Lagertha sat adjacent to the throne, her son occupying his rightful position at the head of the hall. Such was custom for any visiting Earl, to remain within the sphere of importance while keenly reminded that he—or she—did not own it. For her part, Lagertha didn't look a shade less regal than she always did.
Her lips twitched, and her eyes scanned gleefully over the crowd that had gathered for the festivities. Björn could see that she missed this place. Like the midday sun missed the morning dew, never again to rejoin this world.

She stopped, sensing his watchful eye, and looked at him.

"How does my son find his Kingdom after so long away?" she asked as a means to keep him from addressing her wistful stare.

"I find it lacking," he replied.

There was no hesitation when it came to sharing his true opinions with his mother. He watched the merrymakers around him, eyeing their utilitarian garments and unrefined manners. "Compared to what I have seen, Kattegat is wanting," he finished.

There were no gilded shields, no golden chalices encrusted with precious stones. Only the hard, cold lines of necessity born through years and years of use. Some of it had its place, but Björn wanted to be the one to bring Kattegat into the future. A future of prosperous trade, better tools and weapons, and semi-open borders.

The lands to the south and east were open purses full of gold begging to be plundered. And he would not let them beg for long.

Even with his younger brother fighting in his name over the wide, open sea, the King had a plan. A plan to unite all of the North Men. One crown, one people.

Björn understood now that England was nothing more than a blood feud. A wergild, well-paid and done with. It had no real value except for the thousands and thousands of dagsslátta of open, fertile soil for planting. It was the dream of any young man or woman setting out to stake their claim in the newly conquered world. But farmland was nothing compared to the endless riches and wonders he had seen in his travels to the Mediterranean. Ivar's errand, while noble, was proving to be an unnecessary drain on his resources.

And the last Björn had heard, Ivar had fought his way down to Repton—the heart of Mercian territory—and was preparing to march on south. There was still half of the country's length to traverse, raid, and subdue. And while something could be said for the slaughter of an impudent Christian King like Egbert, Björn did not want to sacrifice what few warriors were left. The blood debt had been paid, Ælle was dead.

Knowing Ivar, he would have pushed on until every last seat of power was crushed under his malformed boot.

The King needed to get word to his brother as quickly as possible; the end of summer was fast approaching. Ivar was to bring his men home now. There would be no overwintering for the sake of keeping captured ground. To hell with captured ground. They had far bigger aims now. Leave a contingent to designate the first settlements, but that was it.

The messenger party had set off some days ago, and within another fortnight it would have arrived on the shores of England. Now it was only a matter of time until he knew his brother's answer. And if Ivar sent back an answer he wasn't willing to hear, Björn would find a way drag him back from England himself, kicking and screaming.

Well, screaming.

Lagertha leaned closer and snapped him out of his preoccupation.

"And they have not returned yet?" He knew who she was referring to, it was obvious.

"No, but by all accounts it has been a successful raid."

"Have they avenged your Father?"

"They have."

"It is time for them to come home then, no? The days grow shorter."

He hesitated, "I cannot know."

"How could you not know?" she fired back, tone severe, "You are their King."

"Yes, but Ivar is the one who leads them," he explained, "And he knows no King."

Lagertha's eyes narrowed, "He swore an oath to you before the Gods."

"Then he will have the Gods to answer to."

"Have you no concern?" she asked.

"How can I?" he snapped, "I chose to leave him there. I chose to leave him with warriors, able bodies. I chose to turn my back on him for the sake of new lands. I did that for Kattegat. And what am I to do now? Scoop him up? With half the forces I need?"

"Come now, son. You are smarter than that. Think," she urged him.

"What are you saying?" He was in no mood for games.

"It must be done to him what is done to all things that cannot be controlled."

He stared blankly back at her, "You're suggesting…Kill Ivar?"

"What do you think is going to happen upon his return? If the Gods smile upon you, he will come back defeated with no one to support him. Then it would be only a matter of containing his pride. But if he comes back a victor with the crown of England atop his head, he will not stop there.

"I have seen him only once, and in that moment I knew one thing about Ivar the Boneless: he is insatiable. He will stop at nothing until he has everything."

Björn didn't know what caused him to feel a deep pit form in his stomach—her face or her words, but he leant back to sit up straighter in his chair, "Thank you, Earl, but I will deal with the matters of my people. You had your chance to rule, but you left—"

"No, I was left," she cut in harshly.

They were at a stalemate. Nothing either one of them said would prove powerful enough to move them forward or backward. They had wedged themselves into a corner of cold stares, quiet tongues, and wounded hearts.

Lagertha looked as if she was going to drop the subject, but hesitated, as if something struck her mind.

"His mother is dead."

"And?"

"Do you think he's going to come back quietly?"

"I will deal with Ivar when he comes home."

She scoffed, "Will you?"

"I will," he affirmed, his voice deepening in irritation.

"You had better make sure you have every one of your brothers bound to you before you do," she stated, "I fear what may happen if you don't."


His poison was a rough and deadly thing, the way I let it slip into me, between the bones of my spine. I reveled in every moment of it.

He was asleep now, and I peered at him over the crook of my elbow. How could such a waking giant be reduced to nothing more than a boy by mere slumber?

I laid flat alongside him, watching him. Watching him breathe, watching his eyelids flutter as he dreamt. Was he dreaming about England? Was he dreaming about me? I didn't know if the thought invigorated or frightened me more… When one has wormed their way into the heart of a beast, they should not forget who it is they have fallen for. Ivar was still a dangerous thing, love him though I did.

'Love him?' The sentiment was certainly news to me.

Well, maybe not love. Perhaps held a strong affection for. What was love supposed to feel like anyway? Sigge had always condemned it long before it began with anyone else—all as part of my conditioning for a greater purpose, or so she claimed.

As far as I could recollect, first came the sensation of butterflies in my stomach. Then a curiosity. And always before it progressed it was taken from me. I had never made it past the learning and exploring part.

And now here I lay with Ivar, naked and bare of soul. We had probed, ripped, and split each other's minds open with every intention of never putting them back together again. Where did that leave us? Where did that leave me?

Could I survive him?

What in the fuck had I gotten myself into?

My gaze never moved, remaining trained on his face. I closed my eyes to see the outlines of our spirits—his still a crackling red and mine a solid black. Except, maybe, his was a bit darker now. More burnt wood and smoldering ember than blood.

Forget it. This was war. A war I had won and lost in turn. To forsake the situation in favor of feelings would get me killed. It already almost had. Too many times I had succumb to hopelessness and reckless action. There was a place for feeling—back at home in Kattegat, in a warm bed full of furs. Not the muddy grounds of Wessex.

I trained my vision on Ivar once more.

"Damn it if he doesn't have a nice face though," I whispered, voice barely there.

"You think I have a nice face?" His mouth moved with a wry smile, but his eyes were firmly shut.

I bolted upright from where I lay, "How long have you been awake?"

"Long enough to hear you breathing like a bear in your sleep," he mocked. He had been awake the whole time! Heard every sigh, every contemplative breath. Felt the bed move when I shifted to get a better viewing angle.

"And you just laid there?" His smile only grew, and I slapped his shoulder in a play at discomfort, "You are a strange thing, Ivar the Boneless."

His smile faltered, and he made to grab his crutches and stand from the bed, "A thing?"

I huffed, "Oh, come now, you know what I mean!"

"I do," he said, but it sounded more like a question than a confirmation.

We might've had sex, but Ivar still wasn't past the point of deriving insult from every little word. If anything, he was more prone to it now.

Was he…Was this his way of showing that he trusted me? The more easily insulted, the more he had let me in and was looking for reasons to chew me up and spit me back out?

It all made sense.

I threw my arms around his shoulders where he sat on the edge of the cot and brought my lips up to his ear.

"A thing," I began, catching his ear in a small kiss for good measure, "Like the Gods, greater than comprehension."

His mouth twitched in the corner. He was mine.

"Greater than words," I finished and leaned forward to connect our lips. His hand was instantly behind my head, helping to keep me in place. In just a few short movements, he had laid us both down upon the furs, and my body thrummed in anticipation of having him once more.

But he stopped. He held himself aloft over me and simply looked. Not normally one to be self-conscious, I remained open before him, wondering what he could be thinking about. I didn't have to wait long for my answer.

"We have been fated by the Norns haven't we?" He asked, searching my face as he spoke. I could see the way his eyes moved back and forth between mine, anxious to see if some discrepancy would come to the surface. Anything that could convince him this was all a lie. Anything that could free him from the same vise-like grip I now felt in my own chest.

He wouldn't find it.

"No," I answered, watching his eyebrows draw together in confusion, "By all the Gods. By the AllFather himself."

My words invited a holy fire that burned inside our throats and bellies, and Ivar looked as if he was losing every last bit of restraint he possessed. He lunged.

"Ivar!"

We were apart in mere moments, but the intruder, Sigurd, had seen it all. He cleared his throat as he waited for us to regain our composure.

"What is it?" Ivar seethed at the interruption.

"They're almost here," Sigurd puffed, "Two day's ride, maybe less."

"Fucking who?" Ivar shouted.

"Who the fuck do you think?!" Sigurd shouted right back, "The fucking Christians!"

Ivar sat still for a moment. I could feel the speed with which his mind whirred.

"How many?"

"Some four thousand."

"Which direction are they approaching from?"

"North and west of here, somewhere near—"

"ON THE MAP!" Ivar bellowed once more, his frustration getting the better of him.

It was impossible. How could the English have mounted another attack with so many soldiers? Who was I not accounting for? It couldn't be the Welsh; they hated each other. No, it was someone else. Another player altogether. But who?

Could it be Alfred? Even with a handful of men, had he managed to mount a counterattack? She wouldn't put it past him. He was intelligent and resourceful above all, and when he felt something was bestowed upon him by God to do, he did it. No matter what happened or who died.

Sigurd moved to the map, doing his best to discern the position of the Englishmen within the blob of land that was this foreign land.

"Here," he pointed. It was just over a day and half ride north of here, they would be approaching from the north. They were headed for the towns in the region, collecting warriors on the way most likely.

Ivar looked to me. It was my turn to offer what I knew.

"They will want to pass around here," I indicated to a large, central portion of the map, "this is hill country. Great vantage points, you could see for rôsts in every direction. They will not want to be stopped here, otherwise we could have the advantage if we gain the high ground first."

"And where would that be?" Sigurd questioned.

I studied the map for a moment, "Here." I indicated the northern portion of where the high ground stopped.

"Uffentun," I explained, "It sits atop a high point along an ancient road. It's been unmanned for years but allows you to see north, east, and west at the same time. You could see which way they turn before they even know they're within our sights."

Ivar considered it for a moment before issuing his orders, "Gather the warriors, tell them we ride when the dagmark reaches the hádegi. Anything they cannot carry by then will be left."

Sigurd turned to leave the tent.

"Oh, and brother," Ivar called lowly. Sigurd turned back to face him.

"Have the prisoner ready to walk by my horse. I want him at the front," Ivar said with a smirk.

Prisoner? My attention perked at the that. He meant Æthelwulf, didn't he?

Sigurd stared at Ivar for a moment, bewildered by the request. I looked at him incredulously—why was he just standing there? Every minute wasted could have meant another man's life.

"NOW!" Ivar roared.

I felt a fluttering in her throat, the same feeling I always got when death was nearby. Swallowing, I reached out to touch Ivar but then thought better of it. He was in no mood for affection. To be honest, neither was I.

He glanced at me over his shoulder, taking in my tousled appearance. I had almost forgotten we had only really awoken moments ago.

"You will ride with me."


Wergild - Old English, 'man payment.' "In ancient Germanic law, the amount of compensation paid by a person committing an offense to the injured party or, in case of death, to his family." (Taken from Encyclopædia Brittanica, "Wergild")

Dagsslátta - An Old Norse unit of measurement, about three-quarters of an acre of grassland. Literally 'a day's mowing.' (Taken from The Viking Answer Lady, "Units of Measurement from Viking Age Law and Literature")

Norns - Female divine beings who make a control fate. (Taken from Norse Mythology for Smart People, "The Norns")

AllFather - Odin, ruler of the Aesir, king of the Gods.

Rôsts - About a mile. "Literally 'a rest' but used of the distance travelled between two rest-stops, a distance which varried by type of terrain but which was around a mile." (Taken from The Viking Answer Lady, "Units of Measurement from Viking Age Law and Literature")

Uffentun - Anglo-Saxon name for Uffington Castle, an early Iron Age hillfort in Oxfordshire, England. "The name is derived from Old English and means 'the tūn of Uffa's people'. The word tūn originally meant 'fence', but had come to mean an enclosure or homestead. (Taken from Wikipedia, "Uffington, Oxfordshire")

Dagmark, hádegi - Norse units of measuring time. A dagmark, or day mark, defined the time relative to the sun's position in the sky, usually in relation to recognizable landmarks i.e. mountains. Hádegi, meaning 'high day' corresponded to noon. (Taken from , "Telling Time Without a Clock: Scandinavian Daymarks")