A Gift

kinofodin:

Ragnar did not take the gold, just looked at it and then back at the new comer’s face. He was encroaching on Ragnar’s territory, and by rights he could kill him and take all that he had with him, but that was not Ragnar’s way. He wanted to learn from him, learn which lands that he had sailed from, what he knew, whether or not his home country was worth raiding itself. Then, he would decide what to do with him. 

“Who are you?” He asked, standing close enough to loom a little over him.
“And from where have you sailed?”

He slipped it back into his pocket, a little twinkle of a smile in his eyes despite the large, looming presence of the other man. The little lamb looked happy enough in the arms of the savage-looking man, and he stared up at him–for Ragnar and his men were all taller than Achilles and his men. He studied his face–a face fit for art, he thought–blue eyes, bluer than the waters here but the same, nearly, the waters of Greece.

      ‘I am Achilles, I am a Prince in my lands. I have come from Greece but have sailed from the Holy Roman Empire–’ he said the name with some distaste, ’–it is just 70 days by sea.’

     'We had aimed for England.’

     Achilles could not help but be afraid of the other man, even if only slightly, he was a warrior, yes, but many of his men were not. They had aimed for England but had drifted too far off course. He did not doubt that Ragnar would see fit, perhaps, to kill him, send him on his way, something less than hospitable.