Work Text:
May 878
The sky hanging above them was filled with dark, churning clouds threatening to release God’s wrath down upon the darkened, morbid battlefield that stretched out before her. Tattered, colorless banners hung limp on their poles, motionless in the thick, humid air and propped up the ripped, scarred earth. Broken, lifeless bodies of fallen soldiers were scattered across the field, clad in dirty, blood-caked armor and accompanied by dull blades and cracked shields. Unmoving and unrecognizable. Danes and Britons alike.
England’s eyes searched the battlefield for any sign of movement, whether it be a wounded Briton desperate for help or a dying Dane eager to get one final blow in. But the only movements she could see were the skittering of scavenging rats and the flash of feathers from beady-eyed crows.
She took a deep breath, not daring to breathe in through her nose, to calm her frayed nerves. The Danish raids had progressively become more and more of a problem over the years, accompanied by their own overenthusiastic representation. England hated them. She hated them all. The Vikings churned something sickening in her and she wanted them out. Her people wanted them out. Her people.
Above her, the sky rumbled and England’s attention snapped back to reality. The Battle of Edington felt like a step in the right direction. The Danes had been repelled by the young King of Wessex - Alfred - and England was eager to meet the man she’d heard so many things about. Even when she’d heard the whispered rumors and exaggerated stories, she’d felt a pull. It was a sensation that was hard to pinpoint, an inexplicable urge to seek out the man behind the stories and to see him for herself.
“Are you lost, child?” a voice called out to her, concern laced in his voice.
England whipped around and her eyes immediately locked on the man who had addressed her. To any common person, he didn’t look like anything special - his armor was coated in a thick mixture of blood and dirt and sweat stuck his long, brown curls to his grim-covered face. But to England, the man couldn’t have looked more imposing. She could feel her entire focus immediately snap to attention when she met his gaze, completely unwavering and undivided.
“No,” she answered finally, suddenly aware of how dirty her own appearance was. England didn’t consider herself someone who was easily shaken or someone who strived for the attention of others, but now she found herself nervous that the man would find her unimpressive or insignificant. “No, I think I am exactly where I am meant to be.”
The stranger looked at her, eyes lit with curiosity and...warmth. “This battlefield is no place for one as young as yourself.”
“I am here to speak with Alfred of Wessex,” she told him instead, trying to hold herself as confidently as a ten-year-old’s body would allow.
“I am he.”
Of course he was.
“I am…” What did she say? How did she introduce herself in a way that was reasonable and wouldn’t get her immediately dismissed? Long ago when she had interacted with her siblings, they had addressed one another by their true names, but would a human believe her if she told them?
Instead of waiting for her to finish, however, the king kneeled in front of her, placed a hand on her shoulder, and gave her a brilliant smile that sent warmth through her. It was the kind of warmth that ensured protection and care and...love.
“I believe I know exactly who you are, little one,” he said, a small laugh in his voice. “I have been waiting for your appearance for quite some time.”
“You...were waiting for me?”
“Indeed,” he answered. “And now that you are here, I feel more confident in saying that the future of these kingdoms looks bright.”