And then came The Rain. Endless, devastating.

Arrows were pouring down like hail, people lay soaked through with blood.

Ghosts will be there in the shadows, in the darkness. Always hiding, shielding themselves with their arms.

Whip.

Pray. Be God merciful on you.

Whip.

Pray.

Whip.

Amen.

The flames will purify the ground. Screams of death will live on forever. Stifled but never silenced.

There was someone who obviously was not happy to see him back.

That bitch Margaret was now Ubbe's wife and was harder to get rid of. He should have ripped her damned tongue out and choke her to death long ago.

'How is it going, Margaret?' He sat down on the bench opposite to where she was sitting. 'I cannot express how happy I am to have you as a part of our family,' his lips twisted into a malicious smile.

'I hope your wife has learned to keep her mouth shut, brother,' he turned his eyes, full of hatred, on Margaret. 'Last time I recall she used to be in a habit of talking idly.'

She froze under his gaze, blood evaporated from her face. The picture was so pathetic. She might have thought her position now would insure her power or even authority. But once a slave, always a slave. With a sheepish look on her face she glanced at him, not daring to linger her eyes longer, her lashes flattered. He smirked and looked away. The fact that she was still deathly scared of him was pleasing, though. He won't kill her. Not now.

He will break her. He will do the same she'd done to him.

'So, Hwits isn't planning to return yet?'

'Return?' Ivar let out a scoff. 'I doubt that very much. Got himself a Christian lass, that son of a bitch. No offence, mother. Just saying,' He turned to Aslaug who frowned with a half-smile, feigning indignation.

'I cannot see our father. Not that I'm surprised, though. Just his crippled son's back home. Not a big deal.'

'Right. You haven't heard,' Ubbe gave him a quick look and exchanged understanding glances with Aslaug.

'What is it that I need to hear?' Ivar raised his brow, cocking his head to the right side.

Ubbe slowly poured himself some more ale and came to the table. He hesitated for a moment, lingering his fingers on his cup.

'Remember the settlement our father had established on The British Isles?'

Ivar nodded, his mug slowed down an inch from his mouth.

'Turned out it'd been destroyed by King Egbert, like a decade ago', his brother went on.

Ivar's eyes glanced from under his brows.

'Our father knew it all along'.

'And didn't say anything?'

Ubbe shook his head.

Thousands of thoughts were whirling in Ivar's head but in one thing he was sure. He could not judge him. The settlement established even before Ivar was born, was the greatest hope for all their people. And although being in doubts in enemy king's credibility, too much faith was put into those lands.

'So?' He gestured at Ubbe to continue, 'how did you find out?'

'Birka sent its men to Northumbria last summer. They said the settlement had been burned to the ground. Not even a log left.'

'Yeah-yeah, I had a pleasure to meet a couple of men from Birka. Didn't seem especially bright on that point. They were sure they'd spotted the right place of the settlement?' The corner of his lip tugged lazily.

'There were survivors. Not many, but…' Ubbe twisted his lips wistfully and sap at his ale.

The realization hit Ivar like a lightning bolt.

'Don't tell me Ragnar's…'

'Yeah, he sailed to England. A few days ago.'

Ivar clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes.' You can't be serious,' but the silence of his brother spoke better than words.

'How many ships?'

'Nine or ten. I…'

But Ubbe didn't have a chance to finish. Ivar slammed his fist against the surface of the table so hard that the cups and mugs clattered and some liquid they contained spilled and soaked through the wood. On the opposite side of the table Margaret squeezed her eyes shut and hunched her shoulders.

'You're kidding me? Ten boats? You let him go?' He almost jumped up from his chair leaning to Ubbe. His face was furious.

'He wouldn't listen, we did what we could,' Ubbe's voice was calm but his eyes avoided meeting his brothers'.

'I can't believe we're talking about my father,' he growled. 'Old fool!'

'Don't you think you're just the same, Ivar?' Aslaug spoke. Her voice soft but steady. 'You're both stubborn as mules, if something gets into your heads. Were you listening when we asked you to not go to Ireland?'

'Hmm,' Ivar took a big gulp from his mug and twisted his lips. 'So why exactly did you ask me that, mother? Because we had not enough ships or men? Ah, no-no-no,' he shook his finger, ' let me guess… because I'm a cripple?' He snapped back and pierced his eyes into his mother's face. Aslaug's eyes grew wide. She looked at him for a moment but said nothing.

'Old fool', Ivar thought again.

There was always unsaid rivalry between them. Whenever they spoke to each other, it would most likely turn into an argument. His ever justice-searching father. Lucky bastard to linger in power for so long with such a naivety, Ivar thought angrily as he sat on the edge of his bed taking off the braces from his legs.

It was his choice after all. His father knew what's at stake, and went there anyway. He was fooled by some pathetic king. Again he thought that the one he was thinking about was not like his father. But, unfortunately, it was. A mixed feeling of anger and shame was clawing his chest. He was wondering what was more humiliating - to have a crippled son or a stupid father. Maybe equal. But at least he was alive and Ragnar was rowing towards his death.