TITLE: Crichtonklok
PAIRING: Nathan/Charles, but not actually mentioned
RATING: PG-13
WARNINGS: Mention of mpreg
NOTES: Inspired by characters and scenarios featured in Michael Crichton's novel 'Eaters Of The Dead.' Hence the title, because I couldn't think of a better one. I mean no disrespect to the estate of the late Mr Crichton, nor to anyone involved with the Ibn Fadlan manuscript. As usual, I only own the plot. Oh, and I suppose I own the baby.

Crichtonklok

She lived on the very outskirts of Mordland, near the forest. She was older than Charles knew; older than time itself, in a way. It was because of this that she lived where she did. Numerous times Charles had offered her proper lodgings, but always she refused. With a shake of her head and a wave, she would politely make it clear that the discussion was over. Then she would turn, and make her way back into her dark little hut.

The hut in question, standing as it did near the forest, was a crude affair. Small, dark, and damp. It held the round shape of larger Viking longhouses, dug a few feet into the ground for insulation. Animal skins, scraped thin enough to allow some light through, passed for windows. A stone circle in the centre provided a fireplace, and a hole in the roof was considered a chimney. Several small and evil-eyed goats took up residence in an adjoining pen.

Charles would return here six months later.

He did every six months. Mordland was built on Viking tradition, it permeated the place, and one of the most important aspects of this was the crone. Oh, Charles provided his boys their little Viking funerals and their battleaxes. But Charles also suspected he knew a good deal more than either of the Scandinavians about this sort of thing. As proud as they were of their heritage, they displayed it in the form of wine, women, and song. Almost exclusively wine, women, and song.

It was Charles who prudently avoided the sacrificial death of a young woman at funerals, Charles who conveniently neglected to mention that Scandinavian skeletons attributed to the Viking period averaged five feet, seven inches. Skwisgaar wouldn't stand for it anyways.

So every six months, Charles visited the crone. He was more than smart enough to know that her eyes were constantly on him. For her part, she was more than intelligent enough to know what kind of power he wielded.

This time was no different. Charles nodded to the two ravens perched above the doorway, and followed the old woman inside. The walls and floor were decorated with skins and furs, and a smoky fire was burning. Sitting by the fire he wondered, not for the first time, how much she really knew. Certainly more than she ever told him.

She took her time, patiently casting a number of small bones, collecting and re-collecting, never letting herself be rushed.

"It is the same," came the rasp. "There is nothing I can tell you that I have not already. I see death. Destruction. Fire." She shook her head. "Nothing good will come of what you do. Nothing good of the men you care for like so many little dogs."

Standing abruptly, Charles shook his head. "That's not true," he said. "Not true. You're wrong."

"It is. You know it."

"It is not."

"It is. I am… sorry. What must be done, will be done. I merely give you the tools to perhaps save yourself."

Angrily, Charles stood his ground. Then, abruptly, he turned on his heel and left, one hand over the small swell at the base of his abdomen.

Of course she was wrong. She had to be wrong.

-Fin-