Chapter Text
"You can't seriously be considering letting that rat live." Fredrik says bitterly, eyes narrowed in discontent. "Who knows how many more of them there are out there."
Bored in every sense of the word, Haaland rolls his eyes. Fredrik has been nothing more than a thorn in his side ever since he got into power. An unfortunate addition to his royal court that seems to think complaining and being petulant is a valuable use of time. Haaland has killed men for less. It's simply a shame that Fredrik's knowledge and reputation is so useful for maintaining reverence.
Another man, Martin, makes himself known. "The boy is hardly a threat. We can kill him if need be."
Unbeknownst to everyone else, Haaland bristles at that. He does not like the idea of killing such a pitiful, wounded thing, no matter who is is or where he is from. It would be like ruining a perfect flower, tearing off its beautiful petals for no reason other than uncontained savagery. Besides, he's too curious about Jude's past to want to dispose of him yet.
"They could be on the shore as we speak." Hisses Fredrik. "Whilst we sit here, unprepared, they-"
"He is the only one." Haaland interjects, dismissive of Fredrik's paranoia. He scratches at a patch of Jude's blood that has dried on one of his furs, finding that infinitely more interesting than this conversation.
"Oh?" Fredrik laughs coldly. "And how can you be so sure?"
In response, Haaland shrugs and settles further into his wooden chair at the head of the table. When he realises that his answer is unsatisfactory to the dozens of concerned faces before him, he lets out a tired sigh.
"I don't know for certain but I have a strong feeling-"
Fredrik scoffs. "A feeling? You've never lacked confidence before, Braut."
At the interruption, Haaland shoots Fredrik a glare. He clears his throat and sits up a little straighter. "I have a strong feeling that Jude is simply a misplaced soul. What happened to him was most likely a mistake or a result of exile, not a pre-planned attack. He means no harm to our society." Another look tells him that his men are still disgruntled. "But, if it will help to reassure you, then I shall go have a talk with him. Although I'm sure there's no reason to be worried."
A series of nods and hums of approval makes its way around the table. A few people look like they want to disagree with Haaland going to see Jude alone but they know all too well that they shouldn't argue with his decision.
As a new conversation breaks out between his men, Haaland stands up and makes his way to the door, eager to step outside and finally get away from his duties for a moment.
The air outside is cool and refreshing, dissimilar to the stuffy inside of the longhouse. Rain appears to be arriving on Norway's threshold: the clouds overhead are angry and grey, fluffy like a sheep's wool and blocking out the sun entirely.
"Braut."
Displeased, Haaland turns around. "Yes, Fredrik?"
Fredrik approaches, expression grim. "I trust that you will do the right thing. If that boy fails to provide an adequate reason for you to not kill him then you do so. I'm sure you know, this is for the safety of your people, after all." Fredrik pauses, a smug smile creeps across his face. "And you wouldn't want them to think that you've gone soft, would you?" He teases.
"I will do what I deem appropriate." Comes the reply, through a clenched jaw.
The man's smile vanishes. A more serious expression takes its place. "You know what your father would have done. He'd have killed that boy where he lay on the beach."
Haaland stiffens; his eyes narrow in anger at the mention of his father. Resisting the urge to punch Fredrik in the face, he holds his tongue, very aware of the consequences that accompany starting a fight with one of his closest advisors, and swallows down his indignation. "Do not interrupt me again, Fredrik." He concludes with, walking away without sparing a glance at the man behind him.
Now isn't the time for quarrels anyway, he's got an Englishman to visit.
Jude dreams of the sea. Terrible, roaring waves that devour ships whole; dead and decapitated seabirds washed up on the shore, wings torn clean off and ivory feathers tainted with crimson blood. Limbs tangled in seaweed, the suffocating sensation of being underwater and the utterly overwhelming, horrible, acrid saltiness of it all.
He wakes up trembling, blinking away the last remnants of sleep as he looks around the unfamiliar room that he finds himself in.
It's a small cabin: windowless, with various animal pelts hanging from rafters above a dirty, hay-covered floor. Daylight seeps in through wide cracks in the walls, accompanied by a chilly breeze that causes Jude to wrap a scratchy, motheaten blanket around himself to keep warm. Yes, the bed is uncomfortable but it's hard to not feel grateful after laying in a puddle of his own blood for God knows how long.
Unsure of what to expect, he reaches up and touches the back of his head. It's dry. Surprised, he pulls back his hand to find that it isn't covered in blood, only to remember Haaland's offer of having someone take a look at his wound. There's some sort of fabric tied around his head, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. There's a persistent, dull ache but the pain is much more manageable than before.
His teeth are chattering so violently that he feels at risk of cracking a tooth. Then he notices that his shirt and trousers are still dripping wet. He spots a bundle of clothes at the foot of the bed and realises after a shamefully long amount of time that they're meant for him.
Abandoning his pride, he swiftly changes into them. The relief of wearing something fairly warm and dry is instantaneous; he lets out a soft sigh of relief and wraps the scratchy blanket around himself again.
Jude isn't quite sure how to feel about the King's generosity. His mind is fuzzy so he doesn't remember much of their conversation on the beach but he's certain that being treated with such kindness by a cold-hearted Viking is rather... unusual, to say the least.
Haaland could have left him to bleed to death or be eaten by gulls, however he seemed somewhat thrilled at the opportunity to help Jude. Most shocking of all, the man had even carried him, provided him with clothes and spoken to him in English!
Jude doesn't have long to dwell on this as the door to the cabin swings open and the King himself stomps in, face devoid of any obvious emotion.
He tightens his hold of the blanket marginally, almost out of fear that it will be taken from him and he'll be abandoned in the cold again.
"Ah, there you are Jude!"
Jude locks eyes with the King. He gives a sheepish smile and curls in on himself, embarrassed to be seen in such a vulnerable position: bandaged up, half-asleep and wearing borrowed clothes that are visibly too big.
His gaze flickers away and lands down on his lap. "Your majesty, I-" He freezes, unsure what to say. "Good... afternoon?" He finally forces out, wincing as he hears how shaky and broken his voice is. Unfamiliar with how to act around royalty, he fiddles with the fabric of the blanket nervously - his best guess is to just be polite and honest so that he doesn't end up with an axe through his skull.
Haaland smiles sweetly at his manners (which Jude takes as a very good sign). "I trust you are feeling better, yes?"
Jude nods briskly, albeit, a little stiffly, in an overeager attempt to appear grateful.
The King chuckles and pulls up a chair next to the bed, sitting down and leaning forward with his forearms on his legs. "I must ask you some things, Jude. How did you end up so far from home? Surely it was not an accident that you washed up on my beach."
Jude doesn't miss the way Haaland emphasises the undeniability of his land ownership. His gut twists in fear because he knows that he won't be able to tell Haaland the information he wants to hear - seeing as he can't seem to remember anything from before waking up on the beach.
"I'm very sorry H-Haaland but I can't remember a-anything. It's like I just fell asleep in England and w-woke up here!" He explains unhelpfully, stammering from both fear and the cold.
Haaland's expression darkens. "You don't... remember?" He repeats, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. "How can that be then, Jude? Are you lying to me?"
Jude panics. "N-No! I swear, it's true! Everything's all fuzzy, my head-" He's silenced as the Viking suddenly stands.
"You think I am a fool? You think you can trick me?"
He frantically shakes his head, eyes brimming with tears as he waits for the King's rage to manifest in the form of a sword through his heart.
Haaland scoffs. "I ask you a simple question and you can't even give me a direct answer."
He grabs hold of a chipped, ceramic pot and chucks it at the back wall. It shatters loudly and Jude flinches violently at the impact, convinced that the next one thrown will be aimed at his head.
The Viking turns back to look at Jude - who's crying now - and he tsks. "My men want me to kill you, Jude. Can't you see that I am being merciful?"
Jude doesn't respond.
Haaland frowns. "Jude?"
Bleary-eyed and sobbing, Jude looks up at Haaland.
"I asked you a question, Jude."
"Wha-" He responds, face twisted in confusion.
Haaland blinks in surprise. He crosses his arms, noticeably interested in Jude's unknowing defiance. "I am speaking English, yes? Do you even know what we were just talking about?"
"I- I- don't... What d-did you- I-" Jude stammers, clearly struggling to form a coherent sentence. He cries out. "I- I'm sorry! My head-"
Two large hands cradle his head and tilt his face upwards. Haaland shushes him, wiping away the tears on Jude's face with his thumbs. The blond man sighs. "Perhaps you are telling the truth, you truly do not remember."
"I- I don't know w-what happened." Jude sniffles, pouting up at Haaland. His head is aching again from all the crying but he doesn't dare complain, not when the Viking could easily snap his neck like this. "H-Honestly, I d-don't. I swear!"
Still tenderly holding Jude's face, Haaland sits down on the chair behind him. "I still need you to prove that you have no ill-intent." Haaland says glumly. Jude whines at that; he blinks and tears cling to his lashes like raindrops. "My men are convinced that you are here to hurt them."
"I- I'm not! I-"
"Yes, I know. I know." Haaland coos. He stands up and lets go of Jude's face, giving him a quick pat on the cheek and laughing as he flinches. "I will be back shortly, don't leave that spot Jude." He calls out as he walks to the door, turning around to give him a small wave before leaving the Englishman kneeling on the bed alone.
Jude breathes a sigh of relief as the man leaves, completely unsure as to how he got out of that unscathed.