. It will be like we’ve planned. You will lead them into the forest, to the caves, where you will stay. I and the other men will stay, protecting the cattle and monastery, and when it is safe we will send a messenger.”

Fiora blinked back tears, dark forebodings filling her mind.

“Why can you not come with us? Why must you stay?”

“You know that I cannot leave all of this to them, to raid and pillage. To desecrate the sacred things in the monastery. We are not defenseless, we have prepared for this for years. Now go. I will rejoin you soon enough my love.”

Still she lingered, clinging to him tightly. But he kissed her gently, and pulled away from her, and left the cottage. She had never felt more terrified in her life.

Thank you for reading!

Fiora sat up, her heart pounding in the middle of the night. She looked around the room, taking deep gasps of breath to calm herself. Laoise slept soundly beside her, and everything seemed ordinary. Slowly she settled back down again, but for a long time afterwards she could not shake off a feeling of terror, until eventually she settled into an uneasy sleep.

Laoise woke her up very early the next morning. Fiora tried to roll over, burying her face in her pillow, but Laoise took the woolen blanket, and pulled it off her. Shivering in the cold air Fiora sat up, glaring at her sister who was sitting back laughing.

“One of these days…” she muttered rubbing her eyes. She pulled a homespun dress on, and ran a comb through her messy hair, before braiding it down her back.

Laoise had already begun to cook breakfast, using barley and water to make a cauldron of pottage. It simmered over the fire, which stood in the middle of the round room. A hole in the ceiling let most of the smoke out, but some of it stayed, gathering by the roof.

The table stood on one side, and around the walls were the straw mattresses. As winter came they would move them closer to the fire for extra warmth. There was a chest by each mattress, containing clothes and belongings.

Their mother came in with a wooden bucket, filled with fresh water from the well. Soon the meal was ready, and in bowls around the table. They bent their heads in prayer, and began to eat the good food.

“You look troubled, mother.” Laoise remarked, swallowing a mouthful of pottage. “Is anything wrong?” “More rumours. Orla was at the well too, and was gossiping as usual. But she seemed scared. I can’t help but worry there is some truth in them.” For the first time time Fiora noticed the dark circles under her mothers eyes, and she realized with a stab of guilt that she had been too caught up in her own fear to notice her mothers.

She reached out and took her mother’s hand, and didn’t let go for some time.

The sun streamed down from the cloudless sky, bathing the forest in golden light. It was a warm day for October, perhaps the last before the season changed. Fiora crouched behind a tree, watching the field before her. She knew that on the other end of the field, by his own tree, was Ronan.

They had decided to spend a day hunting together. They could hang the meat up to dry in strips, and it would keep all winter long. It had been daybreak when they arose, traveling some way into the forest before choosing this field.

Out of the corner of her eye, Fiora saw a movement. A stag appeared out of the cover of the trees, and moved onto the field. He moved with grace and agility, stepping delicately over the grass. Fiora held her breath. If she could kill him, he would be enough to feed her family for weeks.

Gently, trying not to make a sound, she pulled back her throwing arm, leaning her weight on her left foot. She lunged forward and released the javelin. It flew through the air with a soft swish, and hit the stag before he had time to turn its head. He gave a strange sort of grunting noise, and slowly dropped to the ground.

She ran forward. The animal lay still, his breathing stilled. Ronan joined her, and they prepared the meat to be carried, cutting it up to be placed more easily in the bags that hung by their side.

After a short break, they traveled on through the forest, stopping at a sunlit clearing. Deciding on the same plan as earlier, Ronan continued walking around it, leaving Fiora alone. She found a tree and settled down to wait. The sun shone down warm and golden. Soon, her eyes began to droop a little.

All of a sudden, she was conscious of a feeling of unease, as though she was being watched. The hairs on her neck stood on end. Slowly, afraid to look, she turned her head. Was the bush behind her moving? Was it only the wind?

Slowly she began to rise. But then the bush parted, revealing-a grey wolf! She screamed, and fumbled for her javelin. Her hands fingers fumbled, the shaft slipping, getting caught on a branch. The wolf began to crouch back on its haunches. Its wide eyes were the green of sun shining through leaves. She would never be in time.

But suddenly she heard a swishing noise, and out of nowhere another javelin was buried deep in its grey fur and it was lying still and those green eyes were staring lifelessly at the ground.

She heard running footsteps, and Ronan appeared by her side. “Fiora! Are you alright?” Her breath was shallow and unsteady, and her hand shook. In her mind she kept seeing that beautiful green eye, and that body poised to pounce. She couldn’t stop remembering how slow she had been. Too slow!

Without Ronan she would be dead. What if next time she was alone? Like a whisper then, she heard his words. “I promise to protect you to the end…” He placed his arm around her, and she sank towards him.

By evening they had caught enough to last their families for more than a month. Along with the stag, they had several rabbits, ducks, and pheasant. Walking back through the fading light hand in hand, they began to talk about their marriage. The ceremony would take place in three months, at the beginning of the new year.

It involved the ancient tradition of handfasting, where the couples hands would be bound together with a rope cord, symbolizing their union. They would say vows to each other, and a monk would bless them. There would be a great feast, and all the dwellers of the settlement would join in. Afterwards Fiora would move into Ronan’s house at the other side of the settlement.

They walked on through the twilight. Crystal stars began to appear in the blueness above. The moon rose, casting silver beams over their pathway, chasing away the darkest shadows. Every leaf was edged in sparkling light, and the path seemed to shine before them. Fiora felt safe. Despite the threats that were coming, at this moment where time seemed to stand still, by the side of the one she loved, she feared nothing.

The conversation changed, and they began to talk of the old stories of their country, going back centuries. They talked of battles, betrayal, sacrifice, beautiful maidens, heroes of old, and ancient kings. The history of their land was long and rich, and the tradition of storytelling, passed down by song, kept the stories alive.

The night was late when they arrived home, but there a fire had been lit, and many of the Irish stood or sat by it. They listened to Brinwel, the bard. He strummed his cláirseach, a small instrument similar to a harp, and sang in the old tongue.

When Fiora and Ronan appeared they were greeted with smiles, and Brinwel paused his playing. “How goes the hunting?” Asked an old man, sitting in the flickering light. Wrinkles were drawn deep into his skin. In response Ronan held aloft the bags, bulging with plenty. The sight was greeted by a cheer.

He nodded to Brinwel, who began again to sing. His voice soared high, sank low as he wove in the history of their race. The last note hung in the air until it too faded into silence.

Ronan stood up, reaching his hand down for Fiora. With a nod to the people they walked away, towards her hut. At the door he kissed her, and she watched as his figure disappeared into the night. It was the last time they would hunt together.

Thank you so much for reading!!

A girl stood on a cliff overlooking the sea. The wind blew her auburn hair around her face, and she clutched her grey cloak closer around her shoulders. She faced the east, towards the open sea, and the lands beyond. Behind her the sun set in a shining sky.

Perhaps sixteen, the girl stood tall, jaw firmly set. Eyes the blue grey of a stormy sea stared out at the burning water, framed by light coloured brows. Beside her, with one arm around her a young man stood, his shoulders broad and strong. He was a couple of years her elder, and he smiled as he looked down at her, blind to the rest of the world.

A cold blast of wind came. She looked up at her companion, meeting his eyes with a soft smile. He was named Ronan, her betrothed, to become her husband in three months. She rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

A slight frown appeared on his face, causing his forehead to wrinkle. “Have you heard the rumors, Fiora?” It wasn’t necessary to ask what he meant. Of course she had. People had been talking, a murmur here, the shadow of a whisper there. Women in the marketplace, gathering into huddles. They murmured that the Vikings were coming.

Fierce warriors from Norway, they had appeared in Ireland more than a century ago, pillaging, raiding, burning and killing. They had last come four years ago, and six years before that. In the last raid, Fiora had lost her father. If they came again…

“How can God let this happen?” she burst out, clenching her fists. “We will be wiped out, how can we defend ourselves?” Over the summer there had been a great drought. The harvest had been far too small. And now, although it was only the tenth month of the year, it was growing cold every night, and rain covered the land.

Ronan weighed her words up carefully. A sigh went through his body. “You should not question God’s purpose,” he said firmly. “You know what he promised; ‘And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God.’ And remember, I promise to protect you till the end.”

Ronan’s faith was strong. It was a part of him that never wavered, even when Fiora was afraid. “But what if they do come Ronan? What will we do then? You won’t always be able to protect everyone.” Thoughts filled her mind of the savage raiders, memories of her father’s death…

It was the middle of the night. “Wake up Fiora! Come, quickly!” She rubbed her eyes blearily, her father’s figure dark above her.

The cold air came as a shock. Close at hand she could hear shouts and screams, flames dancing in the distance, but the stars shone bright above, an anchor in her fear. Laoise looked up at her in fright as they ran to the stables.

“Why are they shouting Da?” “Hush Laoise,” he shushed her, holding her close to him. Fiora glanced towards Sadb, her mother, and was shocked to see tears running silently down her pale cheeks, to hear her short hiccupy breaths.

Duncan rushed them out to the stable and opened the hidden door in the back wall, that cleverly hid a thin gap built inside the false wall. First Laoise, then Fiora and finally Sadb were pushed inside. Fiora stood on her tiptoes, and looked out of a knothole, trying to see the scene outside. Sadb moved out the way, making room for her husband. But the tramp of feet was heard in the courtyard outside, and Duncan, with a silent look at his wife, slammed the door closed, and stood with his back to it.

Flaming torch in hand, three men came running through the night, and looked into the stable. “No horses,” one of them grunted, and was about to turn away when the shortest one spied Duncan. “Look what we have here! He may be able to tell us where they are.” The men had turned back. “Where are your animals old man,” demanded the tallest one in broken Irish. “Tell us and we’ll let you live.”

Duncan had stood tall. “I have nothing here. Leave my property.” The first one laughed cruelly, drawing his sword. Sadb let out a choked cry, cut off half way, and drowned out in the distant noise.

At the last moment Fiora turned her eyes away, covering Laoise’s face with her hand, but she still heard her father’s cry of pain, and saw the blood, soaking into the black earth of the stable floor. She remembered putting her hand over her sister’s mouth to stop her screaming. She still saw the empty look in Sadb’s eyes, the way the spark left them, and still heard Laoise’s screams as she carried her away.

The smell of ashes faded, and the only scent left in her nostrils was the salt air. Ronan put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry Fiora. I forgot how terrifying this must be for you, it was not my intention to upset you.” She turned back to him, her cheeks wet. “I know you didn’t mean to. I’m just scared, that’s all. I’m sorry too.” He took her hand in his, and kissed it gently. “We will do what we’ve always done. Trust in God to protect us.”

She turned back to the sea again, where light gleamed onto the waves. The sky was a pale pink, reflecting the sun that set behind them and covered with smoky purple clouds. The ocean burned crimson. Halfway up the sky a sickle moon hung.

His words were simple, but she felt strangely comforted. “Come.” She smiled up at him. “It’s time to go home. My mother will wonder where we are.” They wandered back together, hand in hand through the twilight.

Fiora breathed in the salty smell of the sea. The part of Ireland they lived in, halfway along the east coast, was covered by green fields, old forests, and meandering streams. The coastline was always changing, and every day brought new colours. Seagulls swept over the waves, with their shrill cries.

But when winter came, it brought cold winds blowing in from Sasana (England), and mist could lie on the land for days on end, like a thick and heavy blanket, obscuring sight. It was dangerous to walk about in, and sound traveled strangely, oddly muffled. You could walk about for hours, going in small circles, or you could overstep, and fall off one of the cliffs, or wander into a marsh.

They were several days journey from any other settlement, perhaps two days ride on a good horse. They lived in a monastic settlement named Cluain na Gréne Érgthe. It stood by the cliffs, near marshy land, good for little crop growing, merely a cluster of houses built around a small monastery, with little more than a hundred people living there in total. But Fiora had been taught to hunt by her father. After her father died, although only twelve, she had kept Sadb and Laoise, her mother and sister, alive through her hunting.

They reached the small hut, from which came the smell of freshly cooking duck. Fiora had caught it hunting on the marsh with Ronan, using the sling and javelin her father had made for her. She also owned an ornate dagger, one that her father had passed down to her. Its hilt was inlaid with a silver tree and spreading branches.

The hut door stood open, and firelight flickered off the brown walls. In the doorway Laoise stood, watching out for them. She took after Sadb, with straight black hair that reached to her waist, and warm brown eyes. Fiora looked like Duncan, who had come from Alban (Scotland) many years ago, and stayed in Ireland.

Inside, Sadb sat by the fire, her hands busy on a loom, weaving a new cloak to replace Fiora’s thread-bare one, occasionally giving the pot beside her a stir with the wooden spoon. She smiled in greeting, and arose, lifting the pot to the table, and serving out the duck stew.

All the bowls were made of wood. After they sat down, Ronan prayed a blessing over the food, and all fear forgotten, they ate contentedly. But the wind howled loudly outside, and a cloud covered the moon.

Thank you so much for reading!

Allow me to introduce you to “At Morning’s Dawn,” a historical fiction serial that I will be posting over the coming months. It has been a work long in the making! Here is a little blurb for you, and a short prologue!

In the mid 10th century, Fiora’s life is turned upside down when she and her people are forced to flee their home. This is due to the coming of a band of exiled Vikings seeking wealth and slaves. She is forced to confront her own mistakes, and grow as a person, and in her relationship with God.

Prologue: Night

Flames danced on the horizon, sparks leaping into the black night air. She longed for the fresh smell of salt water, but all that filled her nostrils was smoke. She longed for the feeling of salt spray on her cheeks, but all that the wind blew towards her was ashes. Ashes of her home. Ashes of her life. All she had once known was lost. He was gone, and nothing would ever change that. She stood for an instant, poised above the fiery ruin. And then she turned her back on it and walked away.

A Note On Updates:

I wrote this about a year ago actually. When I wrote it however, it was just for fun, and I didn’t have any plans to send it out into the world. As a result, it is probably riddled with historical inaccuracies, because I did not do my research… So the schedule of when I post this might be somewhat irregular. But I’ll do my best! Please do let me know if you are excited for this, and along the way, if you have any feedback! (Yes, even criticism, it’s all useful to me) And I apologize for the lack of research I put into making this historically perfect. But with that, I hope you all enjoy!

Image Credit: Google