Dearest readers, I apologize for staying away so long! I graduated, then left for a trip to Great Britain! It was phenomenal, and I've been a bit depressed since arriving back home.
*I haven't edited this chapter, so expect minor changes later. I didn't you all to have to wait any longer than you already have. Thanks for your patience!
"Tell me how my mother died."
Athelstan had not spoken since those words passed from Gyda's lips. He'd stared at her wearily, almost annoyed. Setting his cup down on the table with more force than he'd meant to, Athelstan stood up and nodded towards the door, a silent signal for Gyda to follow him.
She sauntered after him slowly, careful not to seem overly eager, but every hair on her body stood up as they walked out of the hall and towards Athelstan's chambers. His room was on the opposite side of the Great Hall as her's. It seemed that familial rooms occupied the right side while important-single-members of Bjorn's council occupied the left. The room was of a fair size, with a large fireplace and numerous furs and quilts adoring the furniture. Gyda let her eyes roam the walls, mystified as light from the fire danced across the metal of axes and swords.
Athelstan walked to a shelf and picked up a large, leather-bound book. He sighed heavily before turning back to her.
"Sit, please." He motioned to the bed.
Gyda hesitated, but then saw that Athelstan was dragging a chair over to the bed. Settled, she sat down. He sank into the chair across from her. The firelight illuminated the text he had so carefully scrawled across the once-blank pages.
"Is that-is that a journal?"
"Of sorts." He muttered. His tired eyes quickly scanned the pages. Finally, they settled and he leaned back in his chair. He began to read.
The story of Lagertha's death-and by extension, Aslaug's-started with the mention of Ragnar's increasing paranoia. Fearful of his son's (biological and adopted) future fame and glory, Ragnar appointed a man named Eysteinn Beli as king of the newly obtained Sweden, with the caveat that he protect the land from his sons. Beli agreed to do so. Things were peaceful until Ragnar's adopted sons-Asluag's bastard brothers-Eric and Agnar arrived in Sweden, demanding that Beli give them control of the kingdom and his daughter's hand in marriage to Eric. Beli responded with violence, and after a valiant fight, the brothers were slain.
After hearing of their fate, Lagertha, Aslaug, and their sons vowed revenge. Their sons went in ships, but the women rode across the land, 1500 warriors strong. They were a fearsome family to behold. They wielded their weapon as if they were natural extensions of their body. They showed no mercy. No emotion. Amongst the opposition, rumors flew from frighted tongues that they did not fight mortals, but the gods and goddesses themselves.
On the third morning of the battle, it became clear that Beli and his fortress would fall. He requested a meeting with Lagertha and Aslaug, feigning surrender. When the moment came to hand over his sword, he sliced off Aslaug's head with a quick blow. It flew straight through her neck, cutting her head clean off. Yet Beli did not lower his sword after that-Lagertha had been standing next to Aslaug, and the sword dug into her neck.
Athelstan had stopped reading a while ago, rather he recounted the story from memory. But he was choking on his words now, struggling not to cry, not to dwell on his heartache. Had Gyda's mind not been reeling, she might have reached out to comfort him, but she could focus on nothing.
Finally, Athelstan closed the book and handed it to her. Gyda was reluctant to accept it-she did not need it, a physical reminder of her mother's death. But then logic seized her mind and she recognized that Athelstan would not be so cruel as to taunt her something like that. She took it from him and let the weight of thetome rest in her hands for a few moments. Finally, she opened the cover and her eyes skimmed the first few pages.
She nearly cried with gratitude. He had recorded everything. The day she left. The plague that took so many lives, including Siggy and Thyri's. Ragnar's new wife. Ragnar's adopted sons, Halfdan, Eric, Agnar. The births her half-brothers. Rollo's betrayal. Raids, wars, harvests. The first time Athelstan killed a man.
He even wrote of the births and deaths of Gyda's children. Son, stillborn. Daughter, died age three days. Daughter, stillborn. Son, stillborn.
Gyda forced down the lump in throat and reached out her hand.
"May I?" she whispered.
He nodded silently, and handed her his ink and quill. In viking culture, children were not named until they were nine days old. None of hers had lived that long and therefor were not given names, not by her or her Burgundian husband. With shaking hands, Gyda scribed the names of her babies, never before spoken, never written down.
Eileifr.
Britta.
Ylva.
Hakon.
Gyda put down the quill and stepped back, picturing each of their faces as she read their names. Tears spilled from her eyes and she turned to burry her face in Athelstan's neck. He tensed at first, then, slowly, he encircled his arms around her.
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