[A/N: Why hello again, gentle readers. This is my first crack at a historical AU. I've been researching the hell out of vikings and their ways/customs/words, but it's entirely plausible I'll get something wrong. If so, I apologize in advance.

Most of these places are in existence/used to be, such as Kaupang. I'll explain the various names at the bottom of each chapter. Great thanks to my beta, Laugh-till-it-hurts, for looking over this train wreck and making sure my sentences actually have form. Nothing of this belongs to me - I'm simply here to give you what you want. Enjoy!]

Chapter 1

ever close your eyes, ever stop and listen

ever feel alive, and you've nothing missing

March 28th, 912

Grandfather had tried with the patience of an old glacier to teach her the trick, but angry fingers knead and tug on tense muscles with the same impatience that had caused him to sigh. Twinges of pain shoot up through ankles to hips, frustrating the girl and causing a familiar furrowing a fair brow even as a small grunt escapes pale lips. Undaunted, she digs deeper, searching for the elusive knot that's paralyzed the rotating joint of her hip to a sullen stiffness. Teeth bared, her nails sink into porcelain flesh, curling under fine musculature and firm bones. "Pain is weakness leaving the body," she grunts between clenched teeth, uttering her mantra again and again until with an almighty jolt, pain radiates through every limb, sending a flush and tingle through pale, snow coloured flesh. Child of Winter, Grandfather had called her, fair as the new snow. Child of Winter, who reddened and blistered at even the caress of summer. Her questing fingers twitch and convulse, and she can't help but let out a pained gasp. Strikingly blue eyes shut to the world, tension shown in the firm curl of a slender jaw as any more sounds are swallowed harshly.

After a moment of suffocating silence, the pain recedes and allows the figure to worm her fingers deeper, probing cautiously, ever wary of an unexpected repeat. Sun paints warm on her shoulders, but she pays it no heed, back hunching slightly as she smooths away the discomfort and takes solace from the strength of the wood behind her form. Fingers brush through countless battle-scars, a canvas of white strokes upon a creamy canvas. They each tell of a story; triumph and defeat that loop in never ending wars, the tally only rising higher the older the others grow.

The creak of a heavy door and fingertips catch under the bone in surprise, seizing the muscle from the root of pale toes. A mighty flinch shudders down the length of her body as yet another groan escapes into the stillness, louder this time.

"Bretagne?" A disembodied voice murmurs, footsteps soft against the floor. Oceanic eyes flit upwards, a sheepish grin sloughing off her face when a sharp bite against the top of her foot reminds her of more pressing matters. "Kveðja, Mikhail. I'm fine, honestly. Simply bonding with the wood here." Yet she curls into a loose ball upon her side, trying to massage away the current of pain brought upon by a mishap with a crude staff and angry villager.

Another face swims into view - despite less sun that his native East, the North had been good to Mikhail. His soft raven hair floats around his oddly slanted eyes, a slave's collar resting gently against his slim neck. They had been unable to decipher his name and instead given him a new one (Bjorn had insisted upon Mikhail, his ascent into Christianity a cause of tension for his comrades) that was carved into the simple metal tag threaded into the leather.

She had always liked him. His quietly spoken ways and endless determination made sure that everybody else liked him, too. He was given small things here and there to remind him of appreciation.

"It seems that it must rather like you, hm?" His gaze cuts down to the spasming muscles in her leg. His flat features are painted with bold sympathy.

"Of course. It wishes to take my hand in marriage."

She grins through gritted teeth and nods slightly when he gestures to take her limb, hesitating out of respect. Skilled hands begin to soothe the anger from her skin, light on dark and chilled from the outside. Her nails sink into the grains of the floorboards.

They had always been not so secret friends. Though she was of noble blood, daughter of a fierce warrior, it held no consequence in her heart from where Mikhail came from. He was seven when the ships brought him in, bound in irons and chains, body willowy from weeks with little to eat. The sailors laughed when he stumbled, tangled in his own restraints.

"Father," she had mumbled, eyes never leaving the exotic boy. "I want that one." He swung his gaze to her own, and fiery brows furrowed into a deep forehead.

"It's but a child, dyerbar."

"And so am I." She responded. He could see the set to her face, stubborn and unwavering. Her stare unnerved him in the strangest ways. "That was how you found me, right?"

She'd already won before the argument had even started.

With a sigh he had strode up to the sailors disembarking, new dents to mar their iron helmets with the shine tarnished and worn. They were boisterous, heavy flush to their cheeks, obviously drunk after a successful raid. One noticed the imposing man narrowing in on their position and raised his arm in salute.

"Betar!" He roared, ignoring the other men that snapped and prodded the slaves up to solid ground. Winter had not yet sunk its teeth into the land, but the air carried with it the chill of the grave. "Long time no see, my friend! It's been what, months? Too long, too long." He took another swing of his wooden cup, blissfully unaware of the way the taller man rolled his eyes.

"Not nearly long enough," he muttered, but simply rose his chin high and offered a similar greeting. He asked of the chase and the fight, half-listening to the drunken revelries of coastal towns that ran away in fright.

His daughter gestured impatiently from the corner of his eye; he sighed again, smirking internally at how he was already wrapped around fingers that would grow lithe and nimble in her adolescence. "I see you've brought some slaves from your raids, Bjorn." A grin greeted him, broad arm sweeping out in a clumsy motion that nearly knocked a frail woman from her feet. The clatter of chains was deafening around the docks. "I've come to offer for one."

"Of course! Take your pick! First choice for you, my friend."

His beard burned in the autumn sun as he strode to where he last saw the tiny boy. Copper hair pulled tightly into an intricate braid, he watched the foreigner eye him warily the closer he got, until he was towering over him. Yet his breath didn't smell like mead and his gaze was calm; chocolate eyes glanced up into muddled green even as his mouth opened to cascade him in the harsh, guttural tongue that had no hold in his head.

"Betar." Said the man, pointing to himself. "Bjorn." He followed his finger to the angry one that ranted with a cross above his head in the dead of night. "Bretagne." This time, a small girl about his age with hair of spun gold. She grinned and he gave a timid smile in return. The large man then gestured to him, fine tunic whispering across his skin.

"Chang Ming." He said, but a moment later the preacher (Bjorn, his mind supplied) gave an almighty shout and stumbled forward. Annoyance was plastered along the lines of his face and a rawhide whip was gripped in one hand. Ming recoiled, but the lash was already felt along his back; he fell in a sprawling heap at Betar's feet.

"Infidel!" He foamed, rearing up to strike again. "I told you, your name is Mikhail! You're not to sully this place with your tongue!" Out of the corner of his eye, there was a flash of blonde, but it was too quick before his hand descended for another strike. It hit solidly, a high pitched noise of pain emitting from the figure in front of him. Yet, instead of lashing the small boy, a little girl lay in a mess of dresses. A red stripe had already begun to bloom from her collarbone, disappearing out of sight under the safety of her clothing.

In a moment that appeared effortless, the song of a sword being unsheathed rang out impossibly loud coupled with a garbled noise of pain; blood splattered against the decks even as Ming squeezed his eyes shut. The girl who had taken his blow was draped over top of his thin body, but her presence was oddly comforting amidst the shouting that had begun to take place. He barely registered the angry roar (and never had he heard anything more terrifying save for the scream of the flames that devoured his village) of her father's revenge. No, just the stirring of her breath along his ear that brushed the ebony hair from his skin.

He was Mikhail now.

Hands questing along her calf stall, and she realizes that she had said his name aloud. Bright eyes blink back the haze, and she grins again, scintillating and without hesitance. He responds in kind, noting how her musculature has stopped twitching under his fingers.

"Better?" Sun pours into the small room; it warms her shoulders and makes her body itch for movement. "Always." She can't recall how many times he's worked out the kinks from battle, palms pushing away the knots and fire from her bones. Once, he'd even come at her with needles, prodding in strange spots based on an art that another Oriental had shown him. She tingled for days and forbid him from approaching her with those ever again.

"Your father wishes to see you."

The blonde springs up from her seated position, testing the weight on her feet and stretching out wide. Her simple linen sleep-garb rides high on her stomach, and Mikhail modestly averts his gaze. She smirks at the blush she knows burns on his tanned cheeks, lingering eyes despite his own wishes. Her hair is wrapped into a high ponytail with a thin strip of deer hide. The ends brush the shallow dip of her spine, cracking the bones as she goes on the hunt for a pair of shoes.

"In attendance?"

The taller boy follows her progress, dipping under the bed and over the dresser. He smiles fondly when she pouts, eyes casting about the room to wherever she might have put her slippers.

"Your father, Sveinn Geirsson of Uppsala, Lundvar Sturlsson of Birka, their sons; Kalfi, Ulfvarr and Hringr. Many of their liegemen are there, too, taking rest from days of sailing. It is early, but I suspect they have already begun to drink." She sighs and rolls her eyes at the mention. Not that she's expecting anything other, but it would be pleasant to go through a day without having to fight with her words. Sometimes they tangle in her brain, rendering her mute to unwelcome advances that are then warded away with twice the ferocity.

"Is this another ridiculous scheme to find me a husband?" Comes a grumble from the far side of the small cabin. A moment later, a sound of triumph floats out as a pale hand sticks high into the air with a pair of shoes firmly clenched within her grasp.

"I wouldn't say ridiculous," muses Mikhail, still lotus positioned on the floor, "but most definitely a scheme." For a moment, his friend's eyes gather coming storms, drawing a glaze over her vision. She is like playing with the vicious ocean waves; unpredictable and deadly in all the worst ways.

The laces are tugged harder than necessary, fingers flying as she knots them tight around her quelled ankles. She thrums with nervous energy, a reflection of the clouds slowly roiling on the distant horizon. "I suppose I have little choice," she grumbles, flinging open the door and squinting into the bright sunlight.

"Try not to be so glum, Bretagne!" He responds, rising easily to fall into step beside her. "Perhaps you will find a suitable mate that can sustain your voracious appetite for adventure?"

She simply glares.

~.~.~.~.~

Despite her professed grumblings, she cannot be angered as she steps out into the cooled spring air. She loves the North; everything about it sings to her. The mountains rumble under her feet, and the wind whispers in her hair while the trees bow on skeletal limbs to her passing. She feels her borrowed blood rush readily through her veins, like seeking some great goal. Her lips turn bright red; blushing rose petals lacquered with slowly melting frost.

She adjusts her belt that holds up her simple woollen trousers and brings in her bright blue tunic as a rude gesture to the men she'll no doubt have to meet. Refusing to constrain herself to pretty dresses and apron-smocks, states something far stronger than she'll ever be able to say. (But then again, her thoughts are always best said in the simplest of actions.) From a distance she can see the seamen's mighty ships rearing out from the water with the bows hoisting beautiful maidens as figureheads, guarding all within the ship from harm. Her body longs for the ocean, the ebb and flow under her feet as solid as the earth's heartbeat, as calming as any lullaby.

Kaupang sits upon the rim of the sea, a bustling trader's town away from the border of Sweden. Though her father's estate is large, she holds a small house of her own upon a cliff top, merely a few hundred paces from the main building but still her own. All the movement from within keeps her awake long after the sun has descended - the blonde much prefers the lapping of the water's tongue along the face of its lover. Mikhail is silent as the grass is trodden underfoot; he doesn't even notice the soft tap of his metal tag touching the hollow of his throat. It's grown almost into him now, the time where he was free is hazy at best.

The closer they get, the louder the boisterous sounds of laughter become. They squint together against the rising sun in an attempt to form an outline for the degree of stupidity they are about to find within the solid walls. She loves her father, she really does, but she'll fight to Valhalla to show him that she does not want, nor require a husband.

She's a good a warrior as any of his finest men.

The two adolescents walk in together, the oriental hanging back respectfully with his head slightly bowed. Drunken jabs are thrown, but he's learned to let them slide off his back like the finest oil - they won't even remember their own names come next morn. He follows his friend's sure steps, the slide of her feet upon the polished flooring silent but carrying an undercurrent of dangerous power.

He feels it when she's around. All the time. Like a river of something else, strong and devastating flowing secretly through her body that not even she notices. She dams it with a carefree personality and vacant smiles, but when her knuckles turn white on the hilt of a spear it all comes gushing out in a spectacular display of gore and death. He hopes with all his heart he'll never be on the end of her wrath, for he surely knows he'd never make it out intact.

It's like magic - but Mikhail has witnessed magic, it's tricky and filthy and altogether wrong - but hardened, more direct. It shines in her eyes as she straightens her spine and gives a beaming smile to her father.

Betar Silver-Spear is an imposing man; all rippling muscle and bones in the right places with a glare as sharp as steel. A halo of braided crimson hair sits atop his head with a beard of similar design, feathers and beads woven into intricate patterns. Eyes of convoluted green watch the crowd, lighting up when he spies his only daughter. "Bretagne!" He rumbles happily, a tired smile slipping over his lips as he catches sight of what she's currently wearing. "How nice of you to join us, dóttir." She leans her face into his outstretched paw, nuzzling the rough and worn skin she feels against the silk of her cheek.

"Of course. Who am I to deny such wonderful guests?" The current of annoyed amusement is laced within the syllables as she surveys the drunken rabble. Her head throbs at the mere thought of attempting to drink so soon after waking. Betar sighs, running a large thumb along the braided rawhide circlet that rests upon her brow. "Give them a chance, yes? Some of them might surprise you."

"I'm but seventeen, father. I have no need to settle down and find a suitable husband quite yet."

This was the rising of a familiar argument, born of differing views. She is his only child, necessary to pass down the line. The moment Betar had taken her into his arms, he vowed she would become a better warrior than any son. Giving her the last name of Piersson ensured none would be confused from whence she came. Yet she still had to be the fastest, nimblest, most cunning in order to receive a fraction of the attention that she deserved.

(And usually, it wasn't even the attention that she desired.)

He opens his mouth to reply but is cut off with a roar of laughter from another source. It stems from a stocky man with brow set like a bull, ruddy hue to his cheeks betraying how many drinks he'd consumed. Sveinn, she assumes, the almost white-blond of his hair blinding against his deep green tunic. He's not as tall as her father, but his girth more than makes up for his stunted height.

"An' I tell ya," he slurs, cup sloshing over onto his meaty fist. "They's be getting too comfortable ups on tha' mainland. Too comfortable, I say! They push thar boats out so far, almost beggin' us ta go in an' plunder!" Another thunderous howl comes up from the table, steadying him with hoots of glee as he sways on his feet.

She's obviously entered during the midst of a raving, but the mention of plunder pricks her ears.

"Where would this mainland be?" She asks curiously, pleasantly surprised when he simply peers at her for a moment before replying as he would to anybody else.

"Up in the fjord of Aarhus," says the man, attempting to straighten up but failing miserably. "They get themselves quite a goo' supply o' things, my girl. Silver, salt, sluts." He pauses in muddled confusion before an insincere smile breaks across his face. "Oops. Sorry 'bout tha', jus' seemed to... slip out." He doubles over and even she cracks a grin at the crude joke. Living in constant competition to men had dulled her (and perhaps sharpened) to their words.

His voice trails off as he begins spinning an excited, warbling tale, but the blonde's mind is firmly rooted on thoughts of a raid. She itches to feel her spear underneath her fingers, anchoring her down to the waking world lest she float away to the outer branches of Yggdrasil.

It's not like she enjoys taking a life. In fact, she hates it - to see the light drain from another's eyes is something that will never escape her memories. It's the rush of the fight that calls her akin to a siren's song; the clash of metal upon her shield, the pained grunts from her fallen adversaries as she strikes them down. It reminds her all too closely of dancing - something she wasn't allowed to learn except for in the secrecy of her room with Mikhail, for great warriors do not dance, they fight.

Mikhail watches knowingly from his corner of the room as she stills, absently twirling the gold necklace around her throat as her mind spins silvery fine webs to snare an idea. Her brain works differently - some would call her slow, but the tongue lashing they receive in the end shows it speeds along just fine - as she chases down the tunnels of her consciousness, brow creasing to stare holes in the scuffed floorboards. Light is just dawning in her eyes, baby-bone fragile and so easily displaced, when a boy about her age stumbles forth. He's red from the tips of his hair to the spread of his collar, tall and gangly with a shock of cropped black hair. His tunic hangs oddly on his frame - he's doomed from the start when his flailing shatters her precious concentration and condemns her ideals to the back of her head.

"Bretagne?" He asks, like he's unsure of her name. She glances up with a scowl, face quickly schooling itself into vacancy that Mikhail recognizes all too well.

"Yes?" She replies, voice deceptively light. Behind him, his brothers holler obscenities. Her eyes flash a dangerous warning that goes unheeded or ignored.

"I, um, I'm Finngeirr, son of Klintir. Well, I was, until he died. Which was a long time ago." The words that tumble out of his mouth are unorganized at best, confusing the both of them. "Anyway, I wondered if you want a drink? The mead is pretty good here."

They had all heard of the shield-maiden that refused to be tamed, with skin of snow but voice schooled to thunder. She had touched tongues with many a man - curiosity refused to settle until it was sated - but desired none. They all wondered if they were to be the first only to be sorely disappointed.

She peers at him closely, feline eyes narrowing once before cutting to her darker friend in something he believes is amusement. In a tall, awkward way she supposes Finngeirr is somewhat attractive with his fine colours and polished sword. She admires the ornate handle for a moment but shakes her head, dislodging the cobwebs that had again begun to spin their nest around her mind. In doing so, the previous train of thought she had lost is regained, and a sudden light floods her face.

"I appreciate the offer, son of Klingr, but I'm afraid I have more pressing matters on my hands." His face flushes crimson as she quickly crosses to where Sveinn still stands, jumping up on the table and snatching a tankard from an unsuspecting Northman. Standing up high, she gulps when she can meet the eyes of all the men attending. Their stares shoot jittering nerves throughout her being. Her mouth opens but no sound slips forth. The sniggers of the boys her age are horribly loud in her ears, and she fights away the rush of shame that's all too common.

From his seat, her father gives an encouraging smile with worry only beginning to eat away at the very edges of his face. Now that she has brought the attention upon herself, it would look foolish for them both if he were to rescue her. He had not given her the surname of Piersson for no reason.

Again she tries, collar warm - she takes a large swallow of the mead to calm herself. It is sticky on her tongue and fingers, fuzzy in the best of ways as she fights back an impulsive grimace.

"Sveinn the Bold spoke of a fjord tucked away in the northern peak of Denmark, where a port has forgotten whom they should be afraid of." Her voice begins as faltering but grows in strength, carrying clear and true despite the inherit airy tones, snagging the attention of all Nords that took up feasting in the hall. "Should we not remind them? Should we not tell them that it is us, seamen of Norway, warriors of Kaupang, that they must fear?"

Another gulp. This time, it is a welcome heat that pools in her chest.

"You've just come from a raid, but since when do we turn down opportunity for another? I've heard the Christians might soon come to take Denmark as their own if we do not leave our mark upon the land." She swallows the shiver in her voice. "Odinn himself would piss on you if you let them take what is ours!"

Rumbles of assent have begun to roll across the room in time to the rhythmic stomping of her feet accentuating her points. The flood of battle has already begun to seep into her veins - she feels wild, powerful; not even a valkyrie could carry her off to the unknown.

At this point Sveinn begins to understand what she's getting at, climbing up to flank her and carry her voice where it may fall. His timbre is strong, easily drowning out hers even as one large hand clutches her shoulder for support. Some boys look like they would protest, but seeing the respected warrior take the girl's side silences them.

She's glad for the aid - speaking in front of a crowd always ties her tongue and stains her fair skin an unfavourable shade of crimson.

"The girl is right! Why do they not fear us? Do they believe because we are neighbours, we will stay our hands?" he sways and she is quick to clasp him by the back of his neck. "I say we sail to Aarhus upon the light of morn; to take their people, their belongings, and their honour!"

This time a great din of approval reaches out to meet them, arms spread wide like unfurling wings. Finngeirr stands with a befuddled expression upon his jowls and along his brow, but he's lost amongst the cheering crowd. She grins (and she looks like a goddess, gleaming and thrumming and so very alive) and hops down from the bench, draining the rest of her tankard and slamming it down with a mighty belch. Away from prying eyes she lets herself uncoil, straightening higher and paling again. Her father places heavy hands upon her shoulders, face tight with paternal pride.

"Go dress and fetch your weapons, Bretagne." Says the warrior, voice low and strong. "We set sail at first light."

Her muscles flex in anticipation, waving Mikhail along with untempered glee.

Battle.

[A/N: Bretagne: Dutch variant of Brittany, her native tongue.

Kveðja: An Old Norse greeting.

Shield-maiden: A woman who has decided to take up the trial of men and become a warrior. They must often fight to prove themselves, having to go above and beyond expectations to be able to place with even an ounce of respect.

Piersson: The whole reason this is so strange is because Piersson literally means son of Pierce. However, considering that Brittany is female, giving her this name is in direct conflict with their society. Luckily for them both, Pierce is a form of Peter. Betar is also a form of Peter, so her last name still makes sense in the scheme of things.

So that was the first chapter. I'm sorry if Brittany doesn't sound very Brittany-ish at the moment, but there's only a certain amount of tripping over words she can do while trying to rouse a mead hall into a frenzy. She's going to be a bit firmer spoken than common thought considering how she was raised - but still the one we know and love. Reviews are fantastic and greatly appreciated to let me know how it's done. Next up: meeting Santana!]