Chapter Text
Some sort of seabird flies in lopsided circles above Jude's head.
His pupils follow it automatically, the sound of its warbling cry shocking him back into consciousness every time his eyelids begin to drift shut. Soon, his vision becomes fuzzy; distorted and fading because of a strange, throbbing pain on the back of his head.
Vaguely, he is aware that his body is half-submerged in water. The sibilant hiss of the tide betrays the fact that he is by the sea and the position of the sun suggests that it's early in the morning, which is strange because, well, shouldn't he be in bed?
He briefly tries to sit up but swiftly abandons the idea when he's overcome with an intense spout of nausea. The world around him spins: the ocean and the sea merging into an indistinguishable cacophony of greyish-blue that for some reason doesn't remind him of the English coast at all.
All he wants to do is get up and figure out where he is but his head is stinging so badly that all he can do is lie there in the sand and keep following the bird with his eyes.
A few minutes pass with him lying there in the winter morning breeze until he notices that his limbs are shaking and his teeth are chattering. With each clench of his jaw, his head thumps forcefully and he groans in pain.
With all the energy he can muster, he reaches up and touches the back of his pounding head. It's hard to discern between the frothy waves and a potential open wound so he has to rely on his currently poor sight rather than touch alone. When he draws back his hand, he can see that it's covered in a sticky, red substance which, even in his drowsy, delirious state, he recognises as blood.
His hand falls down onto the sand next to him and his fingers curl inwards, congealed blood dripping off in thick droplets that look like little, red rubies.
Like a frustrated chicken, the bird overhead releases a screech and Jude returns to watching it with detached interest. When it disappears from his line of sight he makes no effort to turn his head and instead closes his eyes, internally wondering why he isn't dead yet from his gruesome injury or the cold.
As he feels himself drifting off, he hears the distant sound of multiple people yelling over top of the pounding in his ears.
He can't exactly make out what they're saying but he's overcome with relief nonetheless - maybe one of them can do something about his bleeding head.
Unfortunately, he's too tired to call out for help or sit up so he shuts his eyes and pulls his freezing arms to his chest, feebly trying to warm himself up since his clothes are drenched in freezing seawater and he's positive that his lips are turning blue. Although, thankfully, he doesn't have to shout as footsteps soon approach his stiff body.
Jude keenly waits for one of them to greet him but the recognition never comes. Rather, he realises with horror that they are, indeed, not speaking English.
When a rough hand grabs his shoulder unexpectedly and shakes him awake he accidentally lets out a squeal.
The hand lets go and he scrambles backwards, eyes wide; his heart beating in his chest like a frightened rabbit's. Instantly, he winces as a new, sickening wave of pain washes over him, reminding him of his mystery wound once again. He can spot a patch of dark blood on the sand where his head had been before and the sight makes him queasy.
What happened to me?
A gruff voice pulls him from his thoughts and he looks up. There are multiple men standing in front of him, dressed in an assortment of furs with terrifyingly sharp swords and daggers hanging from their waists. He gulps and meets the eyes of the man closest to him: a tall, brown-haired knight of sorts that's smiling down at him not unkindly.
He utters a few words in a foreign language that Jude frowns at, unable to pick out even a word or two of English.
Jude's lack of response has the man eye him cautiously and he repeats the question, his voice slightly more agitated than before.
"I- I'm not s-sure I understand-"
He's barely able to stammer out a few words before three swords are pointed at him and their once-friendly smiles are replaced with grimaces. With the knowledge that he has nowhere to run, a glum thought crosses his mind: oh God, I'm going to die.
"W-Wait!" He splutters, raising his hands in surrender. "D-Don't hurt me!"
There's coagulated blood running down the back of his neck and the sight of it in the water is making him woozy. He has half a mind to just accept his fate and close his eyes since there's no way in Hell he'd be able to bargain with someone who doesn't speak English.
As the pointy tip of a blade is pressed against his neck, he swallows thickly in anticipation. Despite every part of his body yelling at him to get up and run away, he remains put, unwilling to die like a coward.
Strangely enough, the final blow doesn't come. Rather, a new voice barks out an order and the blade is removed.
Jude hesitantly opens one eye. From where he's sitting on the soft sand, he watches as a large figure treads towards him. The other men back away as if scared, weapons lowered and no longer scowling.
The giant has long, blond hair and an almost jovial smile on his youthful face; he's wearing fancy, embroidered silk and has warm-looking furs draped across his muscular body. Jude finds himself blinking up at the man helplessly, unable to form a coherent sentence or simply thank him for intervening.
"You are English, yes?" He asks, voice not at all like how Jude expected.
Jude opens his mouth but no sound comes out - he's still shaken from almost being beheaded - so instead, he nods. The blonde man laughs, seemingly entertained by Jude's unusual behaviour.
"You're a long way from home, English boy."
Jude's eyebrows furrow. Like a penny in a well, he feels his stomach sink with dread.
"Wh-What do you mean?"
The other man lets out an amused sigh, the oval pendant hanging from his neck sways as he shakes his head. When he meets Jude's eyes again he smiles pitifully, not unlike a disappointed parent.
He takes a careful step towards Jude. "Tell me your name."
"J-Jude Bellingham."
"Well Jude, it seems you have washed u on Norwegian land." He smirks, towering over Jude like a monolithic pillar. "My Norwegian land, in fact."
Oh God.
It can't be...
Jude feels himself go lightheaded.
"Y-You're King Haaland, aren't you?"
Haaland nods. "How about I have someone take a look at your-" He gestures to the back of his head. "You are bleeding like a lamb, Jude."
Jude looks at the puddle of blood around him with confusion then remembers his wound. "O-Oh, right. Yes, okay... Thank you?"
Before he knows what's happening, two strong hands grab him and lift him up into the air. The sudden movement causes him to let out a surprised yelp as he's not used to being easily picked up like a child.
There's an arm around his shoulders and another supporting his legs, keeping him from falling down.
His face is flush against Haaland's solid chest, snuggled up against the fluffy fur of his outfit. He smells of smoke and pine - a welcome change to the salt and blood that Jude had previously been exposed to. The Norwegian's body is warm: Jude hadn't realised how violently he'd been shivering until he finds himself clinging onto the man's coat like a wet kitten, attempting to soak up as much heat as he possibly can.
He feels himself blushing as he notices how close he is to the Viking King's face; he silently prays that his wound is getting too much blood on his clothing. After all, he really doesn't want to make the man mad, not after he saved his life.
"Comfortable, Jude?" Haaland chuckles, looking down at the man in his arms with polite curiosity.
Jude laughs breathlessly and nods, closing his eyes and pulling his arms up to his chest. He's suddenly feeling extremely drowsy. Whether it's from the cold or the injury, he isn't quite sure.
Before he falls asleep, he hears the seabird let out one last shrill, scraping screech.