A/N - 10th Oct - I have changed 'Danes' to Vikings, for easier reading and interpretation. Thanks go to Thessaly.

Disclaimer – I don't own HP, or any of its canon characters or concepts. Don't sue.


Chapter 7


"So," Beorn said, prowling by his side, "it is something to see, is it not?"

Godric gazed about at the royal seat of Winchester. It was small in comparison to Rome, Byzantium, and the other ancient centres of the world that Godric had seen on his restless travels. But all around him were tall, burly earls and thanes, their long, luxurious hair and roaring, blustering voices a reminder of his far childhood, before lithe, dark Salazar adopted him. He could speak any number of languages, but the rich, guttural Saxon was good to hear, fulfilling some need deep inside him.

"Yes," he answered simply. "It is."

By his other side, Aethulf snorted. "What I want to know, Gryffindor," he sneered, "is whether you are wholly with us in this venture."

Godric said nothing, merely strolled ahead, blending in with the Muggle noblemen. With his height, his breadth, and his thick red hair and beard, he made a handsome, imposing figure. "Would I be here," he asked finally, after they had cleared the main throng, "if I were not with you? I honour Salazar as my mentor and foster-father, but that does not mean I agree with everything he says."

Beorn smothered a sudden bark of laughter. But Aethulf glared, unconvinced. Before the old leader could comment further, however, the royal herald tapped his staff three times on the floor and announced the King's arrival.

Athelstan swept in, and the whole court bowed. Studying the king's strong, muscular build underneath the thick, rich robes, his face noble and authoritative under the beard, Godric recognized the Warrior-King of his childhood dreams and fancies – fancies nurtured, though perhaps not intentionally, by Salazar's tales of Arthur and the great Lords. He doubted his old mentor would appreciate the reminder.

"Rise, rise," Athelstan said briskly, his manner straightforward and business-like. "We have much to get through today – let us not waste the day in formalities." Impatiently, he sat down on the throne. "Now who is first?"

A short, squat man with soot and char-black ingrained in his calloused hands stepped forward, bowed, and identified himself as Edric Sigisson. He brought a complaint against Edgar Wlnothsson, the carter, whom he claimed had cheated him repeatedly.

The various audiences and hearings progressed smoothly. Four days each year, the king held his quarterly hearings, where any man – high or low – could approach the throne and appeal to the king's justice. Godric, Beorn and Aethulf were near the end of the line, and they had good opportunity to observe Athelstan in his role – he listened closely to every complaint and appeal, and gave his judgment quickly and decisively, allowing no dissent or outcry against it.

Once made up, his mind was set; once given, his word was final.

Finally, it was their turn. Aethulf stepped forward, Godric and Beorn flanking him, and spoke in a deep, resonant voice at complete odds with his aged, hoary countenance.

"Athelstan King," he began, "renowned throughout the land, I come to offer my help, and that of my fellows, against the cursed Vikings."


"I have heard of you, of course," Athelstan said, much later, in a private audience. "Men, living among us but separate, with awesome powers. I thought you a myth."

"Indeed, my lord, we are no myth," Aethulf answered. He drew himself up to his full height and drew out his wand and, with a grand, flamboyant gesture, transfigured the small side table against the wall into a roaring, snarling lion. With a dismissive flick of his wand, he changed it into a flock of doves, and then into a hissing, spitting snake, and then back to its original form.

The king's bodyguards shouted in alarm, half-drawing their swords, but subsided at a gesture from their master. Athelstan, Godric noted, had only blinked and started, before regaining his normal composure.

Aethulf stared at the king expectantly. "That is only a small demonstration of our capabilities, my lord."

"Indeed?" Athelstan raised a brow. "And what else can you do, master wizard? You say you will help me drive out the invaders – how will these parlour tricks help defeat armies that number in the thousands?"

Though his words were skeptical, his eyes were thoughtful, calculating – this was a man who saw before him a great opportunity.

"My lord," Aethulf answered, "we are capable of far more than petty parlour tricks. We can influence the weather, lead men's minds onto the paths of madness, and turn the very matter of creation to our own ends – if you so wish it, we will be Merlin to your Arthur…"


The word spread.

Upon their return to London, young, impulsive wizards flocked to join Aethulf's war, all eager to prove themselves and gain eternal fame and glory. Beorn, who had long decades of experience in difficult, dangerous endeavours, wanted to restrain their group to experienced, steady wizards who knew how to work with Muggles, but Aethulf overruled him, arguing that they had no right to turn anyone away who wished to help in this vital struggle.

Beorn did not look pleased, but he let it go.

On the eve of their departure, some two weeks after their return from Winchester, Godric was busy organizing the last minute details of their journey, poring over lists and maps, making sure that everything was ready for the morrow, when he felt a familiar presence behind him.

"In the three short weeks since your return, Godric-lad, you have set the whole land on its ear. London speaks of nothing but your brave venture."

Godric smiled. He had known this was coming. "Hello, Salazar," he replied calmly, turning around to behold his old mentor and foster-father. "You look very well."

It was true. Like all pureblooded wizards, Salazar's lifespan was measured in centuries, rather than decades; though it had been nearly ten years since Godric last saw him, he was unchanged, but for a few more grey hairs and deeper-set grooves around those strange yellow eyes.

"You haven't changed," Godric continued, smiling, despite the harsh words that had lain between them at their last parting. In those last, contentious years, there had always been harsh words – but there had been good times, as well.

"You have," Salazar murmured, stepping closer, reaching out – reaching up – to grasp Godric's shoulder. "You left a boy, and returned a man." He smiled, the genuine warmth of it enfolding Godric like a familiar embrace.

But Godric knew better, now, than to be ensnared by Salazar's charm.

"Yes, I am a man," he said, pulling away, deliberately putting distance between them. "Capable of making my own decisions, and seeing them through – whether for good or ill. My mind is set on this."

"So." Acknowledging the distance, Salazar stepped away, his smile fading. "You would willingly follow Aethulf into this. He is a fool, his eyes fixed on political goals, rather than military ones –"

"I know Aethulf's mind, Salazar. But Beorn is no fool."

"Beorn is a mercenary. He would fight for the Vikings, if it profited him."

"He is not –" Gritting his teeth, Godric bit back the hot, angry words. Beorn was a mercenary, but in this, he was firmly on Aethulf's side. He, too, desired a unified England and the efficiency and order it entailed. He had a vested interest in it – he planned to hang up his sword soon, and wished to live to a conflict-free old age.

"That does not make him any less a leader. He knows war, both the physical and magical sides of it – we could have no better guide." He looked at Salazar's flat, skeptical expression, knew that the older man would not give in easily. "Everything you have said, and probably everything you will say, I have gone over it all, Salazar. Aethulf is a spider, but a powerful, influential one, and I believe his Wizengamot is necessary for our survival. If there is a price, I am willing to pay it, but this king will provide the peace and order we need – if we can keep him alive."

Their eyes met – Salazar's strange, often mad yellow eyes staring into his. Godric held the older man's gaze steadily, calm and resolved now that he had set his mind on a course of action. Then, smiling wryly, Salazar conceded. Stepping back, his robes swirling about him, he turned to leave. But just before he vanished out of existence, he paused, looked over his shoulder, and spoke.

"It's a dangerous thing, Godric, using magic as a weapon. You find yourself on a very slippery slope, as killing and atrocities become easier and easier… Don't lose yourself, Godric-lad."


A/N – Thanks to all my reviewers. Feedback of any sort is greatly appreciated.