Warning: Some parts of this story give vague references to sexual intercourse and arousal. If this makes you uncomfortable or anything else please do not read. It is not meant to be purposeless smut or sexuality, but it is about a germanic male water spirit that lures women to their deaths by seducing them.

They had told her not to go.

It is treacherous.  It is cruel.  It is dark, said they. 

She would not return, and leave her parents childless. 

But the rewards!

What riches await beyond the dark, the cruel, the treacherous.

She did not heed their warnings.

She could not heed their warnings, not with an infant sister dead of starvation, not with parents near graves themselves. 

A young man, foolish as she, took her out on the dark waters, rowing his worn gandelow out further towards the shadowed island, a mile out from the village. 

The water, forever covered in a layer of mist grew a terror in her that had never before existed. 

A fear of unknown creatures lurking beneath, creatures with claws, teeth and scales.

The stars turned over head and waves lapped at the boat.
They were fortunate that the island was in sight, even through the smog, else they'd have been lost in the dark, taken by the lulling, deadly swell of the sea.

The young man, though born and bred to row boats, seemed ill.
His face pale, his movements stiff, his muscles strained.

His fear sent terror through her veins.

Through gritted teeth, over the too soft lap of water on their transport, he murmured
"Sing,"

She felt she couldn't even speak.
And could not fathom why this young man would ask her such a thing.

But, she had paid him nothing for his help on this voyage.

She'd heard many a sailor singing bawdy tunes as they readied for months long voyages.

But the silence would not accommodate such merry song.

Instead, from her lips came a woven tune of a lullaby her grandmother had sung her as a babe.

A lullaby of a sailor leaving his maiden fair on a search for fortune.

As she sang, the fear in her companion's eyes did not dwindle.

A bad decision, she realized, to sing of a quest for gold and glory that ended in a burial shroud.

Her voice trailed off.

They didn't speak again, for fear of breaking the silence again, for fear of bringing something forth from fate's web that could have been avoided.

The young man in front of her, his name Rickon, was part of a family far better off than hers.

Still struggling in the starving community, but perhaps they would be survivors of this blight of famine.

If they returned, with their lives if nothing else, she had a suspicion that they would be betrothed to save the both of them.

Rickon and Gertrude.
Acquaintances and later friends in childhood. 
Perhaps husband and wife in adulthood.

Of course, it would not be for her outstanding eligibility, nor dowry, for she had none.

She was simply the only young woman left standing that was not rotting bones in the ground, or a sickly waif close to the grave.

It wasn't an unpleasant thought.

He could provide, and he was comely enough.

She felt ill at the thought that it was all contingent on their safe return.

What a gay wedding it would be if they returned with the fabled gold and jewels.

And on they rowed.

In silence and tension, until the island loomed closer and at last raked under the boat.

The sand and pebbles dragged under the gandelow, and Rickon leapt out, shins submerged in the water, and dragged the boat onto shore.

He offered his hand to Gertrude, and she hesitantly took it, not eager to leave whatever false safety she had in the boat. Her shin length dress dampened at the hem, but otherwise left her clothing unsoddened.

She'd heard stories of this place her entire life.

Horrible, wonderful stories.

"Do you know where we are going?"

Her voice was low, but Rickon cringed.

The moon was high in the night sky, but the light of it was dim and did little to help them navigate what had been described as a treacherous , rocky hell.

Gertrude's legs trembled and tingled.

Her knees felt week, but she moved onward slowly with Rickon.

They had not released each other's hands, and they were virtually clinging to each other.

The beach grew smaller and smaller, the rocks growing bigger, until their feet no longer rested on pebbled sand, but they had to clamber ungracefully over jagged boulders.

Her legs were shaking badly, and as she drew her foot up to rest on a higher ridge, she slipped.

Her knee struck the sharp edge and she fought the urge to cry out.

Rickon's steadying hand rested firmly and heavily on her lower back, her only stability as he dared not danger himself further.

Her heart was beating out of her chest, but she managed to regain her footing.

They had been climbing up towards the center of the island for what felt an eternity, and cold sweat coated her limbs.

Rickon's breath was unsteady beside her, but when she managed to glance his way, his face was stone-cold calm.

Yes, if she was to marry him, she would not be discontent.

Gertrude's fingers ached from clawing at the ragged stone.

Her injured knee throbbed, and she felt a warm trickle of blood down from it.

Her muscles trembled as she pulled herself again and again up, stone by larger stone towards the center of the island.

The top edge was in view, and terror wormed it's way into her gut.

Small fragments of stone echoed on their way down from where Rickon's foot settled on the rocks.

Gertrude braced herself to make the final lunge towards the top, but she felt a hand on her arm.

"Wait here. Let me go first."

She opened her mouth to protest, but the gruffness in Rickon's voice was betrayed by a gentleness and concern in his eyes.

Perhaps the reason he had volunteered this deadly and mad-man's quest.

So she nodded and let him leave her side to climb up. She watched him disappear over the top, and all sound of him went beyond her.

The silence was unnerving. Her blood roared in her ears as she waited, watching for him to resurface above this sea of stone.

Minutes went by without a sound or sign of him returning, and her heart beat faster.

She contemplated leaving.

Her limbs trembled and burned with effort to keep herself both from going after him and leaving him behind.

Then she saw his hand grip a rock on the top and saw his face as he struggled to haul himself back up.

Rickon panted for a moment, and then met her eyes.

"I found it."

Her stomach clenched, but if it was fear or anticipation she knew not.

Only that the gold that lay beyond was her redemption.

She forced herself to crawl further upward, and Rickon waited for her, hand outstretched to haul her up.

The force with which he did so made her arm ache, but gave her burning legs a brief moment of relief.

What she saw on top of that ridge was indescribable.

Below them was... light.

Golden light off every corner and crevice, but there was no fire.

A pale blue spring shimmered amidst moss covered stones and trees bearing fruits, shining as if it was noon in the midst of a clear summer.

"Rickon..." her voice was a breath.

She clutched his arm.

He nodded.

"I know." Then he turned to her.

"I tried calling for you, but you did not answer. Something about this place is wicked. Do not lose yourself Gertrude."

She nodded vaguely and followed him down the grassy slope to the water.

The world became amber and gold with silver lining.

The light caught everything.

It was a painting by a master that cast no shadow, where there were jewels and treasure and life at the bottom of the cool spring.

She felt Rickon take her hand in his and cling to it tightly, anchoring himself at her side.

"Something about this place is wicked..."

But her mind wandered from such warnings, the soft song of golden seduction ringing in her ears and pulling her towards salvation that lacked all wickedness.

A song that grew louder with each step, but not more unpleasant. Merely wrapping about her head and filling her ears with honeyed music.

She felt Rickon grip her arm tightly, but any bruising pain was washed away by her dreamlike trance.

A jolt from him did little, nor the words that warned her to stop, the shouts from his lips that were drowned out by a sweet viol beyond the pool.

She couldn't even remember his name now, not when she saw the one who held the viol at his lap, the one who drew the silver bow across silver strings that dressed golden wood and bronze pegs.

He looked like someone she knew, someone she would marry, but this musician's eyes were ablaze with some lusty, joyful light that set her soul on fire.

He had a broader smile, and a more beautiful face.

He must have been a lord. The one she and her sisters had dreamed and swooned of since before they had married fishermen and stonemasons.

A smile spread over her face and she walked towards him, he who sat at the stone amidst the water and treasure, only to find that she could go no further than a foot in the cool, silky water.

Struggle and yearn and ache as she might to reach the one who played the viol in such a way, no farther could she go.

She heard someone call a name, and it sounded as if she knew it from a dream.

But she could not linger on dreams of the past when this dream of pearls, and riches was before her now, and beyond her reach.

Hot tears filled her eyes as she began to weep so strongly for what she could not reach. That they left her void of sight to see her new love was more than she could bear, lunging and thrashing against the force that held her back.

The music grew more and more seductive, made her body hot with need and lust for the man who sat just away from her.

A need that had intensified from a soft embrace to a painful ache between her legs.

An ache that no maiden as herself had felt without scarlet in the cheeks, downcast eyes and fleeting feet.

She fell to the ground now, a burning pain not only in her belly but also at her shoulder, which wrenched the opposite way that would have brought forth a scream from her lips had her wits been about her.

Now, no pain meant anything but the longing and lust for this man before her.

...

The man behind her, who had been futilely trying to draw her back from the water took the opportunity of her collapse to pull her back away from the water and away from the creature that he saw with clear eyes.

A creature whose skin changed constantly but vaguely resembled a fish man holding a viol of bone and human hair.

It grinned at him, but Rickon knew it was not looking to devour him.

At least not before it had taken the maid who would be Rickon's wife.

Gertrude hissed, growled and moaned like a wild animal in heat, clawing at herself.

The music, that which sounded as a hellish hiss to Rickon, had driven her insane for what he hoped was a brief time.

There was a skinning knife at his belt, sharp and well kept at the good teachings of his father, but the weapon seemed small now against this creature who had lived generations longer than he.

His hands shook, holding the knife now in one hand and stepping slowly into the water, towards the creature.

What he had heard called a Nix.

A devourer of men and drowner of children, seducer of women.

He could only hope that it relied on it's music to lure in prey, and not a strong body.

Rickon inched towards it, breath growing ragged as it's beady, filmy eyes followed him.

The water rose up around his knees as he stepped deeper and deeper into the pale spring, struggling to keep his footing over the piles of gold and jewels.

And still the Nix watched him, playing that horrible sound on it's viol of death.

The spring sloped deeper than he had though before, reaching the tops of his thighs as he stood three feet away from the boulder upon which the beast rested.

But the water was clear, and he had seen nothing in it that would trouble him to watch it and not the Nix.

The green of the Nix's teeth was dark and vile now that he was close to it, and now he could see a rag of a hat on it's head, a mockery of human fashion, as if the Nix had at one time been a man.

He shifted his glance to the bow drawing across rotten gut strings and then back to the Nix, and without looking down, he reached below into the water and grasped a heavy golden goblet, inlaid with jewels and lined with copper.

His shirt dripped and clung to his body, every article of clothing soaked now.

Rickon's hand shook around the goblet, struggling to keep a grip on the cool, slick surface, gems digging into his palm.

The Nix returned his gaze even still, and even still drew that bow over those strings.

Rickon took in a tight breath.

He'd never been known for having the best arm among the village boys, but if fate be willing and kinder than she had of late...

He cocked his arm and released the goblet with enough force to knock a man down from the heavy weight of the gold.

With a bone ringing snap it collided with the rib of the viol and jerked it out from the Nix's hold with a shriek of human hair against the strings.

The Nix continued to grin at him with those green teeth, even with the viol broken in pieces at it's feet and clutched in it's hand.

Gertrude's moaning stopped with the music, and Rickon heard her begin to weep, but he dared not turn to her, not with the Nix holding his gaze so steadily.

It simply lowered the broken scroll and dropped it into the water and stared at him blankly, despite the wide smile.

He heard a gasp behind him.

"Rickon!"

He turned his head so fast the world spun, eyes locking on Gertrude's tear streaked face.

"In the water! Rickon look in the water!"

And then a clawed grip dragged him under the surface.

...

Gertrude cried out seeing her companion disappear beneath the water, pulled by some shadow creature that had been circling his legs, and rushed to the edge of the water, not daring to step foot in it lest her own life be forfeit. 

The water had gone, in the span of a breath and a blink, from clear blue to murky and dark. 

Her searching eyes did nothing to find where Rickon was, and the water was still as glass. 

The rock in the center was empty, the man that had revealed himself as a loathsome creature gone from it. 

For it was that creature that had pulled Rickon beneath the water, her warning that had allowed it to sink into the spring unnoticed by it's new prey.

She prayed silently at first, waiting the long seconds in anticipation for Rickon head to surface.
Then her prayers became spoken, whispers growing to broken cries in the time which felt like hours.
She could do nothing to help Rickon while he was in the water.

His name replaced her prayers, becoming a prayer itself.

The water remained glassy and unmoved.

And when she had begun to lose all hope, when it seemed impossible that Rickon would rise from whatever battle triumphant, there was an air splitting, water bending shriek from the water... as if the water had a voice, not something beneath the water.

The murky spring, best described now as a bog, rippled powerfully out from the the center, where the rock sat.

Where the rock had been, at least, before the earth rending cry from the water hat shattered it wholly.
And in it's place rose Rickon, hair plastered to his face, eyes screwed shut, gasping and coughing.

Gertrude cried out and scrambled to her feet, forgoing caution as she waxed into the dark water to meet Rickon, who had begun to swim weakly to shore.

She reached for his arms and helped drag him out of the water, falling backwards at the final yank of his body up onto the grass.

Crawling forwards, she took up position beside him, soaked and gasping, and coughing up filthy water.

Gertrude pushed the hair away from his forehead and wiped the water gently from his face.

With a wary eye she again looked towards the water, not satisfied that the Nix, as she now knew it, was gone, was no longer a threat.

Nothing moved in the water, but it was no longer like flat glass, rippling gently in the breeze, swelling softly onto the grassy shore.

No longer super natural.

Gertrude looked back down at Rickon, whose breathing had slowed somewhat, his eyes closed more comfortably in a sleep like manner.

There was a series of bloody claw marks raking down from the side of his head and down to his jaw, weeping with the water that ran in rivulets down his neck.

It made her wince at the sight of them, deep and bloodier by the second.

Rickon's eyelids fluttered, but he remained asleep, so with the healers eye given to her by her mother, she moved away from the furrows in his face to search for further injury.

From what she could tell, there was no blood and no tears in his shirt, but she had noticed him favoring his right side as he swam back out and when he had crawled to shore.

With hesitation and a brief prayer that he remain unconscious, Gertrude unlaced Rickon's shirt from both sides and folded the top up under his chin.

There were bruises already mottling his skin in a purple and black fashion like so many crushed flowers. 
But they bloomed from his chest, not his ribs, and so Gertrude clung to the hope that they were not cracked. 

Looking down further, she indeed saw tears and blood leaking from his calves and ankles, where he had been dragged down by whatever had struck is face in such a manner.

Thank the gods she could find none higher up than that. 

Not that she would have attempted to see them.  Or anything else above the knee for that matter.

Gertrude's face reddened and she moved herself to tie the wounds at his ankles with a somewhat clean kerchief she had brought with her. 

Tearing it into strips, she bound the gashes as best she could without boiled rags and salve.

She heard a sharp intake of breath as she tied that last binding and glanced up.

Rickon was awake.

And now she would have to face whatever the Nix's music had brought her to. 

On her knees, she brought herself up back to his face. 
His eyes remained on her, burning like fire, but not unkindly. 

She wanted to ask him if he was alright, but the words stuck in her throat like dry bread, looking into eyes that she'd nearly dimmed forever by bringing him here. 

He'd nearly been drowned, if not eaten, he'd been slashed apart and dealt with her squalling  under the seduction of the viol. 

"I'm so sorry," she murmured.

To think, not more than an hour past they had been rowing together in silence, unsure of their fates and clinging to what friendship they'd created in youth.  

"Had I not sought your help this never would have happened.  Forgive me, Rickon, I have done wrong by you."

Tears pricked her eyes get again, threatening to add stains to her already salt stiff face. 

It all hit her now, as he lay here exhausted and beaten. 

And then he smiled at her. 
A sort of half smile that led to laughter in the end. 

A smile that reminded her of the one she had fought so dearly to get to in the middle of a clear blue spring. 

"You think that I would have stayed back in that piss poor village and watched you sail for guarded treasure?" 

His voice was hoarse with strain from the water, but it was more than she had hoped for when he had been below the water.

She laughed quietly, and a tear rushed down her face, cold and chilling down heated cheeks. 

He raised a shaking hand and brushed it off her chin, which shook now nearly as badly. 

Yes, if she was to marry him, she would be far from mourning her lot. 

Catching his hand in hers, she held onto it tightly. 

"Rickon," she began, words soft, voice wavering. 
"What happened in the water?  You disappeared and I... I could not see.  The Nix?"

His brow furrowed, but his mouth twisted in amusement, as though his mind could not comprehend reality. 

"Dead.  It dragged me under and tried to drown me, but I still had my knife and I fought it until the blade pierced it's neck."

He winced.

"I can still feel the water screaming with it."

Gertrude, with wide eyes, nodded.

"I heard it," she whispered. 

Rickon swallowed with some difficulty, then shifted his arms to prop himself up on his elbows, from which he gingerly and slowly (and with Gertrude's steadying hands) sat up beside her. 

"Then you know all of it.  You've seen it's marks on me," he gestured towards the bloody ruts down his face.

She breathed slowly in a bracing sigh.

"And... the viol."

He looked at his hands, which were filthy and bloody at the nails.

"The viol."

"... I don't know what happened to me, Rickon."

His face when he returned her gaze was nothing short of deeply disturbed.

"I do."
Gertrude raised an eyebrow, slightly fearful of what might come next.

"You know it was a Nix, Gertrude. You cannot blame yourself for it's... influence over you." His face began flaming red, as much as hers.

She groaned and hid her face.

She couldn't remember precisely what she had done when she had heard and succumbed to that Nix's lullaby, but she knew it had been a horrifying and utterly humiliating.

She felt Rickon's hesitant hand in her shoulder, and again met his eyes.

He opened his mouth to say something, but then stopped and frowned, turning his head like a dog with a scent.

"Do you feel that?"

For a moment she was confused.

The Nix was dead.
It's influence was over and done with.

But then the first wave of warmth washed over her, and she shuddered against her will.

"Rickon..."

He put a finger to his lips and then raised it to his ear.

Listen.

There was a rolling popping sound that grew louder with each passing second, that grew stronger with each new wave of heat.

She threw a fearful glance at him, one that he returned with tight lipped concern.

Again, she looked at the spring with wary caution, and jumped up, Rickon's hand still clutched tightly in hers.

"Rickon the water!"

Again, as though their quest was on a repeated cycle of terror.

But this time there was no creature to drag them under.

The water bubbled and writhed like a million serpents lay beneath, but the heat radiating towards them denied the presence of sea snakes.

Rickon gripped her forearm with his other hand.

"It's boiling... help me up the water is boiling!"

Gertrude grabbed his shirt and hauled him to his feet with all her strength, letting him use her as a crutch to get as far from the over flowing, steaming water as they possibly could.

But right now, Rickon couldn't climb the steep grassy hill in any haste like he had been able before his battle with the water spirit.

The heat was growing unbearable, an entire spring suddenly steaming and screaming.

Gertrude began to cough, the air thick with vapor and laying heavy in her lungs.

Rickon turned her so she faced his chest, in a poor attempt at having her breath clearer air.

Her skin felt sticky, and then damp, and then dripping with warm water as the vapor grew denser and denser around them

And then, it stopped.

The deep echoes of boiling water ceased, and like a cold wind on a scorching summer day, the fog about them cleared.

Whatever cool breeze from the sea came forth to the island lifted it little by little, until the heat no longer plagued them and the droplets of water on their limbs grew cold.

Gertrude and Rickon parted slightly from their close embrace borne of fear, and looked on towards the spring that produced endless horrors.

And their eyes beheld no spring.

There was no water, not the clear blue nor the opaque bog.

Simply a waist deep pit lined with algae and weeds, browned from the heat of the boiling.

They looked at each other, wary of moving forward, but Rickon's first step towards the empty spring gave Gertrude courage to do the same.

It was slow progress, not only for their hesitance, but also for Rickon's wounds, and when they at last reached the lip of the pit, there was... nothing.

No creature, no water, no malevolent shadows with claws and tearing teeth.

Dry and barren it was, crusted along the uneven floor with seemingly long dried water plants and fish bones and dirt. 

Leaving her eyes pinned to the floor of the spring, she asked Rickon in a hushed voice,

"Can you stand on your own?"

When he nodded mutely, she gingerly released him and eased out from under his weight before starting forward, sitting to drop into the empty pool.

Gertrude ignored Rickon's cries to not go without him, and let her feet drop to the bottom. 

The warmth radiated through her worn shoes, but something else made her heart leap and halt for a moment.

The soft clink of metal on metal, and the shift of moss under her weight to reveal shimmering, untainted gold. 

"Rickon," she gasped.

"Rickon it's all here. The gold, the jewels..."

She dropped to her knees and began digging through, uncovering the treasures that lay before them. 

Tears pricked her eyes and she heard Rickon grunt as he awkwardly landed beside her. 

Coins of gold, silver and bronze fell through her fingers.

Necklaces with diamonds and rubies and sapphires, crowns from a forgotten age, goblets and bowls crafted for nobility. 

It was all there, their salvation, beneath a thin layer of what fell away from their fingers like dust.

And she began to laugh. 

To laugh as the tears ran down her face, to laugh at the empty hunger that had echoed in her belly for months, years. 

Because they would have no cause to ever weep again, nor go hungry, nor bury another babe for lack of food. 

She heard Rickon laugh too, and for a long time, they stayed there, on their knees, before deliverance, laughing and weeping and clinging to one another, only releasing one another to untie folded sacks from their belts and begin filling them until the seams could take no more, and then some. 

Rickon had unlaced  his blouse and tied it in the arms and neck to serve as another sack to serve before they could retrieve what few they had left in the boat. 

This hoard... these treasures had been so unimaginably plentiful that they could not have fathomed the wealth that lay in store when they had rowed across that short stretch of ocean. 

Gertrude left Rickon to load the heavy sacks into the small boat and retrieve more, back and forth until they ran dry of sacks.

The sum of wealth they had amassed weighed down the gandelow, but had hardly touched the massive stores available to them in that pool. 

So with a final collection, arms overflowing with pearls and silver jewelry and everything they could manage to carry, Rickon and Gertrude joined their loot in the boat and rowed, albeit with difficulty and toil, back to their starving town. 

Their faces were rosy, and despite Rickon's discomfort and injury, when they arrived at the pier, Gertrude saw him leap from the boat and give a limping skip to the nearest door, a poor butcher by trade who had earned the friendship and thanks of the entire community for his generosity. 

Gertrude watched from in the boat, where the water lapped over the sides occasionally as Rickon beckoned for the butcher to see. 

She clambered out of the boat as they came towards the end of the pier, and the butcher, when he saw it, wiped at his eyes, his bony jaw falling open, his sunken eyes widening, and he took off his cap. 

"You did it, lass."

He met her eyes, his own shining with tears that both Rickon and Gertrude had already shed.

"You did it... They did it!"

He raised his voice and leapt up into the air, giving a hoot and tapping his feet, a comical performance of utter joy and youth that set Gertrude and Rickon both to laughing.

He took Gertrude's hands and pulled her with him to dance about the street, laughing and cheering loud enough that the neighboring houses began waking from their midnight slumbering to discover the racket.

He kissed Gertrude on the cheek, then returned giddily to where Rickon still stood, laughing, and kissed him on the cheek, then gaily ran the dirt and mud lanes, starting the cry "they've done it!" to ring though the rock and stone and wood. 

...

Never was there a more merry time, never a more joyous people than those in the small, hungry fishing town that would never be hungry again.

Droves of fishermen and their wives and sons took out boats to the island, the threat of death gone and replaced by hoards of gold. 

There wasn't a coin left unfound there in the center of the isle, not a gem or broken point of a crown that had not been scavenged by one villager or another. 

The days and weeks following were filled with laughter, song and feasting on meats that were not the tiny fish and gruel soup. 

At least one person from each family left to go to the city to buy fine grains, dried and salted meats, mead, fruits, and every food they had been so wanting for, and more. 

Bakers baked fresh bread again, and pastries that only nobility indulged in.  Sweet cakes and honey tarts and fruit bread. 

Butchers bought again from well established farmers and hunters, selling fine cuts of venison and beef steaks, lamb and kid meat. 

Each woman had new fabrics and yarns, and bedecked herself with fine clothing, spending painstaking hours on  elaborate stitching that she had previously spent on weaving nets and mending worn, dirty trousers. 

The men all had new boots and fishing boats, and embroidered shirts from their wives. 

And still they had wealth beyond measure, and joy with no bounds. 

They feasted with one another, supping one night at one man's home and another night at the previous visitor's. 

None were selfish or unwilling to provide and share with their neighbors who had stood by them in the starving years. 

A week into the celebrations there was a wedding.

The bride, though thin from lean years, glowing and healthy in her corseted gown lined with vines that budded pearl flowers. 

Her burnished copper hair bound up in elaborate braids that wove into a silver flower crown and strung with silver threads. 

The groom, broad shouldered and hard with muscle from years of labor, dressed in a fine tunic embroidered at the sleeves with vines to match his beloved's gown. 

A fine leather and bronze belt at his waist held a fine dagger in a jeweled sheath. 

A dagger and sheath that twinned the one at Gertrude's waist as she stood, waiting at the end of the pier, her female relatives beside her.

She had not seen Rickon since the second day they had come back with the riches, in keeping with tradition that the maid not see her betrothed for seven days until the wedding. 

The ring on her hand, which Rickon had pocketed when they had made their first haul, glittered with silver leaves woven in a four strand braid, interwoven with emerald and peridot. 

He had proposed the next morning, having rushed to her father to beg his blessing on the marriage during the first night of salvation. 

As Gertrude waited to be presented to her groom, surrounded by similarly dressed women and cloaked in a fine lace veil, the joy and rush of the wedding faded into a dread that Rickon would grow tired of her in every day, quiet life. 

He had fallen in love with her in a rush of adrenaline, adventure, danger and excitement. 

And while she knew her feelings for him would not wane with a passing, calm moon, her fear that he would not love her through their years grew with each passing hour until the moment  that he walked, dressed in finery, towards her and her bridesmaids. 

Rickon's face was alight with a small smile, stretching the new healing scars on his face, walking forward with his father and her father on either side of him.

She could see him clearly through her veil, could see his eyes moving from one end of the pier to the other in a futile attempt to discern which of the women before him was his betrothed.

He looked so handsome now, stubble lining his jaw, eyes bright, face clean of grime and the hungry shadows under his eyes.

They stopped before her and the bridesmaids, and the captain they had hired to wed them told Rickon to choose his bride.

Rickon looked at Gertrude's father, and her father spoke clearer than he had in years.

"Whoever is my daughter, step forward."

He held out his hand and, trembling, near weeping, she reached out and took it.

The veil coolly stroked her hand, slipping back to her elbow as her father offered her hand to Rickon, who gently took it in his own, his thumb brushing the ring he had put there a week prior.

The captain standing in front of them spoke the words he ought to, but it all blurred in a monotonous ringing to Gertrude as she stood there, trying desperately to not stare at the man holding her hands. 

"Who stands here for Rickon Selwinsson in his hour of unity?"

Rickon's father stepped forward and claimed the responsibility of witness to his son's marriage. 

"Who stands here for Gertrude Birgetsdottir in her hour of unity?"

Gertrude's mother had died months ago during the hunger plague, but one of her bridesmaids stepped forward and unveiled herself, something not even Gertrude had done, and said

"I am not the bride's mother, but I was her mother's sister, and I stand here for her."

The captain smiled and told Gertrude's aunt and Rickon's father to take the ribbon from Gertrude's shoulder and tie their conjoined hands together. 

With his other hand, Rickon at last lifted her thick veil to reveal her face in the eyes of God and man.

Gertrude's hands, though steadied by her soon-husband's, trembled like a leaf in an autumn wind.

With their other hands, they unsheathed the twin daggers which Gertrude nearly dropped, and held them balanced between hilt and blade. 

The words she's longed to say for all of girlhood nearly escaped her when the captain told them that it was time to recite their vows. 

She stumbled over the first few words, but with the guiding sound of Rickon's voice alongside hers, she remembered each word clearly. 

"To the Lord God above I swear in the sight of angels, men and beasts to take this man as my husband, to love him, to care for him, to heed him, to calm him.  To never lack patience, nor forsake my honor in this holy union.  I shall mother his children and love them, and the years shall not wane my love for him, this I swear."

She heard the words from his mouth as though they had come from her own, as though they had indeed become one body in that moment. 

And when their kiss sealed their union, Gertrude found that this moment, the promise of it even before their great success, had been a lifeline to her on that island.

There was great feasting, music and celebration. The villagers danced around the bride and groom, who both laughed at the gaiety and light heartedness.

Gertrude danced with every man in assembly who had yet to wed, and kissed them on the brow as a blessing for their future marriage prospects.

The minstrels and singers who had either been hired or were simply the village fiddlers played pretty little licks, ones that Gertrude thought her feet might dance to without permission.

And when it came time for her to dance with Rickon himself, the sound of the viol nearly stopped her heart.

Seeing Rickon there, smiling and offering his hand, to the music that was nearly the same as that of the Nix's...

Her smile faded and she slowly took her husband's hand.

He was the one she had seen on the isle. He was the form the Nix had taken to seduce her.

The music now as they danced was simply a variation of a tune that had driven her mad.

But she knew now, that the Nix has drawn not only from her memories as a child, but also her innermost desires, and perhaps seen her future, imminent as it was.

And her soul began to sing.

Her smile returned, as she noticed perfect little differences between her truth and the Nix's lies.

There was no dark mystery in Rickon's face, bright and grinning as he held her in his arms.

No ulterior motive in his eyes.

The music was pure and innocent, happy and gay.

And the carnal desire that had plagued her body in the Nix's lair was nowhere, replaced by hopes for their future, and thoughts of growing a family with her husband.

The day faded quickly into night, where the celebrations continued by fire light.

The courses of the feasts, prepared by the entire village, were laden with mince pies, cakes, breads, tarts, ale and wine.

And everyone at their fill, and more at the behest of wedding tradition.

The bells from the town, miles away, rolled and the celebration went silent at the utterance of midnight.

Even the minstrels ceased.

Rickon and Gertrude glanced at each other and she felt heat rise to her cheeks.

A single villager, Rickon's younger brother let out a deep wolf call and the rest of the villagers laughed, joining in, whooping and occasionally shouting out bawdy, hilariously lewd comments.

The both of them were a bit drunk, and their rosy cheeks grew scarlet, Gertrude's stomach twisting in her nervousness.

Rickon laughed quietly and then held up his hands in defeat to the roaring of the assembled guests, who cheered when he stooped down and hoisted Gertrude into his arms, her arms wrapped about his neck.

She shrieked quietly and then laughed with him, still afraid but not unpleasantly so.

Three of the men, all Rickon's relatives, rushed forward and opened the door to an old house that had been left empty by the hunger plague, and then cleaned by Gertrude's family.

Their home.

Rickon carried her in, and even through the closed door they could hear the hearty laughter and cheering from their families and friends. Gertrude's heart raced, and Rickon silently carried her to the bed that lay in a closed off corner of the small house.

He gently sat her upon it and stepped back, unhurried.

She knew he had been with other girls in the village, when there had been other girls to lay with.

He, unlike her, was not a stranger to the intimacies of marriage.

Gertrude's hands began shaking again, and her fears that she would be left in the coming years, besmirched and unfit to marry, returned.

Still, she slowly reached a trembling hand to undo the lacing at her wrists and shoulders, unable to look Rickon in the eyes.

The corset about her ribs, a foreign pressure, restricted her breath, which had grown short.

The touch of Rickon's hand on hers, halting her fumbling, made her look up as he sat beside her.

His eyes were so gentle.

"Wife."

"Husband."

He smiled at that.

And leaned forward, kissing her brow.

"Tonight we are one body, Gertrude. But say the word and I will not share your bed. We have a lifetime," he murmured.

She shook her head.

"No. I ... want to."

Her words shook and he looked at her so kindly.

And then he took her hands in one of his and steadily loosened the laces at her arms.

The overdress slipped from her shoulders and pooled at her lap.

Rickon stood, holding out his hand for her to follow suit, and the dress fell to the floor, encircling her feet.

She stood now only in her corset bound shift, the whale boning pressing against her thinly padded ribs achingly.

Gertrude did not know what she expected, but it was not for Rickon to turn and walk behind her, holding her shoulder gently to keep her from facing him. 

And then began to softly release each braid from her hair, unbinding it from the silver threads and combs and plaits. 

It was long work, doing it so carefully, but the feeling as he ran his fingers through her unbound hair made her tip her head back. 

Rickon gathered her hair and brushed it over one shoulder.

His fingers grazed the exposed gap between her bare neck and shoulder, sending chills down her skin, to her bones. 

Then she felt his lips there, kissing with feathery breaths into that arch of her neck. 

Her body shook violently once, unused to this heat building inside her at his touch. 

A gasp caught in her throat when she felt the lacing of her corset shift and loosen, felt his fingers slide beneath and pull them looser yet. 

All the while, his lips caressing her skin, moving up to her ear and back down languidly.

She was trembling, her breath quick, her belly warming into an unbearable heat between her legs. 

And still the terror inside her stayed the passion. 

The corset loosened entirely, and her ribs stretched painfully at her first unrestricted breath. 
She heard it drop to the floor, and her arms rose up to cover her breasts that were hardly masked by the shift hanging loosely on her thin shoulders.

Shoulders that now had calloused hands running across and down, lowering the shift with each passing movement.

Gertrude whimpered when Rickon bared her shoulders entirely, only held now by her hands at her breasts.

She expected him to bare her fully, expected her last dressing to by pulled down to join the corset and overdress. 

She did not expect him to return to face her and bare his own chest, shedding his tunic and then unlacing his undershirt. 

The bruising on his chest remained, and with a hesitant hand she reached out to touch the purples contours of the muscle and bone. 

His skin was hot to the touch, so pleasantly blazing that she stepped towards him and, in the comfort of darkness, even under his close gaze, she let her last garment fall, pressing her hands against his chest. 

"Rickon," she murmured.

He bent his head, touching his forehead to hers. 

A movement that had her craning into a kiss. 

A kiss that had him wrapping his arms about her waist and stroking the aching grooves forced into her skin by the corset.

And yet still she pulled away from him, even as he lifted her to return her to the bed.

"Rickon, please," her voice pleading and trembling.

Her fear of intimacy paled in the darkness of her terror of abandonment. 

"Never leave me."

And he bent his head low to her skin and whispered
"How could I ever leave the woman I've dreamt of marrying since childhood?"

A tear escaped her eye.

"How could I leave the woman I love."