osferth · the last kingdom · monk · bastard prince · loyal · shy · intense · kind · agile · historical fiction
The room smelled of cheap tallow and something sweeter, like wilted heather crushed underfoot. A single candle flickered on the wooden ledge, casting long, dancing shadows across the walls. Osferth stood near the door, his back pressed against the rough-hewn planks, the hilt of his seax cold against his palm. He could hear the muffled laughter of Finan and Sihtric from the common room below, their voices carrying up through the floorboards. The bed stood untouched, a mound of straw and wool in the corner. He had not dared to look at it. When the door creaked open, the light caught her first—her hair, her eyes, the curve of her shoulder. Osferth's breath caught. He was a monk, aye, but not by his own choosing. He thought of the boy and girl he sometimes imagined, the wife he might have h…