This story is pretty extreme AU and I'd like to apologize for that to any I may offend. I knowingly manipulated parts of history for this and the episode A Kings Ransom in events.

I don't believe historically the Vikings every really explored much of Scotland. However, I know they sacked Iona and explored a little, but Scotland being poor in wealth much like their homeland and comprised of harsh mountainous terrain, they left it be.

But while it was poor in material wealth, it is a country rich in history and known for the bravery of its men and even women.

For centuries Poets sang of the Scotland's rugged beauty, it's highlands and lochs, of the battles waged on its soil, but mostly of its people, their indomitable spirit and pride.

Robert Burns called it the birthplace of valor and the country of worth.

Scotland The Brave declares it a land towering in gallant fame and high endeavor.

The home of the Highlander, a breed of men like no other or so the stories say.

The land of the Picts, fearsome warriors whom painted their faces blue and like the Highlanders knew naught of fear. The birthplace of William Wallace, Mary Queen of Scotts, Robert the Bruce, Bonny Prince Charlie and the tales of Lochinevar and Nessy.

In short, I have decided since the Vikings never really went to the Scott's to bring the Scott's to the Vikings.

And a note to help pronounce the names! I chose Gaelic names and Gaelic spellings because my ocs are of Gaelic decent.

Oisin- Osh+een

Ealer- Aler

Fearghas- Fergus

Dùghlasach- Douglas

Disclaimer- I do not own Vikings only my ocs and their story.

Chapter 1. As Iron Sharpens Iron

Late spring, the kingdom of Northumbria in the throne room of King Aelle.

"You can't be serious?..." The Bishop asked, forgetting himself and to whom he spoke. the color is his cheeks deepening till they shown like two ripe red apples. He made the sign of the cross over his chest.

"I can assure you I am not." King Aelle said from his spot of repose on his throne. The finality in his voice, broke no argument. His eyes boring into the much smaller man. The King did not tend to agree with the words of some of his more fearful subjects. He didn't see this pestilence plaguing his land as a judgment from God. He saw it as what it was. A horde of savages. Driven by blood lust and greed.

"It has been some time since reports have reached our ears." The good bishop tried to reason, his agitation apparent.

"What is to say they will return or that the Scottish kings will even agree to such an arrangement?" The bishop tried next.

"Because, King Riderch and King Caustantin are both intelligent or intelligent enough, in this instance to know it's only a matter of time before these Northmen beset their own shores. Any attack on England is an attack on us all."

"You would align your kingdom with the northern rabble and court the devil in another arena?" When Aelle merely held his gaze the expression on his face unchanging the bishop tried once more. "You would make pacts and alliances with these heathens some of whom masquerade as Christians, but are in truth little changed from their Pictish origins?"

Aelle contemplated his agitated bishop at length watching as the holy man crossed himself once more. Aelle was not a man whom allowed his judgement to be questioned. As the bishop opened his mouth again, the king cut him off. "Sometimes it is a neccesity to face evil with evil." Then, with a wave of his hand, he announced, "it is done they have already agreed. They send their first group of men in June." It wasn't as soon as Aelle would have liked, but the Scott's needed time to ready and raise men while not leaving their homeland unguarded.

June

June came and with it the first group of Scotsmen left their homes, some from the great hills of the highlands in the kingdom of Strathclyde, traveling with the mist, moving through glen and over mountain. Others from the lowlands and along the rugged eastern coastline, from the kingdom of the Picts. Most already prepared for battle, armor on, their great swords sharpened and polished, sheathed over their backs or on their hips. Bows strung, quivers full. All other weapons they may carry prepped and ready for what may lay ahead.

They met at the border between countries, in total numbering close to thirty, more would follow within the fortnight. Still in their smallness of numbers they made the English they met on their southward journey wary. Even if they hadn't made the journey dressed for battle and outfitted with armes they'd have struck fear into the heart of many an English breast.

Word had reached peasent ranks of King Aelles alliance with the men of the north sometime ago and many questioned it silently in their minds or to their spouse late at night after they'd gone to bed. After all, it is never wise to invite the devil to your home to sup. Absolutely none questioned it publicly however, fearing the wrath of their King, Aelle was not known for being a tolerant leader.

The English children watched the small force with awe, they'd heard the tales of the Picts and the other tribes of the north. Usually late at night as a gentle but firm reminder that if they ventured out of doors after they were supposed to a bed a Pictish warrior might scoop them up and steal them away. For everyone knew they drank the blood of their dead and ate human flesh.

Two days over the boarder of Northumbria The Scotsmen were met by riders from the English King Aelle, three ships had been spotted off the coast. The Northman had returned.

The Scotsmen found the Vikings just after they'd finished an attack on a camp of King Aelles soldiers in the early morning hours, just before the first glow of the coming dawn met the horizon as herald of a new day.

A loud cry filled the air, for a moment Ragnar Lothbrok felt surprise at the sound, his piercing gaze shot toward the source of the noise, but as he was always prepared for the unexpected, his shock was short lived. He gave orders quickly to some of his men to get the Kings brother, either under cover or back to the camp.

The newcomers came from out of the trees, some on foot, some on horseback, from every direction. In the fading moonlight it was easy to tell they weren't like the English they'd just fought, their armor favored that of the Northman more than the dead soldiers littering the ground. Heavy leather, some with plate some without and the occasional glimpse of chainmail.

Thier armor was where the similarity ended. Instead of pants most wore strange skirts that seemed to wrap around them, then ended thrown over a shoulder. It looked as though somes faces were even painted. Ragnar noticed these things as his voice boomed loudly into predawn air, "shield wall!" The Northmen broke into three groups each forming separate defensive units.

Within seconds the first volley of warriors met them, these ones on horseback. All behind the shields braced themselves, but the huge beasts charged through the makeshift wall. The horses and their riders alike, filling the air with their animal cries. Sending some of Ragnars men to the ground, quickly trampled under hooves to be left in bloody heaps or flying through the air.

In a chaos of shifting shields, pounding hooves and shouting men, Ragnar stood up from his hunkered position, sword in hand, immediately noticing the horse and rider bearing down on him. Dropping his shield to the ground, he took the hilt of his sword in both hands. His fingers flexing around the warm leather covering the steel as he brought back over is shoulder, gripping it tightly between his hands and waited a breath of moment than swung. The muscles in his arms and upper body rippling with the force of the movement. His sword met the beast's dark chest, cutting through flesh and muscle. He heard the animal screech in pain, he felt his weapon meet bone as it sliced and the great beast came crashing to the ground as the rider tumbled from its back and in one fluid motion rolled to his feet. Ragnar met the mans sword, with a clash of steel, advancing on the painted man, only to be pushed back again on the man's parry. For the briefest of moments as they'd were engaged, he noticed other things, this new foe carried a longer sword placing Ragnar at disadvantage. But as always the outcome of one on one combat was decided quickly. The painted mans sword might be longer but Ragnar was quicker and as the mans arms lifted his sword for his next defensive move he saw his opening, he drove the sword up through the man's chest.

Ragnars gaze searched for his brother as he moved to meet his next opponent. He spotted Rollos tall frame not far off, hacking away at a man with his ax. Rollo swiped his ax sideways across the man's chest bringing him to his knees, then brought a series of fierce blows down across his back and the man crumbled to the ground. Blood flying upward as flesh torn from the flesh of his foe flew through the air and splattered Rollos face.

The same had happened with the three other groups of Vikings and their sheild walls. Horse and riders crashing and smashing through the line trampling some of Ragnars men. Then the riders turned charging back toward them, the action left them vulnerable in both the front and the back.

Oisin watched from the tree line as the first wave of her clansmen ambushed the Northmen, irritation riding high on her spine as her mount Fenrel shifted anxious below her, the hoof of his right foot pawing at the ground. One black leather gloved hand reached out running soothingly down his neck, the other still held the reigns firming. Fenral snorted and shook his massive head as her gaze shifted to the left and rested on Dag her ever present and generally silent companion, her irritation wasn't with him but with her brother Ealer whom had been amongst the first to charge, not doubt he'd planned things thusly on purpose.

Keep her out of the thick of things as long as possible.

The tales of these Northman had given both her brother and her father pause about letting her partake in this alliance between the Northumbrian King and her people. If the battle stories were true they dominated whomever thay met on the field, hacking and cutting at them till not one foe still drew breath. But obviously that wasn't if all were dead than who had lived to tell the first hand accountings.

In the end her father, Fearghas, laird of highland clan Dùghlasach had given over, allowing her to come with her brother and the men from different clans all throughout both of the kingdoms of Scotland. She had little doubt that the reason she'd been allowed to come was the man she presently gazed at. Her eyes traveled over his shadowy profile as he observed the battlefield in front of them . She couldn't see his face in the dense shadow, but she knew it better than her own. From his neatly shaved head and the gray that mixed with his closely cropped facial hair to every line and crease on his rugged features, including the scar that ran from above his right eye clear down his cheek. He'd always been there.

Dagonet had taxed himself long ago with the job of shadowing Oisin and staying close to her side in battle. Not that she needed him to, It wasn't all together uncommon for the women of her people to train to fight as well. (Well maybe once that is, less and less Scottish women seemed to lift sword any longer. Preferring, instead the life of home and family.)

But long ago; long before Oisin could remember her father had saved Dags young life. Throughout the years Dag had repaid her father by keeping watch over his family. He was a quiet man only speaking when he felt he had something worth saying and no one knew much about him, from whence he'd came or who his people were. Some believed he was a descendent of the Saxons invaders, other said he wasn't of Saxon blood at all, but a direct descendent of this fabled Knights that once lived south of Hadrain's Wall. When Oisin took up the sword he'd decided it was his job to stay close.

Ragnars attention shifted for a moment from the men fighting around him and the one he'd just slain, his gaze moved toward the tree line as another cry filled the air a second wave of warriors exited the trees. Reaching up with his arm to wipe blood from his forehead with his sleeve he watched the newcomers. This force was about half the size of the previous group maybe ten men on the high side, all of which were seated on horse back from there he scanned the battlefield taking stock of the scene.

So far his fellow countrymen had held their ground, loosing men but their foe had lost a few of their own. Ragnars attention was grasped by a man running in his direction and as he moved forward to meet the assault his gaze quickly snapped to his brother, Rollo had seen them as well and was at present charging in their direction, cutting down all in his path.

Who are they? Ragnar questioned and took on his new opponent as the wave of reinforcements hurdled toward them. The huge beast they were mounted on covered the distance quickly as he momentarily pondered the question. They weren't your common Englishmen or unlike any they'd fought or seen thus far. They didn't hesitate, seemingly, greeting fate with open arms.

These men were skilled warriors in a diffrent way than the others they'd faced. He would ask Athelstan when he returned home what sort of Englishmen painted their faces blue, wore skirts and fought as though Odin was their God.

Oisin leaned low over the neck of destrier below her, she kicked his sides, urging the beast harder, wanting into the fray. That tingling sensation that always accompanied battle danced across her skin. The horse complied, his ears laid back to his head as his hooves ate up the ground under them eagerly, almost as if the tangy scent of blood filling the air and the sound of clashing steel made him anticipate the battle also. Her eyes scanned the scene before alighting on her brother's tartan plaid and red hair, he was presently locked in sword play with one of the Vikings.

Ealer was not a small man, but yet, the giant he faced still stood a head above him. She steered her beast in that direction, her eyes coming alive with a feral glow. He had slain three already that she'd seen and that would never do. It was a game they played, seeing who could kill more in battle.

Shifting in her saddle she brought her left leg over the animal and slid from the back of the still running beast, her feet hit the ground at a run, propelling her forward. The action made easier by the leather pants she wore in place of the tartan of her kinsmen.

Her eyes on her first opponent, she raced toward him, drawing her sword from the her back scabbard, she dropped and spun as she went, her sword at an upward angle. A spray of blood coated her dark hair and face as the blade of her sword sliced through the mans leather armor and split his stomach open.

Back on her feet and not pausing to see if the man whom's entrails she just dumped onto the ground was dead, her eyes scanned her surroundings for her next foe. Seeing another hulk of a man charging toward her, she spared one quick glance in her brothers direction. One! She yelled loudly in her head. Then she charged her new opponent. Meeting him head on his sword was raised and left her in the immediate defensive position. His heavy blow, nearly knocked her to the ground, she changed stance, deflecting his next heavy blow with her sword raised over her shoulder. She pivoted again, spinning so she moved behind him and as he turned, her own blade laid open his back over his kidneys. Two, she said to herself.

Surveying the battlefield, her eyes alighting her next target, she hurried deeper into the fray, wading through dead bodies and blood and debrie from the destroyed camp. The next met her as eagerly as his predecessors.

Rollos eyes darted across the camp turned battlefield around him just as the first real rays of sunlight peaked over the trees, adrenaline pumping through his veins. His gaze fastened onto a large memeber of the opposing force. The man sat on the back of one the huge horses these unknown enemies rode, ax in hand, the newcomer charged into the battle taking his first kill before he'd left his horse. His ax swung with a high arc coming down across a foe's shoulder and splitting his neck open. Then righted himself in the saddle, spun his ax in his hand and brought his hand back in one fluid motion threw the ax. Rollo watched as it flew threw the air and landed imbedded in another's back.

His gaze returned to the man to find his hand now occupied with a sword. His face wasn't painted blue like so many of the others that fought around them. His large chest was encased in leather and plate armor, but the plate wasn't silver it had a gold look to it and he wore no skirt. This man was tall and broad, nearly as tall as he himself. Taking on another foe, Rollo kept one eye on the man. Eagerly anticipating what he saw as a good fight.

When next he looked for him the man was on his feet. Rollo noticed the man seemed ever aware of another a much smaller warrior dressed in black with long plait of dark hair hanging down their back and faced painted blue. Almost like the small, agile creature was in need of protecting. From what he'd seen that didn't appear to be the case, it seemed to move out of danger quickly, dancing just past reaching distance before any real harm could befall it.

Dag maintained his constant two points of focus in battle, his opponent and Oisin. Ever aware of her and what she was doing. It was because of that and only that her father had allowed her to come. And it was because of her and only her he was here. He cared not for these English Kings and their problems.

He believed his people would be best served saving their own men to fight these Northmen on their own shores when the inevitable happened and they found their way to Scotland, but when the English King Aelle sent emissaries and their King had agreed to this course. Oisin and Ealers father had been among the first to pledge his clansmen. Dag was here simply to make sure Oisin made it home. Something about the girl had reminded him of his youngest sister from the moment he'd seen her and similarity had sparked a protective reaction inside him.

At present she seemed to be working in the direction of her brother and as always he followed.

When Rollo finally met the large man in combat it started with a battlefield challenge a simple meeting of the eyes had them moving toward each other. A recognition of ones equal in size and strength.

He dropped his shield to the ground as he approached, the man didn't carry one therefore he wouldn't. He wasn't disappointed when the first blow came and he felt the force of the action. It forced him back some feet. They were well matched, both Aggressive and anticipating the others next move before it fell. And despite the wounds the other man had suffered to his left arm and thigh, his strength was an equal match.

Oisin followed the direction of her brothers concerned gaze, her heart quickly picking up tempo. "Dag," she breathed her shadow's name out loud. He was presently locked in battle with an a dark haired Northman whom out matched him in size and he was in trouble. Blood dripped from a gash on his arm, she noticed as his opponent drew his arm back preparing swing his ax once again. Dag deflected the blow with a shield he'd procured somewhere, but he staggered uncharacteristically under the force of the action. Her gaze shifted and met Ealers again, busy with a problem of his own he met her eyes briefly and shook his head. He couldn't have said no any louder if he'd screamed it at her

But in that moment his protest didn't matter, she turned and run seeing someone approaching her on her left flank, but as she turned to meet them, sword in hand she found the female occupied with another. Time seemed to stand still as she sprinted toward them. Look at me, her mind willed as she neared, her gaze on Dag as if he'd heard her, he did. His gaze surprised, then nervous, she lifted her arm and tossed her sword toward him as she bent down catching the giant in the side with her slight weight. It wasn't enough for her to fell him but he stumbled to the side and she fell to the ground. She rolled quickly to her back then to her feet to find an ax on a downward arc embed itself in the soft earth where she'd just lied. She met the wielders gaze for a moment, his face was covered in blood, blood also soaked his hair.

Dag shoved her away with his body, placing himself between her and would be killer as the man raised his ax once more.

Ealer pushed through the every thinning fighters one thought and one only on his mind Oisin. He'd watched as she sprinted toward them and then as she threw her blade to Dag, then charged and caught the Northman in his side. For a split second he'd been certain she had breathed her last but Dag was there deflecting the blow that was meant to end her as Oisin dove for a sword lying close at hand.

Oisin spotted the sword lying on the ground and hurriedly dove for it, her fingers wrapping around the heavy steal as she rolled to her feet, lifting it up, her attention quickly went back to Dag and the Northman. Despite Dags best efforts his wounds seemed to be weakening him and he appeared to falter under the bigger mans constant blows. Oisin rushed toward them, but Dag had used most of his remaining strength to push the Viking away from her, she wasn't close enough to be any help.

Ealer was close now, he glanced between Dag and his sister. She was already rushing to help Dag. He pushed past the last of the men separating him from them and charged the Viking himself, shoving him back bodily. He caught the pagans next blow on its descent with his own sword. He was quickly joined by two others in his attack and they forced the Northman back further.

Her eyes darting between her life long companion and the beast about to kill him. The Northmans gaze met hers, the light they held chilled her to the bone. In that breath of a second that she held his dark gaze, she truly saw the beast inside, a soulless heathen as the tales said not a man. His eyes left hers and he swung his ax again, but Dag only stumbled back when he'd normally have jumped, the heathens ax cut clean through Dags armor as it opened his chest and he fell to his knees. Just as quickly as Dag fell to his knees the weapon was lifted again, but it never found its mark. Ealer was there.

Oisin was by Dags side within the next second falling to her knees. All thought of the battle going on around them gone, she dropped her weapon, his gaze met hers and her arm went around his shoulders, he fell backward, his hand over the wound in his chest.

Ragnar looked about him, noticing quickly that no one was winning both sides were dwindling in number but neither appeared to be out manning the other, he called the retreat.