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Norton was down bad for the second son of the Vilulf clan.
And he strongly believed the viking was the initiator of it all. The flintlock rifle could have been cupid's bow in disguise, and the golden arrows? - O sweet Aphrodite, call back your winged son, I implore you. - This could be the only reasonable explanation as to why the Troubadour felt compelled to get down on his knees and bow down before such marvel. Norton, for all his worth, could have been shot by a golden bullet right through his heart.
The instant the Stray Poet realized a growing infatuation towards the son of Vilulf nested in his heart, he was already too far gone. He easily resigned to Aphrodite's will, allowing the weaker part of him, his primal instincts, to nurture such fleeting feelings until his whole being irrevocably belonged to that man alone.
Could you really blame him for succumbing to temptation? With the son of Vilulf’s signature red hair and dark stormy eyes encompassing the very essence of Id and Ego, any passerby would become a fool to stop and admire such beauty. The two contrasting colours clashed against each other. They demanded attention from others despite the owner's meek and innocuous appearance. If one stared longer than necessary, they would fall into Love’s trap and be perpetually stuck in its clutches until Hades did them apart.
And that was Norton's fate by choice.
Being a Troubadour, however, did not immediately entail he had free will to court his love interest, no. As far as his imaginations could go, the Stray Poet could only stand at the edge of the forest and helplessly watch with yearning eyes as the subject of his affections boarded the Vinland.
Nevermind his stomach lurching as the Red-Haired Man climbed the thick ropes surrounding the mainmast to get a higher vantage point. It was so dangerous, but the viking looked so at peace in his element when he viewed the sea through his telescope. - Why can't you redirect the telescope to me and me alone? I would bear myself whole to your searching gaze if you seek treasure. - Up there, his love looked so high and agonizingly unattainable. His heart called out for its other half, but it didn't respond.
The Troubadour would willingly bind himself captive to the son of Vilulf’s side if it meant he got close to him. - Oh, greedy, greedy, greedy man. - That way, he could look into his own desires swirling in that red hair like a stroke of paintbrush from the sheer closeness alone.
It was only by the grace of the gods and the current Head of the Vilulf Clan’s approval that Norton was permitted close proximity with the Red-Haired Man.
Whenever the Troubadour wasn’t entertaining a bunch of pirates with his lyrical songs for a living, he would search for the son of Vilulf, - he was so easy to find when he normally spends his day sparring with his sister by the lake, or in his bedchamber (he wishes to know what he’s up) - intending to hog up all his attention to himself. The other did not always spare time for him, but when he did, it made the Stray Poet feel elated.
Then one day, Tyche smiled upon him once again.
“Poet, a moment of your time please.” - He came to see me first! Quick. Act cool. -
“Of course. I have all the time in the world for you. But I can't say the same for you. I rarely see your stunning face nowadays.”
The Son of Vilulf flinched, his face overridden by guilt. “Apologies, mate. Brynhildr got caught sneaking out again so I was tasked to watch over her while she's grounded."
The aching in his heart from waiting without notice still felt real to accept the apology, but the use of mate did the trick. He knew it referred to crewmates, but the Troubadour deluded himself into thinking the Red-Haired Man saw him as a potential romantic partner.
“It's…quite alright. What can I do for you, my love?”
The viking chose to ignore the term of endearment, opting to prioritize the original reason he seeked out the Troubadour. “I was wondering…Where can I find your poems in written format?”
Norton had no time to be disappointed by the blatant disregard of his love because the question stunned him. “Uh. Nowhere.” When he received a questioning look from the other, he elaborated. “I don't plan to publish a book of my works. Therefore, you can only hear my poems from yours truly.”
The Son of Vilulf considered the words for a moment, making the other squirm under his contemplating gaze. There was a hum before the Red-Haired Man finally spoke up. “Then will you sing your tale for me, poet?”
Not any tale, but his. That significance did not go unnoticed by the Troubadour.
“Only if you play the jaw harp to accompany me, dove.”
The viking readily accepted the condition with open eagerness.
“Only if you play the jaw harp to accompany me, dove."
In southern lands or northern seas,
He wandered lost, with memories at ease.
A forest called, with trunks so green,
A place of wonder, yet unseen.
He entered deep, enthralled by leaves,
Unaware of hunters’ silent sheaves.
Night owls watched from shadowed trees,
Herbs’ gatherers, wary, teased.
A figure appeared, with eyes like moss,
Offering help, a gentle boss.
He doubted, yet had no choice,
Followed her through nature’s voice.
Pirates found him, caught in gloom,
A threat, a prize, amid their doom.
He showed his wit, beneath soft guise,
Persuading death to compromise.
At sea he sailed, with many nights,
Until Viking ships appeared in sight.
They saw his worth beyond mere rhyme,
And took him to Moonfagar’s time.
There, amidst the ancient glow,
He found his love, began to grow.
A soulmate true, his fate, his grace
A moment carved in time and space.
The Troubadour began his journey somewhere in Southern France, or was it Northern?
He couldn’t quite remember.
It had been a long time ago.
During his travels, he stumbled upon a forest.
Enthralled by its healthy trunks and viridescent foliage, the Stray Poet ventured into it.
Unbeknownst to him, the forest was home to hunters who prowled its shadows.
Night owls hunted those who gathered herbs, making the woods a perilous place.
Yet, it seemed Tyche was on his side that day, for he met the forest Guide.
The Guide offered to help him navigate the treacherous woods, simply because she was captivated by the Troubadour’s pinecone brown eyes that resembled the forest itself.
The Troubadour didn’t fully trust the Guide, but with no other options, he had no choice but to follow her guidance.
Ultimately, his journey took a darker turn when he was captured by pirates.
They initially intended to kill him, but the Troubadour refused to surrender quietly.
Instead, he demonstrated a cunningness beneath his gentle exterior, persuading them to spare his life.
The pirates kept the Troubadour as entertainment, a curious spectacle amid their voyages.
Days and nights were spent at sea, until finally, the Stray Poet was rescued by Vikings.
Recognizing his worth, they saw that his value extended beyond his lyrical talents.
They decided to take him to Moonfogar, a place of legend.
It was there that the Stray Poet met his soulmate, a moment that would forever change his destiny.
The stars seemed to align that night, but before the second son of ﹰVilulf could ponder on it, he was approached by a fellow redhead: an outstanding woman who radiated authority amongst the crew.
Lagertha II swung an arm around her second-born child’s shoulders. Then with the other hand, she affectionately ruffled his hair albeit with a touch of roughness. “Oi, why ain't ye back in the city reading poems with that stray poet, boy? It's safer for yer health.”
Hvittungl scrunched his nose as he smelled strong booze on his mother. - Typical. - “Thank you for your concern, captain, but I wish to venture out to the sea with you.” The son of Vilulf replied truthfully, sporting his signature weak and fragile smile.
In response to his polite answer, somewhere on Hvittungl’s left, a voice he’d preferred kept not engaging him spoke up. “Tch. Sure. Keep making yerself a nuisance, Hvittungl. Yar gonna meet divine Hel before I even become the clan leader.”
“Ah. About that. There might be a change of plans.”
“Eh?”
Something was about to happen and the stars that Hvittungl was reading before predicted it. He wasn't ever going to learn what it was, however, because the Troubadour pulled him away from the conversation.
When they entered the Vilulf children's private chambers, Hvittungl was tempted to light up a pipe to release stress. Norton, who had weak lungs, was the only support preventing him from spiralling into bad habits. The only presence keeping him rational in the midst of a pack of wolves. Still, his tone unintentionally pitched to a grumble. “Are you going to keep whisking me away from my family?”
The Troubadour shrugged before he sat on a crate. He continued, “They're probably going to continue talking down on you as long as you're around. You don't need to be there to hear it.” - You're too noble for that. -
The Red-Haired Man crossed his arms, but the hands clutching his them made him look like he was hugging himself. The reluctant display of vulnerability had the Troubadour stand back on his feet in a flash, but the dark stormy eyes already averted his green ones.
There was a fond sigh sounding out before a hand tentatively cupped the Red-Haired Man's rosy cheek. The gentle caress reminded the son of ﹰVilulf of the sea’s breeze on a good day. It was a nice feeling compared to the cold attitude the clan members usually regarded him with. For a second there, he felt at home around the Troubadour. “I love you.”
The hand froze and the son of Vilulf quickly remedied. “I love your touch. ‘tis nice.”
“Ah. I'm glad.” The Red-Haired Man would never guess, but the Stray Poet was repeating that slip up in his mind multiple times per second. - Dear gods. How does he remain unaware that he is such an adorable person? Let him know he is loved. Let him know he's got me fawning over him (in a dignified manner). -
Perhaps this was too far-fetched, but a man can only dream…
…a dream about a night together on the Vinland. Just the two of them alone.
”Would you be the Psyche to my Eros, dove?” - We could balance each other out. Be one side of the same coin and have influence on each other like Super-Ego. - The Troubadour internally rambled, hoping beyond hope the other would play along if only to humour him.
“I do not worship those gods, poet.” Thunder rumbled in the distance as if Thor himself bore witness to the two lovers’ secret rendezvous.
The Stray Poet and the Red-Haired Man glanced at the sky, but remained still on the Vinland's deck in a pile of intertwined limbs and clothes. “Have we angered your god?”, asked Norton with no true urgency laced in his tone.
The Red-Haired Man huffed and his eyebrows knitted in disapproval. “We? I think not, poet. You are the only one speaking his mind without considering the consequences.” He raised a hand from where it lay atop the Troubadour’s chest and poked him on the cheek. “You should be more mindful of your words lest you lose your tongue by a navy officer’s hand.
Norton, for his part, could not concentrate on the meaning of the words when they were uttered by those chapped yet alluring lips.
“Hm.” The Stray Poet considered his next words for a moment. He could either tell what his beloved wished to hear from him or he could let his heart speak in place of his love-stricken brain. He chose the latter. “You may be right. However, I do believe you also hold some responsibility over my actions, dove.” The Troubadour gently held the hand that was poking his cheek and opened its fingers -lithe yet bearing scars caused by long archery training and sparring sessions- to plant a kiss in the middle of the palm.
There was a light red hue dusting the Vilulf son’s cheeks from the open display of affection. It was so unfair of the Troubadour to hold only him accountable when he also held a grip on his weak heart. Nevertheless, the Red-Haired Man answered the accusation with a kiss on the stubbed nose of his own. “Very well.”
And weren't those two words alone worth contemplating over? A son of Vilulf acting all proper and sophisticated, as if he was untouched by life at the sea.
“Are you adopted by any chance? You don't sound nor act like a typical Vilulf. You know, brash and brawny.” Norton jokingly asked, but Hvittungl told him he liked to read books. It was his main source of trivia.
“Ah.” The Stray Poet turned to his side and hugged the smaller frame close to his chest, next to his racing heart. “You're so delightful to talk to. I'd hear all about the books you read. I wouldn’t get tired of listening to your voice.”
The Red-Haired man chuckled at that. “Pfft. Even if I am the annoying voice of reason in your head?”
“Yes.” The Troubadour peppered the red crown with devout kisses, relishing in the giggles he provoked from the Vilulf son.
The moment was interrupted when suddenly, fire and smoke clouded his senses and he blacked out. It seemed like Tyche finally left him.
Norton woke up on Hvittungl’s bed with no recollection of the previous night’s events whatsoever, and groaned. He was starting to get used to being so close to the Red-Haired Man that his presence was greatly missed by the Stray Poet. So much so that he laid back down and covered himself in blankets, pretending he was actually cuddling with the son of Vilulf.
A few seconds after the Stray Poet awoke, his partner burst into the chamber. The Red-Haired Man, usually the epitome of composure, was panicked. - What's gotten him all shaken up? - Narrowing his eyebrows in concern, the Troubadour called out. “Dove?”
“Sorry. Got an emergency. It can't wait. Can’t stop. Gotta go.” The son of Vilulf informed him, hurriedly equipping his gun before he stormed out without sparing another second.
He didn't say when he would be returning precisely, but after that episode, the Troubadour hadn't seen the Red-Haired Man for a worryingly long time. - Norton refused to consider the possibility that he might never come back. - And because of the prolonged absence, the emptiness in his chest ached more than usual.
He tried to assuage it by crashing at the place his lover often frequented to drink and waited for him there, at the local tavern. Despite regularly coming there to sing lyrics, nobody paid him any attention. Perhaps they grew bored of him or he fell out of favour with Apollo. Nonetheless, he was better off left alone than be bombarded by requests to perform.
Days turned into weeks turned into a full month. The Troubadour was utterly wrecked from longing.
“Fool. Are you not even going to try to look for me?”
The Stray Poet jolted out of his skin at the familiar voice.
“it couldn't be…”
He whipped around, fully expecting to be disappointed by his own delusions, only to be proved wrong when he encountered the face of his beloved.
“You…” He sniffled. Then with more effort than he'd like to admit, he gulped down a lump that was starting to form in his throat.
“My muse…” His voice sounded so scratchy and small, almost akin to a squeak. It was as if he was scared to trespass the line above a whisper, afraid that the body of his lover would fizzle out of existence. To Norton’s dismay, it certainly looked that way seeing as there were cherry red spots spread across the viking's skin that weren't there before.
In response to his wonder, the image of Frederick rolled his eyes fondly- Norton’s heart and mind simultaneously stopped, but the Red-Haired Man continued. Hold on- “Yes. I am here. I came back. Now quit ogling like a lovesick fool. And pull yourself together.” His words sounded so false, so, so, so untrue that he never thought they would ever be produced by that lexical expert tongue. The absent-minded Troubadour only caught the first sentence.
He was unable to look away, utterly entranced, and struggled to regain composure. His gaze fixated on two pellucid orbs, the colour being a radiant shade of sea green. - That wasn’t right. - Lagertha’s son's eyes were a stormy, dark hue. These new eyes, clearer and more focused, distinctly reflected his image and seemed to penetrate his mind, burrowing deep until all that was left was a hollow shell of a man. - No no no. His memory must be faulty. - With a great amount of willpower, the Troubadour tilted his head slightly to the right, breaking the binding spell he found himself in.
But then his attention was redirected back to the face of not-Hvittungl. Norton didn't know when his hand moved to cup his beloved’s cheek, but the electric sensation he would usually get from the contact wasn't there anymore. - Oh Hades - the Red-Haired Man standing before him wasn’t real. - I must have lost my senses. - The Stray Poet hiccuped from bafflement. - I can’t tell if you are an illusion or not. - The Troubadour hiccuped, starting to weep.
The hallucination sighed softly and slowly, it engulfed the Troubadour’s slump form in a facsimile of a hug. Its touch almost felt concrete, real, and despite his better judgement, the Stray Poet could not help but lean into it. This wasn’t the Son of Vilulf, but it was his Hvittungl who was caring for him. It was…it was his Frederick to love. Red-haired and sporting viridescent green eyes. - Not the Red-Haired Man with dark eyes. - Norton wished to stay like that.
But something must have happened out there. And from the hallucination’s determined expression, Norton could deduce he wasn't going to let the Stray Poet sweep it under the rug. - No, dove. Sit down with me and relax. Won’t you allow me to be satisfied with just your presence? I don't…please. Don't drag my consciousness back to reality. - His Lucid Rationality shook his head and the Troudabour cursed the gods.
Morpheus must have plotted with the moirai when weaving that dream for him. Because when he regained his bearings and ran towards the Vinland, the Vilulf clan was in shambles. The ship was burnt and destroyed by cannons until it was nothing more than a pile of junk and ashes. Most importantly, fire sizzled out and smoke occupied Norton’s lungs, making him believe that his dream bled into reality.
He should have come along with the crew to the Execution Dock when Brynhildr was used as bait, if only to protect Hvittungl from the Keres’ deathly claws. There was nothing he could do about it now though. The Vilulf clan was past. And the culprit who orchestrated the annihilation of the once powerful and feared Vilulf clan was none other than the firstborn child of Lagertha.
The Stray Poet’s legs buckled beneath him. “Die. Die. Die. UTGARDAR, you traitor! How could you cause the death of your own kin?” He wheezed, his lungs heavy with despair. “Of your own brother? I swear on the River Styx I’ll- You-” He sniffled. “You won’t know peace no more, Utgardar. I swear.” He clenched his fists as his whole being trembled with grief and rage. Somewhere, thunder boomed.
The Stray Poet maintained the kneeling position for hours, staring at nothing with incredulous eyes. At one point, Norton began to reminisce about past times: he remembered before, when he was first taken to Moonfogar. Everybody busied themselves preparing to sail the ships. To take advantage of the fish season or to raid merchant ships.
On the other hand, there was this particular individual who stuck around - “because of the captain’s orders” he told him. - and while Norton idled about, this viking fired a couple of practiced shots on the targets with his flintlock rifle.
Norton blinked: the red of the bullseye blurred and got swapped with the image of the Red-Haired Man.
The Stray Poet’s dark brown eyes widened as he watched the bullet go through the viking’s chest instead of the mannequin. “NORTON!” The scream was ripped out from the Red-Haired Man. Strangled. Pained. Horrified. It gave the Troubadour goosebumps. The red of the hair distracted him from the taste of iron pooling in his mouth, but it didn’t stop him from wailing and subsequently causing seagulls to fly away from the noise.
“If- if only I hadn’t interfered…” Looking back, an idea began to form in the Troubadour’s shattered mind. “I understand now…This is my punishment for trying to pursue a passionate love with an obviously higher being.”
That would mean he would have continued to internally beg the Son of Vilulf to not board the ship, to stay on the island with him and fill the emptiness incessantly making his core ache. - Even so, the Stray Poet could not hold back his spirit. He could not clip his wings and rob him of freedom. - At least, that way, Norton wouldn't have gotten this attached to the son of Vilulf. And the gods wouldn’t have frowned upon their illicit feelings.
Now, with a tear-stricken face, he held his precious fountain pen and began to write down on the palm of his hands words. When he ran out of space, his wrist moved along his arm and the stroke of ink continued to stain his skin. Then he lowered his dull brown eyes at the yellow-orange flower tucked by his side.
The marigold wilted as his heart ached to find happiness with Frederick.