AN: Sigh. I know it's late and just a bit short, but here it is.

I felt I had to write this chapter to really finish the Viking Age. For the next time I am thinking of jumping as far forwards in time as to 1349 and the Black Death…

Middle Ages (1066 – 1397)

Kyrre 1066

The taste of victory was always so sweet. It left a feeling of being at the top of the world, being strong and completely invincible. Any feeling of having ever been tired would be washed away and almost any pain from injury would be forgotten in the high of having won a battle took over. There was also the feeling of lightheadedness as one's body would struggle to calm down after the rush of adrenaline that had surged through it in the heat of battle.

Any feelings Norway had at the moment was not even close to resembling those that came along with victory at all. Defeat was nothing like triumph and the additional shame that came with it this time was almost unbearable. He and Harald Hardråde had definitely overestimated the capability of their own army and now they had to pay dearly for that mistake in their own blood and the blood of their people.

They had sailed to the southwest with 300 ships to claim the English throne several weeks ago. The country was supposed to be an easy target as more than one king was struggling to get into power. They were supposed to be too focused on their own internal fight for power and the Viking army should have defeated them easily.

But now only 24 ships remained on the journey back north. It was all that was needed to bring all that remained of the once so proud Viking army home.

The side effects of defeat were plaguing the entire Viking army as they struggled to keep the long ships under control over rough seas. After a victory, pain could be partially forgotten. But defeat made any injury seem ten times worse and the exhaustion was just overwhelming, making the simplest of movements a torment.

Norway was lying absolutely still in the bottom of the ship. Even the slightest movement would make his entire body scream in protest. His muscles burned and every wound from the battle would burn as if someone had poured salt in them, leaving him out of breath until the pain subsided to a dull ache again.

They were now several hours into the journey north. The Norwegian personification was just barely capable of catching a glimpse of the sky passing above them. Even the weather appeared to be in a foul mood, judging by how the clouds tensed up, leaving the sky black.

Rain and stormy seas were ahead as night began to fall on them. The journey home was just meant to be a struggle for every man on board.

Norway found it was hard to even keep his eyes open. Not only had his body been battered in the meeting with England and his men. His face had also gotten its fair share of the beating, and now as it had been hours since the beating it had begun to swell as his body tried to heal, making it almost impossible to get his eyes open at all.

Not that England and his lackeys had had any reason to be kind at all when they had finally brought down the Norwegian personification. The northerners had after all tormented the English people for close to 300 years. He assumed he should just be happy that he could move at all when they finally let him go.

He let out a long sigh as he closed his eyes, and took a new breath to fill his lungs with some of the fresh ocean breeze. Instead the air was too thick with the scent of blood and sweat and as soon as he closed his eyes the memories of the battle began repeating themselves over and over again. Letting him see the faces of dying men as his people had been slaughtered.

It made sleep almost impossible, when all the memories were all so fresh and vivid. Not that sleep was any good either. When it finally came upon him it was haunted by nightmares as well as with memories.

When Norway had woken in the midst of a group of English soldiers, England had claimed that he had taken Norway away from the rest of his people only to make him swear the same oath that his new kings had agreed to

But from the way the boy had grinned when he twisted the arrow in Norway's shoulder around, it had been clear that it was not just about the oath.

The English personification had finally given a chance to pay back for some of the misery the Norwegians had caused, and he was going to enjoy it.

The twisting of the arrow had only been the beginning of what was to come.

The wounded shoulder had already begun to heal before it was torn open again to bleed yet again as the arrow was twisted around. Norway could not help but to cry out in pain as every nerve felt as I it was set ablaze sending liquid fire through his veins.

There was nothing he could do to get away from it either. His arms were held firmly in place by the English soldiers, making escape impossible. His bots made scuffmarks on the ground as he desperately fought to get away from the soldiers.

England had laughed at the reaction he had received and his eyes sparkled viciously. He then yanked at the arrow, pulling it out and making sure that the barbs could tear up the wound even further, leaving the Norwegian hissing in pain.

The boy seemed intrigued by the crimson blood that ran down the arrow as he held it up for inspection. It slowly ran over his fingers, painting them red before it gathered up in droplets that fell to the dry ground, leaving a pattern of dark red circles that dried in the dry August air.

"So how does it feel to be helpless?" the boy asked and cast a glance at the nation wheezing for air and groaning in pain. "It sucks doesn't it?" England continued in a cold voice.

"It hurts to be beaten and at the mercy of somebody else that have no reason to make things easy for you at all. To have no idea of what will happen to you, beyond the point that it probably will be bad. Well now you know I have felt for hundreds of years now!" England was almost at the point of screaming.

All the hint of cold and controlled malevolence the boy had possessed was gone in favor of pure hatred and rage. England clenched his fingers around the arrow until it snapped with a loud crack before he hurled it away and breathed heavily.

Norway didn't answer.

He was out of words and fatigue was taking its toll on him. All the men he had left in the country of England knew that they had lost and their king was dead. They had heard their new kings swear an oath to the English king Norway knew there was no glorious way for him to get out of this situation.

England had followed as the arrow flown through the air and landed somewhere in the dry grass meters away from them. "I hate you!" suddenly screamed, taking Norway by surprise. His face was twisted in anger and sent out a kick that struck the Norwegian personification in the gut, leaving him out of breath yet again.

The English guards let go of the Viking's arms and let him fall to the ground.

Norway could barely make his arms catch the fall and keep him from landing on his face in the dirt. All strength had seemed to have left him and he was barely capable of keeping himself up even on all four on the ground.

"Say something!" the young boy screamed. His face was turning a darker shade of red as his anger grew even worse. His hands were shaking as he clenched his fingers into tight fists and his bushy brows were knitted tightly together.

Norway kept his eyes on the ground. The gash in his shoulder was still bleeding and dripping crimson red to the ground just before his eyes. The battle was lost. He had known that from the moment Hardråde had fallen. He had dreaded this moment, but it was time to admit defeat.

"I'll swear you oath." Norway mumbled quietly, never lifting his gaze from the ground.

England hissed aggressively in disbelief before him. "What did you say?"

"I said I'll swear your oath" Norway snarled back as he lifted his head to lock gaze with the young personification, showing that he had some pride left even after such a massive loss and being helplessly beaten by a child nation. He was not afraid of looking some child in the eyes.

"Then do it" England said, for once the cold blue eyes of the Norwegian did nothing to scare him.

Norway gathered some of his last energy to push himself up enough from the ground to balance on his knees without keeling over. "I, the kingdom of Norðvegr do hereby swear that I will not set my foot on English soil ever again with the intent of going Viking." He venomously spat out the words as if they burned on his tongue.

England looked a bit disappointed as the words were said. "I had hoped it would take a bit longer before you accepted the choices of your new kings" he said and then looked up to address his men, turning his attention away from the personification.

"My business with him is over" England said flatly to the small group of guards that had surrounded them. "He is all yours. Just make sure he still breathes when he is returned to his king. Nothing else is required"

Norway could fell his heart race as he realized the meaning of the personification's words. One of the guards kicked up dirt as he took a step closer, another cracked his knuckles dangerously.

"No!" Norway screamed and rushed to his feet as adrenaline surged through his veins. He barely got two steps away before someone yanked him back by his cloak, sending him tumbling to the ground, sending up a cloud of dust in his path.

All around, shadows of the guards fell on him and blocked out the rays of the sun. It left the faces of the men in partial shadow, hiding their emotions if they even had any.

"This belongs to you."

Harald Hardråde's sons, Magnus and Olav had been shocked as the personification of their land was shoved before their feet, barely moving and with rasping breath. His clothing was drenched in blood and torn in several places, the dark blue woolen cloak he had worn was barely hanging on around his shoulders and no amount sewing would be able to properly repair it.

Norway could not see anything from where he was lying but for the young men's feet, but he could hear the sudden intake of breath they both took when he landed before them. He struggled to lift his head up to look at them, but every muscle was shaking too much from the strain and he only managed to dig his nails down in the dirt, clasping his fingers around a tuft of dead grass instead of even lifting his head at all.

He had heard a low grumble from the man he recognized as Magnus and the softer voice of Olav as the younger brother attempted to calm down the older, to keep him from making any foolish movements.

The rest of the Vikings remained silent as the English army retreated and left them behind. None of them dared to spite the English as they had nothing left to stand up against them with. They would be crushed in an instant if they made the wrong move. They had no armor and barely any men left.

"We should head home" Olav mumbled quietly. His voice sounded defeated, quiet and uncertain and slightly shaky. He got no response from the rest of the men and only a murmur from his brother.

The Vikings had no option but to gather whatever they had left and leave the dead behind. They bodies were far too many to keep a proper burial for them all. The only dead that would be brought back to the north, was the one of the fallen king, Harald Hardråde.

Nobody said anything, they didn't have to. They all knew that they had to make the walk back to the shore where their ships waited. The men that were still uninjured helped move the men that were too hurt to move on their own.

Norway only heard the scraping of feet as people moved around the area and an occasional grunt or cry from a man in pain as they were moved. It didn't take too long before someone put a hand on his shoulder.

"Let's get you back home where we all belong."

Three years after the battle of Stamford Bridge. Norway was on his way to visit the king Olav Haraldsson for the first time in months. Olav's brother Magnus had fallen ill and died just a few weeks earlier, leaving the younger Olav to be sole ruler of the land where the two brothers had split the rule earlier.

When Norway had first arrived at the king's home and finally stood face to face with him, the king had looked tired, but brightened up once he recognized his visitor. He had always been more likely to smile than his brother and father had ever been.

"It's been a while" Olav said in his normal soft voice and Norway nodded in response. The king was quick to gain a look of worry over his face. "How's the shoulder?" he asked and knit his brows together, making small lines appear on his forehead.

Norway merely shrugged. "It is barely even a scar anymore" he said flatly. "I told you not to worry and that it would heal."

"Still it looked bad there for a moment" the king replied.

"I guess it did" Norway mumbled in return. "But let's not talk about it anymore. You had a reason for asking me here I assume and it was probably not just to ask me about my health."

Olav nodded and brightened up again. He waived his arm towards a group of chair by a crackling fire as a signal for Norway to take a seat. "You're right about that." Olav said. He moved around the chair to find a more comfortable position and the wood creaked dangerously under his weight.

"You know that my brother died recently" Olav said, and Norway nodded to confirm. "I am sad that he is gone, but I am done mourning. I am king and I have responsibilities. Now that I am sole ruler there are many things I can do and I don't have to get his permission first to do any of them."

"What sorts of things are you thinking of my lord?" Norway asked curiously.

"I am not my father at all" Olav said and knitted his brows. He leant his elbows on his knees and used his hands to support his head in thought. "Father wanted power more than anything in the whole world. I guess that is what led him to his death." Norway nodded again, urging on the king to continue.

"I think we as a people have a lot of changes to make. We made an oath never to raid England again, so we have sort of made peace with the English king already." "I think you have made a lot of changes already" Norway broke in. "The people already gave you the nickname of Kyrre[1]."

Olav laughed. "I still wish to do more" he said. "At the moment there is one thing in particular from my father's past that I wish to correct." Norway narrowed his brows as well, wondering where the conversation was going. "I was hoping I could send you out for an errand"

"Of course my lord" Norway replied. "What is it you wish of me?"

Olav took a long breath to draw out a break. "As far as I understand my father was constantly fighting with Svend Estridsson, the king of Denmark, trying to take over his kingdom."

Norway had to fight to keep his face blank of emotion. He did not want his king to figure out what he was thinking.

Olav didn't seem to pay him too much thought. "I don't know how this these things work, but I assume you know the personification or at least have met it before. Do you think there is any way of making peace with the Danes? I don't want them to have a grudge against us because of the actions of my father[2]."

Olav looked up at Norway hopefully, like a pleading child. The king was picking at a loose thread in his shirt, clearly showing that he was a bit nervous at the whole thing.

"You don't know Denmark" Norway said. "If he has anything to say then they will have no problem forgetting all about your father."

Olav smiled. "That is wonderful news. I'll arrange for a ship to leave in a few weeks."

Norway smiled at his king, but inside he was a bit more nervous. It would be one hell of a trip. If he knew Denmark right the man would be overjoyed to hear Olav's message that their people could be at peace again. Denmark would surely be clingy until and then he would probably start asking about what had happened at Stamford.

Norway was deep in thought, wondering how it would be to finally see Denmark again.

"You seem different" Olav suddenly said, breaking the long silence they had kept. Norway looked at him curiously, raising an eyebrow in wonder. "Different from when I first met you I mean" the king said quickly.

"How am I different?" Norway asked.

"You seem calmer" The king answered. "When my father was in charge you seemed a lot like him, but not anymore."

"Maybe you're right." Norway let a smile just barely show at the corner of his lips. "But then I think calmer is better."

[1] Kyrre is a word that meant 'the peaceful'

[2] Olav Kyrre did make peace with the Danish king Svend Estridsson and his people. His rule was so peaceful that the sagas barely have any stories about him.