HIS eyes burned. 

The lad opened his eyes to the glare of the setting sun bleeding across the incoming tide. He tried to sit up, but the pain was too great. A red flower bloomed on his side, staining his linen shirt and seeping through the openings in his leather jerkin and fine chainmail. Not a mortal wound, else he would have been dead hours ago. 

He gasped in pain, his mouth parched from lying exposed to the sun for so long. 

How long had it been? The Scots had stormed this beach when the sun stood right above their heads, but now it was nearing twilight. 

The ringing in his ears faded away like the rolling back of the waves to the sea. And like the bits of shell left in their wake came the cries of the dying and wounded. Unfamiliar words echoed across the bloodied sand—Danish perhaps—and screams as they sent those still alive down the Warrior's Road without honour. Ending the wounded's misery was a mercy, but the manner and reason were not.  

He almost wished he could shut out the strangled cries and the sickening sound of bodies being thrust through. 

We hae lost. 

He tried to sit up once more, ignoring the sharp throbbing in his side and the black spots dancing in his vision. 

Where were they, his father and grandfather and sword-brothers? Were they also among the dead? He could not recognize any around him, but their faces were torn and bloodied and stiff, and he did not gaze at them for long. He did not like looking at the ghosts of men. 

Something pressed on his chest, forcing him down. 

He gasped again, the air forced from his lungs, and stared up into a pair of very grey eyes. 

The man holding him captive regarded him with a critical eye before speaking to his companion. 

Danes. 

The lad's throat tightened and he nearly choked. Was this it, then? Was he to die now, so far from home? 

He closed his eyes, not wanting to see a crimson sun reflected on a dirtied battle-axe, not see death come. 

Are ye a coward? 

His eyes flew open and the desire to live rose up in him so strongly it was like new life flooding his veins. He lifted his arms and struggled to remove the Dane's boot off his chest. 

But he was weak from loss of blood. Try as he might, he was powerless. 

The Dane leaned over him and smiled, revealing a broken-toothed grin. "Sa, ye should lie quiet. Ye're weak." His Gàdhlig was rough, like a whetstone against a blade. 

But the lad only struggled more. 

The Dane whistled and two of his companions hauled the wounded lad to his feet, holding him fast in their strong grip. 

He twisted and jerked, ignoring the pain it cost him. If he was to die today, he would die standing and not lying down like a weakling. 

The Dane only laughed. He said something in his native tongue before leaning closer. "Ye're a good fighter. But ye're wounded and in need of proper healing." He cocked his head to the side. "Ulf I name ye, fer ye fight like a mad wolf." 

His companions chuckled at that. 

The lad spat what little spittle he had left, but missed the Dane's feet entirely. 

The Dane seized the lad's neck in his vise-like grip and hissed. "I can break ye yet. Whatever woman bore ye, ye are now my slave." He stepped back and nodded to his men. 

The curse had scarcely left the lad's lips before one of the Danes hit him on the back of his head and all became dark once more. 

So yeah. I've started writing again. >.< 

This is short, I know. And it's very, very rough and imperfect. But I need to get back into writing somehow. 

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it? Vote and all that stuff if you did. Maybe I'll get chapter one written up soon. ;) 

~ Gwyn