His sojourn into the unknown—along with those brave few who were willing to accompany him—had proven fruitful in some ways, yet fruitless in others.

He had seen a great many landscapes all belonging to the far-off places that had only existed in his wildest dreams. His childhood had been wrought with bleak, snowy, white winters and easy, green summers. The places Björn had visited were anything but.

He had sailed to an island in repose, its beaches rocky and clear with greenery tumbling down the cliffsides, begging for his attention. Strange plants the likes of which he had never seen grew along the crags, their leaves (at least he thought they were leaves) pointed and flaccid.

The company had been stranger than the scenery. The commander there, Euphemius, was full of well wishes and lilting words. He was a coward that one, and Björn knew it at first glance. It had been no surprise to him when the cackling imbecile had lunged at him with a sword after hearing that they were traders. Euphemius trusted no one; especially not strong, tattooed men from other worlds.

It was the same coward who brought him on the furthest leg of their journey into deserts that spanned as far as the eye could see.

Sól's rays bore down with a vengeance as she sprinted through the sky. Björn had to shield his eyes from her for great lengths of time until they could adjust. Never had he seen her so enthusiastic in her time telling duties. And yet, he had not felt the heat. It was swept away in the swirling spells of wind that danced around his feet.

He had had to remove his outer garments once they reached this hot, wispy place as only the thinnest of coverings granted him reprieve in the scorching heat. After weeks of sailing in his furs, Björn felt almost naked. Uncovered. Lethal.

He and Halfdan had been giving odd head coverings to wear, which he believed made him look like a giant mushroom of a man. But only after realizing how quickly his skin turned a painful pink in this vast wasteland did he acquiesce to wearing it.

Crossing the desert on the backs of those strange creatures—camels, he had come to learn that they were named—was a welcome adventure. After all, they still used the stars to navigate their journey; the camels were like tinier, slower, clunking vessels bringing them to the next shoreline.

His own camel had been a rude thing. It spit on him no less than three times before he was able to clamber onto its back. He was convinced it would bite his ear off for all of the hissing noises it made at him. Björn liked to think by the end of their trek together that the beast and he had found common ground, and dare he say it, come to tolerate one another. But that didn't stop him from flinching in surprise every time that damned thing opened its mouth to release a cry that the Goddess of Helheim would've been proud of.

Everything had been going as intended. Björn had been forging tenuous relationships with the leaders of this land, winning small bits of trust that could be harvested in the future when he came back with a formidable party of raiders. The very jewels that adorned their necks and the rich fabrics that decorated their darker bodies would soon be in piles aboard his ships.

Everything was going fine, that is, until he was quite literally fed the Commander Euphemius and then sentenced to death by beheading. It was all a very dizzying turn of events. The only reason his life had been spared was because of the rogue wall of sand that bore down on the camp unexpectedly.

The desert was a very harsh and unforgiving place, and he thanked the Gods for it.

Once he, Halfdan, and Sinric had made it safely past the storm and ridden until their even their camels seemed tired and in need of water, Halfdan offered the obvious question.

"What will we do now?"

"It is too soon to tell," Björn mused aloud. In all reality, he couldn't make a sound decision until he had taken stock of what had transpired in Kattegat and in England. All of the men with them had either been slaughtered by the Emir's men or escaped only to die in the terrible sun of the hot sands. He was not willing to risk that more might suffer the same fate unless he had enough warriors to avoid a fair fight altogether.

Only time would tell.

"Let us go see what our dear brother has done in our absence."

The retreat was as most things were when the English were involved: sloppy.

Try as I might, I could not keep the bitterness from seeping into every fiber of my body, mind, and spirit. My face was set in a grimace I feared would become permanent. Contempt was rolling off of me. Gods help the poor, dazed soldiers that might have the displeasure of crossing my path during our hasty retrograde.

We had been forced to sacrifice about a thousand men on top of our original losses in order to successfully escape the serpentine snare of Wales. All in all, Wessex's numbers had plummeted to under half of her army's starting strength, and I couldn't do much to keep the crushing despair of defeat out of my throat. Between piecing together slipshod plans and wondering how I could have been caught so devastatingly unaware, I realized just how badly I gotten myself into a pile of steaming horseshit.

My suspicions of Garmsen remained unconfirmed. I had felt within him the ethereal pull of unwavering purpose—the intervention of divine tasking. I knew my familiar had something to do with the Welsh army's treachery (if not having precipitated the happening in its entirety), but I didn't have the faintest idea how. But where my Midgardian nature wanted to hate him and cast him aside, our spiritual bond would not allow it. He was a wayward child, and I loved him just the same. I had faith—no matter how much it burned my insides to admit it—that his actions had been in line with the will of the Gods.

When my mind had stopped working and caused my body to fail along with it, Garmsen had entreated and prodded me until the prospect of carrying on wasn't so repugnant anymore. Stumbling back through the woods was only possible with Garmsen's leading tread. I would have walked in circles without him until I was either killed or died of exhaustion.

At one point, a stray root snagged my foot and tripped me so that I went sprawling on all fours. My chin burst open from the impact and blood poured freely down. By the time I made it to the camp, my hair was wild and my breathing was hoarse.

The place looked like it had been deserted some time ago. Fire pits were still smoking, tents lay half-collapsed, and the mud was freshly packed. The soldiers of Wessex had obviously been through here in their hasty retreat. Judging by their general direction of march, they had veered off of the route taken to get here. Instead they had turned toward the southwest. Where exactly they were headed, I couldn't be sure, but I would find out if I had any hope of staying alive and regaining what was lost.

Now that the shock had really worn off, I dared not delay even a few moments lest I should be discovered all alone. Evading capture was one thing; fending off fully grown men was an entirely different thing.

I faced my body in the direction of march and readied to make way, Garmsen at my side.

"Wait, wait, wait, love. Where are you off to?"

Floki watched the pathetic display taking place in the great hall with an air of removed disdain. His kohl-rimmed eyes swept back and forth in equal measure between the three individuals who had become the greatest captivation of Kattegat.

Ubbe sat atop the throne, legs spread in confident recline. The Queen Mother had taken to restless wandering of late and was not present for the night's festivities. Traces of her subdued melancholy could be felt around the room.

Sat primly upon the play king's lap was his gleaming new bride, all batting eyelashes and simpering touches. A crown—though fake—sat atop her head. It was a wreath of honeysuckle flowers on spindly vines. The soft yellow hues of the white flower played brilliantly off of her golden hair in the bright candlelight. No doubt it was worn in an effort to paint a likeness to Freyja as well as display her own fertility. She was every part the blushing bride, and yet, Floki found himself ill at ease with her still.

Ubbe refused to look at anyone but her even when she turned to engage other warriors of the village in conversation. His eyes were forever upcast; forever fixed on her.

His brother across the great hall sat no different. He was a bit more downtrodden, though, from having lost the prize of the foreigner as his bride.

This was not the proper behavior for any sons of Ragnar. They were saps.

No, he did not like that girl. He did not like her one bit.

Floki wheezed a bitter laugh and spit disgustedly at the ground.

One side of the doors to the hall sprung open and clanged against the back wall with a resounding bang. The Queen Mother staggered in blindly, grasping at anyone who could hold her up.

She must have taken too strongly to the drink again tonight. Fits like these were something to be marveled at as they only happened every once in a long while. But happen they did.

They all missed Ragnar, but everyone coped in his or her own way. And who's to say Aslaug wasn't celebrating his death as much as she was mourning it?

"Please!" the regal woman gasped with fading breath. Her eyes were wide in terror.

Floki saw it now. She was not drunk.

Aslaug fell down to her knees, her breathing becoming ever more shallow. A thin layer of foam appeared at her lips when she tried to call for help again, "Pl—"

She was dying.

Poison. It had to be.

This was no natural death. The twitching of her limbs, the saliva pooling out of her mouth, and the decaying breaths were all signs of it.

Floki had been slow to show Aslaug favor when she came to Kattegat. She had, after all, been the reason Lagertha was forced to leave Ragnar. Leave Kattegat. Leave everything and everyone she had ever known.

Still, it was not right for her end to come so early and so violent.

He did not immediately move to help. If he had guessed correctly which plant was used to orchestrate her demise—and Floki always did—then her breathing would cease altogether in a few short moments.

The only thing that might have been able to save her was to eat some coal, and even that wasn't a sure way to keep her alive. It would only prolong her suffering. Floki might not have liked her, but trying to cure her was the cruelest thing he could do.

No, this was Aslaug's time to die.

Floki blessed himself and the dying woman with a wave of his first two fingers. The Gods bore witness to this injustice, same as he and every mortal in this hall. He could feel their magic wrapping around him like a warm cloak on a long winter's night. The air carried a soft hum that reverberated in his teeth. He heard the wind begin to moan out of doors.

Their presence meant many things to Floki, as it always did. But this night it only signified one thing: revenge would be had.

Whoever had done this to the Queen Mother would eat the fruit of their deeds. Floki laughed in excitement as quietly as possible to himself.

He looked around the room, taking in the obtuse looks of the others gathered there. They did not feel the Gods the way Floki did and Aslaug had. They had no idea what was in store for whoever was guilty of this heinous crime.

He took in each of their faces one by one and saw varying degrees of shock, fear, and disgust.

Except for her.

The foreigner.

Shock was written all over her face, true. But Floki saw something more there.

A small crinkle at her eyes.

Mirth.

A/N: Maryia and Shantigal-thank you so very much for reviewing again! :)

Songs of the chapter are inspired by the new Netflix movie 'To All the Boys I've Loved Before.' If you haven't seen it yet, I fully recommend it. Whimsical and smart from start to finish.

1. The Velveteins - Daydreams

2. Blood Orange - You're Not Good Enough

*3. Boswell Sisters - Mood Indigo

Please review! Catch ya later.