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garnsdotbackup · 8 months

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Lacnunga, or, Remedy

Osferth x Reader

Request: i would love to request something for our dear baby monk. maybe reader is a healer and takes care of his wounds and everyone sees that there's something between them but both osferth and reader are too shy to act on it and continue dancing around each other. until that one day when he saves her from drowning or some danes (please pick whatever you're comfortable with) and he realizes he nearly lost her without telling her what he feels and kisses her right there.

I’m so sorry – I lost who requested this!

[Masterlist]

Word Count: 5K

Warnings: One use of bad language. Other than that, none. It’s Osferth.

The thundering of hooves tore apart the dark night’s silence, and your hand instinctively moved to grip the shoulder of the small boy before you. He looked up. Slowly, not daring to breathe, you brought your finger to your lips. He nodded and inched a little closer to your skirts.

Wintancaester had been on edge since the very word that men of Northumbria had ridden through Mercia, terror left in their wake, and were descending on Wessex’ borders. The King had dispatched Uhtred and his band of warriors to investigate the oncoming horde, but that was weeks ago and no news had come. Nor had the men returned.

The ensuing days were those of dread, the nights full of visions. Bells rang from inside the castle gates at the merest approach of anyone on horseback, sending the city scattering into their dwellings. So why, this night, were the bells silent?

The lad at your knee tugged your skirt.

“Stay close,” you whispered, heart racing beneath your breast. The hooves were growing louder, so much that you felt the very ground beneath your feet tremble. As the racket neared, the little boy held your legs tighter. It was not until they had passed, their canter quietening, that he let go.

“Come,” you edged to the door of your home, beckoning the child. You opened the wooden it a crack. You could not see the men. Across the way, a few people were peering from their homes, the boy’s mother included. “Straight to your mother now. Run and don’t look back. Go!”

He ran as quickly as his little legs could take him and you shut the door as swiftly and silently as possible. Hand at your chest, you listened. If they caught him, surely you would hear. You tried not to imagine his poor cries as they wrenched him away. The face of his mother when she confronted you. Why didn’t you keep him safe? And still the bells didn’t ring. What if the northmen had already taken the castle, unbeknownst to its subjects beyond its walls?

Silence.

The horses' hooves were running no more. There were no cries from neighbouring dwellings. The bells didn’t ring. Perhaps it was just someone passing through. Maybe the poor soul on watch had fallen asleep. The hour was late after all.

You were just relaxing against the wood of the door, your heart rate slowly returning to normal as it pounded in your ears, when the door jolted.

BANG BANG BANG

Your body jumped with the movement of it. A trap. A rouse of silence to trick unsuspecting victims. Tears pricked at your eyes as you held the door with your hands. If you were to die at the hand of some Northumbrian brute, then you would die fighting.

BANG BANG BANG

“Lady! It’s them!”

Whatever strength you mustered to fight the northmen left as quickly as it had arrived.

“They’re back! Come and see! Lady?”

“Caen?” You opened the door. There he was, small and jumping up and down. Behind him, a few paces off, his mother smiled at his antics, her hands on her hips. “What do you me-”

“Uhtred!” Without another word, and seemingly embarrassed at your slowness, he darted along the grassy path towards the stables. Four horses, three dark and one white, were drinking heavily from a trough. Their riders, each tall and strong like their mounts, worked to remove their saddles.

You watched as Caen bounded towards them. They had yet to spot him, small as he was, and instead each man chatted to another.

“Come,” it was Caen’s mother. “Quite the fright they gave us. At least we have visitors, and handsome ones at that, to settle our spirits.” Laughing, she took your arm in hers and led you towards the group.

“A fright indeed,” you muttered, your heart still beating its violent tattoo. Up ahead, Caen was nearing the band of men.

“Uhtred!” He cried and, when the man turned, the small boy all but flung himself into the warrior’s arms.

“My, my, look at you! You have grown taller and stronger since last I saw you. It won’t be long until can wield a sword yourself-”

“I’ll not have you encouraging him, Lord.” Caen’s mother said, her voice firm.

“Ma says that I will be just as able to help the kingdom with my learning. And she’s started teaching me about the plants!” Caen pointed at you.

“She!?” Caen shrunk at his mother’s words, correcting himself by using your name.

“You can never have too many healing hands,” the man beside Uhtred said. His head was bowed a little, eyes peering over the furs he wore to keep warm but even in the dark night, you could see the alertness of their blue. He watched you gently. Something about the small smile playing at the corners of his lips stirred your stomach.

“Osferth,” you said quietly.

“Lady,”

“Can never have too many healing hands indeed!” The burlier of Uhtred’s men winked and gave Osferth’s shoulder a shove.

“Finan,” you said, and he nodded with a smile. “I take it you aren’t in need of healing.”

“She says that when people make a fuss they don’t need so much help,” little Caen spoke up. “It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for.”

Your eyes flicker to Osferth.

“Caen!”

“Sorry, Lady.” He eyed you a little but smiled cheekily all the same. Finan ruffled his hair and Caen giggled, swatting his hand away. In the lightness of the moment, you almost forgot that these men had been on the road for weeks and potentially battled their way home.

“Are you alright?” You addressed the gathered troupe, casting an eye over each of them. “Do you need anything? Sihtric?”

“Nothing ale and a good night can’t fix, thank you.”

When you first encountered the group, it was the Dane with the shorn hair and bicoloured glower that intimidated you most. A man of few words and calculated grace, something in his manner set you on edge. It increased tenfold when you saw him wield the sword, for the movements were violent, aggressive, quick as lightning.

It was not until he came to your small home, the flesh of his cheek split like ripe fruit and bleeding, that you discovered in truth the man was considerate and still. Almost gentle. Almost.

As you tended to his skin, he asked quiet questions about the plants hung from the rafters of your home, told you of the girl he intended to marry. Spoke with near reverence of Uhtred, told tall tales of Finan and fretted over Osferth. In the years you had known the men, it was Sihtric Kjartansson who scared you the least.

Now, it was the young man between he and Uhtred that sent your heart hammering. He, with his hard face and gentle soul.

Your fear was in the knowing glances he gave to his friends, and to you, as if he knew your thoughts before they even entered your mind. It was the stillness that he invoked upon the air whenever he neared you. It was in the simmering heat that built within you each time he returned bolder, stronger, braver. It was the way he was looking at you in that moment, as though seeing you for the first time and coming home.

“Osferth?” Your voice was hoarse and you coughed. “Are you well? Do you need anything?”

Before he could speak, Sihtric cut in. “He took a blow to the back, Lady-” He reached out to show you where but Osferth brushed him away.

“’Tis nothing, only a bruise,”

“I should still like to see it,” you said quickly.

“And I can help!” Caen piped up and you smiled down at your little apprentice.

“After, perhaps.” Osferth said. “But first, would you take a look at this old thing?” He patted the flank of his mottled horse. “She took a sword to her leg. It was only a scuffle!” He added upon seeing your worried face.

“Caen, fetch the bute you collected, and a pitcher of water.” The little boy ran away at your instruction. You turned to the group at large. “You are certain I cannot help with anything else?”

“Nothing,” Uhtred said. “Other than direct us to an alehouse. One who has boarding at this hour”

“Bron will have rooms,” you pointed down the way. “And he’ll be glad to welcome you.”

The men gathered their meagre belongings and, leaving their steeds at the stable, began their tired way towards the alehouse. Osferth remained at your side, following you towards your home. Unbeknownst to the both of you, Sihtric watched your progress with a small smile, distracted only when Finan clapped him on the back and dragged him away.

Seeing it was not the northmen but Uhtred and his men, many of the townsfolk had returned to their sleepy dwellings, and the night was quiet as it had once been.

“You have been to see the King, then? They did not ring the bells when you arrived.” You asked Osferth. He walked beside you, hands clasped firmly behind his back and head bowed. You wondered for a moment if he had picked up this behaviour at the monastery, or if it were his natural proclivity for pensiveness.

“Yes. Well,” he kicked a stone from the path. “Uhtred did.”

You said no more. It had no doubt been a long and tiresome journey, Osferth surely would not want to talk of the father that didn’t acknowledge his very existence.

“Was it terrible?” You asked, pushing open the wooden door to see Caen already setting cloth and water on the table. You winked at him. “Good lad.”

“The reverse,” Osferth smiled. “By the time we arrived in Mercia, the Angles had reached the northmen first.” Caen gasped and begged Osferth tell him more. “You could not see the ground for bodies, and-” Osferth looked at you, arms folded across your chest and eyebrows raised. “-and, that was it, really.” He finished weakly.

Caen glanced between you as silence fell. “Pop your clothes off, if you please.”

“Caen,” your voice was warning.

“If you would, Lord, remove your upper layers and sit on the table.” Caen said.

“Better,” you mouthed.

Plucking comfrey and ribwort from the plants drying around your home, you took your pestle and mortar in hand and worked them into a poultice. You daredn’t look at Osferth as he undressed, and shame began to work away at you fear of him. It is just Osferth. When he spoke, however, it was impossible not to turn, for his voice caused you to jump from your thoughts and face him.

“My horse-”

“Caen will see to her,” you placed the mortar on the table, looking anywhere but his naked torso. “He has been harvesting bute today and could do with the practice.”

“I’ll look after her, Lord.”

“Osferth,” the monk corrected.

“I’ll look after her, Lord Osferth.” Caen grabbed the bute, a small bowl and a cup of water, and dashed into the night. He returned not a minute later. “Forgot the cloth.”

Osferth chuckled as you returned to mixing the poultice. “He is a fine little apprentice.”

“Yes,” you added a dash of water to the mixture. “I just hope he isn’t distracted by the sword.”

“As I was?”

Your head snapped up and there was no going back. He was looking at you, blue eyes sad, pale skin glowing in the light of the fire. “That’s different.”

Osferth hummed, and the silence resumed. Firewood and sage crackled in the hearth, and beyond your home a tawny owl called.

“Where did Sihtric say you were struck?”

“My shoulder,” Osferth tried to indicate but winced as he moved.

“Rest,” you placed a hand on his and pushed his arm away. “Let me.” Moving to stand behind him, you saw the plum bruise that spread across his shoulder blade. It was already mottled and blackening, a few days old at least. Tentatively, you reached out to touch it. Beneath your fingers his skin was warm, similar to those first spring rays of sunlight on the face. You blushed. Beneath your touch, Osferth stiffened.

He had been coming to you for years. When his ribs were bruised and cracked during his first proper skirmish. When he had broken his arm escaping from the sea. After his first few kills he came to for a remedy for night visions, his mind rattled by the sound of tearing flesh. Sometimes, he found excuses to end up at your door. Stiff necks, headaches, insomnia. Those nights were his favourite. You made him dandelion tea and offered your bed. There, as you hummed a slow tune, he would drift into a sleep full of flora and delicate touches.

“It’ll be cool, the mixture, but not cold,” you said. “The bruise is already healing well, but this will reduce the swelling and some of the pain.”

“Thank you, Lady.” He whispered.

Placing a hand on his shoulder to steady yourself, you gently began rubbing the poultice into his skin. Osferth hissed.

“I’m sorry,” you said.

Osferth shook his head. “Is it tender, that is all.”

“I can see the outline of the pommel where it hit you,”

“What a shame it didn’t bleed, would have made a handsome scar-” You saw his cheeks rise into a smile.

“Trying to be more like Finan?” Your hand moved from his shoulder blade to the valley of his spine.

“I haven’t the volume.” This made you laugh and, at hearing the bright noise, Osferth joined in, for a moment only before doubling over.

“Try not to laugh,” you said through your giggles.

On and on you rubbed the poultice into his skin until the merest slither was left in the mortar. Osferth fell into a contented silence as you worked, your mind caught far away and, simultaneously, in the intimacy of the moment.

You watched, mesmerised, as your medicine highlighted the curves and contours of his back. Even when Osferth first joined Uhtred, he was tall. But then he began to train with the others, surviving on meagre rations and growing from boy to man. His broad shoulders and lean muscle were evidence of that. Drifting from the bruise, your fingers brushed over his upper back, the broad expanse of it now golden in the firelight.

His frame was exciting to you, yes. But what you hadn’t expected, or hadn’t anticipated would stir the fire still alite in your belly, were the freckles speckling his back. The outline of his ribs as he breathed, or the base of his spine ridging his lower back. They were the evidence that he was human. Living, breathing, warm flesh and bone right there beneath your fingers. Not just some imagined being you dreamt up during the long days and nights that he was gone.

Your fingers had left the bruise fully now but you didn’t worry. Osferth couldn’t see, and you let them wander under the guise of treating his wound. When they met the juncture of his neck and shoulder, you paused before laying your hand flat against the plain of skin. The action must have been soothing, for no sooner had your hand settled there was Osferth tipping his head forward, exposing more of his strong neck to you. You squeezed the muscle and he groaned. The sound sent blood rushing from your ears to the meeting of your thighs and you squeezed your legs together.

Breathe.

With a sharp inhale and slow exhale, you relaxed your body, hands straightening on Osferth’s shoulder. Your fingers grazed the shorn hair at the back of his head and once more, Osferth sighed.

This time, though, it was not the sound of released tension. Of a knot begin worked from deep within a muscle or the stretch of the back after a long day’s work. This time, it was the sound of pleasure.

Slowly, tentatively, you curled your fingers, dragging your nails ever so lightly over his skin and running them down the length of his spine. Osferth shuddered beneath you, arching his back as you reached its base.

“Lady-” his voice was ragged. When he looked over his shoulder and whispered your name, you saw his blue irises eclipsed by black.

“Osferth-”

The door banged open.

“Horse is fixed, Lord!” Caen shouted happily as you jumped back from the table.

“You don’t ‘fix a horse’, Caen.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. The heat that was rising to your cheeks burned.

“Thank you, Caen.” Osferth smiled at the boy and hopped gracefully from the table. He dressed quickly, tucking his cross into his tunic and collecting the remainder of his possessions; breastplate, leather gauntlets, sword and furs.

“Come,” Osferth steered Caen from the door. “Let us give the good lady some peace. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” you could barely speak the words as Osferth glanced at you with a solemn smile. When the door closed behind the him and your apprentice, you leant against the table, dipped the cloth in the pitcher of water and held it against your head. You looked to the ceiling.

“Thank you for sending him, Lord.” For what would have happened had Caen not burst through your door, you dared not imagine.

You did not need to leave your home next morning to know the day was a happy one. Beyond the door people were yelling freely, someone was playing a pipe and you could hear children scurrying after one another.

Getting up, you stretched broadly and felt the sunlight through your small lookout window on your face. Wandering to add logs to the fire, you paused mid-step. There, on the table, was evidence that last night you almost disgraced your honour and dignity. Osferth’s honour and dignity. He was a warrior now, brave and noble, and would surely be a Lord like his leader one day. He would not throw himself at a common healer like you. No matter how much you wished it.

Once again, your musings were broken by the banging open of the door.

“What have I told you about knocking, little master!?”

“Well if you will leave it unbolted,” Caen waggled his finger at you. “Are we going hunting today, Lady?” ‘Hunting’ was what the young boy called foraging and, since he began his lessons with you, was fondest when in the field.

“Not today I’m afraid,” you said, wrapping a woollen shawl around your shoulders. “I am in need of arrowhead- do not interrupt, Caen. I’m sorry but the river is still too dangerous for you, and the plants are not so easily discernible. What would your mother say if I had you picking hemlock instead of water parsley?”

Caen hung his head in disappointment. Then, when a little boy ran past followed by a gaggle of even younger children, Caen called a hasty goodbye to you and ran after them. Stood in the doorway, you watched as they sprang down the grassy path. It truly was a happy day.

Dew glimmered in the long grass, little beadlets of iridescence sparkling in the spring light. Birds called gaily to each other from the treetops, much like their human counterparts on the ground below. Merriment seemed the order of the day. What wonders Uhtred and his men could perform by their appearance. The city seemed to sigh in relief.

After foraging, you planned to call at the alehouse. That was if you didn’t see the men in question about the town. Despite the previous night’s distractions, Osferth’s bruise truly was a nasty specimen and though it was healing, you believed his comfort greatly affected.

That was why you found yourself, an hour later and full of freshly baked bread, treading the damp earth along the banks of the river Icene in search of ingredients. It had been your mother who taught you the properties of the world around you, given you her stolen copy of the Lacnunga and taught you to read its pages.

The daughter of a nobleman, she was a fearsome and bright woman. Known for her learning and curiosity, she was beloved by all he knew her. Or so your father said. In the end, it was her curiosity that led to you. Foraging on the banks of that very river, she met a young fletcher gathering reeds for arrow tails. A month later, she married him. Cast out for loving a commoner, she took naught with her from her old life but for the clothes on her back, an embroidered sheet of damask and the stolen Lacnunga from the physic.

It was she who had taught you about the medicinal powers of the river plants, and of their terrifying toxins. Smiling as you meandered through the grass, thinking of your lost parents, and reciting the nine herb charm.

“Mugwyrt, una, wegrade, atterlothe, maethe, wergulu, apple, fille, finule. Mugwyrt, una-”

It was not those that you sought, but arrowhead. That bright, dart-shaped leaf which sprang from the water surrounded by delicate white leaves. Pressed in a sling against his shoulder or massaged in a poultice-you shook the thought from you head-it would surely aid Osferth’s discomfort.

There. Nestled amongst water-crowfoot and starwort, arrowhead leaves dazzled green in the murky water where the chalky river met the farmland of the city. There was just one problem. It was on the opposite bank.

There was nothing for it. Removing the wicker basket from your shoulder and setting it on the ground, you took off your worn boots and woollen socks, stowing them with the still warm bread you brought for your lunch. You looked left and right. No-one. Taking your skirts in hand, you tucked them into your leather belt and proceeded to a worn patch of scrub. An otter’s slipway.

A gravel bank rose at the centre of the river. Here, it was shallow and slow moving, but it was not the current you feared, but the cold. The sun shone in spring but the water retained its chilly bite. You would make for the gravel and assess the route to the arrowhead from there.

Slowly so as not to slip on the muddy ground, you stepped into the water.

“Fuck!”

Needles of cold shot through your legs as they entered the river and your toes curled instinctively under foot, seeking any warmth they could find. You stood there awhile, acclimatising to the water, or waiting until they were numb from the pain, you weren’t certain which.

Eventually you pushed out into the inky green water, letting it lap at your knees until you reached the gravel bank. From there you saw the arrowhead was just a few steps from reach. A great number of the leaves waved to you as their stems were bustled by the water and taking a deep breath, you stepped back into the water.

Your lungs tightened as, without warning, you sank waist-deep in the water. Well, that was a bother.

It didn’t take long for you to find your footing amongst the river weeds and, keeping your arms above the water, you waded forwards. A few stumbles here and there didn’t matter, your body was used to the cold by now and the arrowhead leaves were in your grasp.

For a few minutes you gently plucked the leaves from their stems, careful to leave some intact for the next harvest and the few little creatures you found living in the plant’s shelter.

With a handful foraged and a poesy of watercress for good measure, you turned back for the gravel bank. Your first step was clumsy as you slipped on some slimy stones underfoot and, as your chin hit the water, you jolted backwards. Just above the riverbed some long-grown pondweed had encircled your ankle in the current, tightening its grip with every kick of your foot to free yourself.

You tried not to panic, shoving the arrowhead and cress into your bodice. Your head was just above the water; you wouldn’t drown if you kept calm. But you would freeze. Over and over you fought to free your foot but the weed wouldn’t loosen. Your only remaining hope was to kick as hard as you could to uproot the plant or break its stem. With great effort, you flung your leg out as hard as you could. It didn’t work. You lost your footing once and for all, your head finally dipping beneath the river’s surface.

You came up spluttering and swallowing lung-fulls of water and air.

“Help,” you called out pathetically, your throat burning as you inhaled the river water. What was the use? You had come alone. Hadn’t you checked no-one was around before you entered the river? One foot trapped in pondweed and the other fighting for purchase, your body lolled at an awkward angle. The current of the water clapped in your ears, and when it rose to meet the side of your face, you found it wasn’t cold anymore. Letting your head float there, you found it a comfort and, like your rapidly numbing body, relaxed.

What a stupid way to die, you thought. The daughter of a renowned healer, and a healer in her own right, drowning while harvesting ingredients. In the spring, no less.

“Mugwyrt, una, wegrade, atterlothe, maethe, wergulu, apple, fille, finule. Remember, Mugwyrt, what you brought to pass, what you readied, at Regenmeld-”

When thoughts of your mother, of Caen and of Osferth faded, only the nine herb charm remained.

“Mugwyrt, una, wegrade, atterlothe, maet-” It was like drifting into sleep, resting in the river. Your words became mumbled, slow, your memory weak.

“Mugwyrt, una, wegrade- mugwyrt-”

The sinking was slow. First, you arms lolled behind you, the gentle river current moving your fingers as though they were combing through hair. Next, it was your chest, the cold water warming the barrel of your ribs. The strangest part was your ears. As your head began to sink, a great roaring rang in your ears as they broke the water. Just the flow of the river and your own breath could be heard under there. The water edged across your cheeks-

Your body burned as you were rent harshly from the water. Compared to the water, the day burned every inch of exposed flesh. Two hands, firm and strong, gripped your waist and dragged you backwards. Your back hit the hard ground and you moaned as weight returned to your body.

As though still trapped in the river, every sound was amplified. The birds in the trees above you, the wash of water against the riverbank, the man calling your name. Blinking in the harsh light, you looked up at him. His hand was at your face, his warm fingers near searing your sensitive skin.

“Osferth?” You said meekly. The man above you hung his head in relief. “Why are you here?” You smiled stupidly, reaching to grip his shoulder and check he was real.

“I came to your home,” he was out of breath and panicked, that was clear by his wide eyes and pinched brow. Even in your state you could see it. “-and Caen told me had gone to the river. You told him it was too dangerous for him to accompany you and yet you went alone? What were you thinking?”

“I needed arrowhead,” you touched the waist of your bodice where the plants lay. “For your bruise,”

Osferth was flabbergasted, and tt was he who spluttered next. “For my-for my-” He stared down at you. There you were, in his arms, soaked to the bone, hair in tendrils adorned with weed, gazing up at him so happily. Words failed him, and so he did the only left in his mind.

Raising you gently, he ducked his head and placed a tender kiss to your lips. You sighed. He was tender and soft and oh so warm. When he parted from you, a look of apprehensive pride on his face, you laughed quietly.

“I have imagined that so many nights, but it was never like this,”

“I could say exactly the same.” He laughed and held you closer. When you curled a hand into his tunic, he looked down at you and frowned.

“What?”

“Lady, your lips are blue.”

Notes: My first reader insert, please be nice.

The Lacnunga (which means remedy) is a real text, believed to have been written in the 10th century, and that is where the nigon wyrta galdor, or nine herb charm, comes from. Galdor means healing spell.

And obviously, don’t use plants when you don’t know what they do or how to use them. Common plants can be very hard to distinguish and yes, I did once mix up water parsley and hemlock…However! Ribwort Plantain is great for inflammation, rub the leaves on sore joints or bites and it works a treat, trust me!

Tags: @babyblue711 @arcielee @ewanmitchellcrumbs @bookwyrmsblog

#fics #osferth #oh this so lovely!#sweet sweet osferth

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