Seahenge, 873

It had been years since Oswald had gone near the sea.

Here, the water was freezing, even in the summer, but as a boy that hadn't deterred him. Often he'd gone swimming with children from the village, and they had spent hours racing each other to the islet where he, Finnr and Eivor were currently headed. Lord Osmund had also enjoyed taking his family to the sea in his rare times of leisure. Oswald's parents would share a tender moment on the beach while Oswald would chase his little sisters in the water, pretending to be a monster from the deep. It was strange—and bittersweet—to think of that time; it almost felt as if those memories belonged to someone else, a boy living in a simpler world.

The day was still early when they arrived at the mouth of the river. A friendly fisherman had agreed to lend his boat to Oswald, though the man had grown quite uneasy at the sight of the two Danes accompanying him. The three of them sailed to the islet in silence. Grey clouds hung low in the sky—a sure promise of rain, in these parts.

"I don't like the look of this," Finnr said, pointing skyward as they disembarked on the small island.

"Well, in that case, the rain will wash my blood away from the sand," Oswald said, hoping that some levity would release the tight grip of fear over his heart. "Isn't that what you wished for?"

At these words, Finnr rolled his eyes. Eivor snorted out a laugh, though that was the extent of her response.

The islet was much as Oswald remembered, with only a few stunted trees growing amidst the swaying grass. Finnr walked to a larger, open space and began to draw a large square in the sand with the tip of his axe.

"Now tussle with care," he told Eivor, "and go easy on our future king. He is the only man left who can claim the crown."

"Kings are made, not born, Finnr," Eivor replied, her arms crossed. "So let us see what we can make of Oswald."

Not much, were the first words to emerge of Oswald's mind at her statement. He smothered that thought. Oswald could not give them yet another reason to scorn him—to scorn the people of East Anglia. Show some grit, Eivor had told him. Well, he would show her grit, if only to hang on some semblance of pride.

Finnr finished his work, standing up. "Done."

"You've still got the touch for drawing a square," Eivor commented.

"I've been in East Anglia many summers now," Finnr said, "but I'll always be a Dane."

Oswald felt nauseous at the sight of the marks in the sand. "Must we do this, Eivor?"

"Strength and courage are always a boon, Oswald," she answered. "You'll need both if you want the Danes to accept you as a king.

"True strength comes from resolve, Eivor," Oswald said, citing his father's words. "It speaks to us, a stern voice from within."

"I have never heard of talking guts," Eivor said, shrugging. "But a swift axe would silence that inner voice in seconds. You must be prepared."

She faced Oswald from the other end of the square, cracking her knuckles and stretching her limbs.

"Wait," he said, "you're unarmed."

"And you should thank your god that I am," Eivor replied, with clear amusement.

She doesn't mean to kill me. Oswald had suspected it, but still, that realization meant one less weight on his shoulders.

"Well?" Eivor jutted her chin at him. "What are you waiting for?"

Oswald drew his father's sword. It seemed impossibly heavy in his hand. His palms were moist, and his knees could not stop shaking. Oswald inhaled sharply, hoping to quiet his pounding heart. He glanced up at Eivor through bangs slick with sweat—and rainwater, he soon realized. A light drizzle was now falling upon them. Eivor kept smirking.

With a shaky cry, Oswald launched himself at her, sword in the air.

His blade came down upon empty air; Eivor had lazily stepped to the side, evading his attack. Oswald let out another scream, turning to strike at her once more. She deflected his sword with a clever twist of the arm, the sharp edge sliding off her leather bracer. Then, Eivor shoved at him with her shoulder. Oswald staggered backward, but he managed to stay on his feet.

That seemed to please her greatly. "Come, now!" Eivor said. "We will forge a king out of you yet!"

Oswald lunged at her, making an horizontal sweep. Again, his attack failed to connect, though this time Eivor gave him no chance to mount a second offence. Instead, she punched him in the stomach, and the world went white for a moment. Before Oswald could reassess himself, she followed with another jab, sending him tumbling to the wet sand below.

Oswald moaned in pain, holding his belly. He could taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth; he'd bitten his tongue in his fall.

"First lesson," Eivor said. "Your sword gives you better reach than my fists. Don't get too close in range to an enemy if you can avoid it."

Oswald rose on shaky feet. He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving Eivor. She fell into a fighting stance. Oswald surged forward with another yell. He swung his sword, hoping to land a hit on Eivor's exposed flank. As the blade came closer and closer to its target, Oswald hesitated, seized by a brief panic, and he slowed his motion before the attack could connect. In response, Eivor swept at his knee with her leg, making fall once more.

"Second lesson," she said, as Oswald writhed beneath her. "Don't ever hold back."

It took Oswald more time to stand up this time. The world was slightly swaying in front of his eyes.

"You felt that one, didn't you?" Eivor said.

"I'm still here, aren't I?" Oswald said, almost snarling.

Finnr was chuckling. "Hard to believe this one will marry Valdis, don't you think?"

That sent Oswald's blood surging in his ears. With an inarticulate sound of rage, he rushed forward, attacking Eivor again and again and again. She evaded the bite of his sword handily enough, though he felt a swell of savage vindication when his blade grazed across her cheek, drawing blood. Eivor's grin grew wider.

"Third lesson!" she called; Oswald was slightly relieved to realize she seemed as out of breath as he was. "Use your shield! Push at your opponent to break their defence, or…"

Eivor lunged toward Oswald, showing incredible speed. With a powerful swipe of the arm, she knocked his shield out of his hand, making him fall to his rear in the process.

"…they will break yours instead," Eivor completed, towering over him. Oswald held his shield arm, eyes blurring with tears.

"Ha!" Finnr exclaimed. "You expect the Danes to follow this pork belly?"

Oswald was trembling with pain and rage and humiliation. He planted his sword in the ground to hoist himself up. "I'm..." he growled, showing bloodied teeth in an expression of pure fury, "I'm still breathing, aren't I?"

Eivor motioned at him with her chin; God, Oswald realized, she was goading him. His blood boiled at the sight. "Show me what you can do, Saxon."

"Come now!" Finnr hollered. "Inspire us, king!"

Oswald's strength should have started to wane by now, yet he still found himself charging at Eivor with a scream, sword aloft in the air. Only one of his attacks hit its target—marking her upper arm—but Oswald's blood sang at this victory, however small it was. Eivor retaliated by striking him twice, once on the flank, the other in the middle of chest, sending him stumbling back.

"You'll never be king at this rate!" Finnr called, the laughter evident in his voice. "Is this the best East Anglia has to offer?"

"Yes…" Oswald spat blood at the ground, grimacing through the agony, "and I'll... I'll prove it!"

"Come on!" Eivor roared. "Fight!"

God, everything was swimming in front of Oswald's eyes. He was soaked through and through with rain and sweat, and the front of his tunic was splattered by the blood pouring out of his mouth. It would be easy, so easy, to just give up, to let himself fall off his feet, to slip into the ever-tempting comfort of oblivion.

"Finish this, Eivor." Finnr's voice was muffled, almost as if it was coming from far away. "It pains me to watch."

With great effort, Oswald dragged one foot forward, then the other. The raspy noises leaving his mouth barely sounded as if they belonged to a man. He held his sword with both hands in an effort to steady it. Eivor was but a blur in front of him. Once he was close enough, Oswald raised his blade above his head with a desperate howl of rage, all of his muscles screaming in agony. He brought his blade down—on empty space, of course Eivor had evaded that sluggish attempt—and his knees gave away immediately after. Oswald collapsed on the cold sand without making so much of a sound.

A blurred figure crouched next to him. Oswald's mind struggled to see who it was through the haze of pain clouding it.

"Eivor is the victor," Finnr said, in a strangely thoughtful tone. "But you've shown us something, Oswald."

"Stay down, Oswald." Another blur. Oswald recognized that voice as Eivor's. "That's enough."

Oswald clutched his side, trying to move. His legs just would not cooperate. At least, it had stopped raining. "I will..." he rasped, those two simple words costing him so much, "I will not stay down."

"You fought bravely," Eivor said. Now that his vision had cleared, he could see her smile. "Not with great skill, but with spirit. And courage. Always push back with everything you have, even if you have to get dirty, even if you must break the rules. Because there are no rules, not if you answer a challenge head-on. That's where honour lies."

The fog was starting to lift from his mind. Oswald mulled over her words with slow consideration. "Not winning the fight… but living through it."

"Yes. This is my last and most important lesson." Eivor handed a drinking pouch to Oswald, before standing up. "Sit here and rest, Oswald. Finnr will endeavour to find enough dry wood to make a fire while I'll catch us dinner… won't he?"

The old man grumbled, but he did as she asked while Oswald drank from the pouch. The ale made his mouth feel as if it was on fire, and Oswald coughed and wheezed, eyes welling up once more. Still, he kept drinking; his fight with Eivor had left his mouth parched dry. Afterward, he wiped his brow with his scarf. With some surprise, Oswald realized there was no bruise on his face. Eivor had made sure not to strike at his head. It was a small mercy, but one he welcomed nonetheless.

When Eivor returned, three fat fish hanging from her perch, Oswald was already feeling a bit better, despite the deep bruises that were surely forming all over his body. They ate in silence around the campfire, and sunlight peeked timidly out of the clouds. A good omen, Oswald thought, managing a smile.

The sun had fully come out when Finnr finished his meal. In silence, the steward went to face the sea, dropping into the sand with a sigh. Oswald followed suit, sitting next to him. The old man cracked one eye open to glance at him.

"What on earth are you doing, Finnr?" Oswald said. "You look like an old seal soaking up the sun."

Eivor sat on Finnr's other side. "Because of all that blubber?"

"How droll you are," Finnr said, voice dryer that the sand surrounding them. "See how I laugh, see."

"Still, this is rather soothing, I must admit," Oswald said, watching the coming and going of the surf on the beach. "It's been far too long since I've come to the sea."

"For us Norse folk, seawater sings in our veins," Eivor said. "Our ships and the whale-roads they traverse are the true homes of our hearts."

"Gods, yes," Finnr said.

His tone was wistful, unusually so. Oswald took note of this strange show of emotion, wondering what it meant.

"I've never sailed the sea, but I do enjoy swimming," he said. "Though as a child, my mother would often not let me. I had dreams about falling from a great height and drowning. These nightmares of mine would frighten her."

Eivor frowned. "It is well known that the gods often use dreams to offer us glimpses of the Nornir's great tapestry."

Finnr looked equally disturbed. Oswald chuckled, waving a hand around.

"Oh, superstitions, superstitions!" he said. "I doubt there is anything to be gleaned out of some nightly delusion."

"Your priests drink wine and pretend it's your prophet's blood," Finnr said, bluntly. "I don't see how dream-visions are any more ludicrous."

"You've been to a Christian mass?"

"I was curious," Finnr muttered. "Aethelred brought me to a few of your Sunnudagr ceremonies."

Oswald bit down a laugh, imagining Finnr sitting on a pew in church. He was struck with a sudden idea. "Finnr, I was thinking… would you tell me about your gods? I'd rather know more about Valdis's faith."

Finnr shrugged, glancing to his right. "Eivor?"

"I've not the wise words of a völva, but…" The corners of Eivor's mouth tugged into a slight smile. "I do enjoy telling stories, and no tales are more glorious than the trials and tribulations of the High Ones."

And so she stood and spoke of her gods, of guileful Odin and ill-tempered Thor, of golden Freyr and his sister Freyja, of all-seeing Heimdallr and deceitful Loki. It was strange, the way she talked of these fantastical figures; Eivor's gods were tangible to her in a way that was difficult to fathom for a Christian mind. Oswald commented to that effect, and Eivor seemed pleased by his curiosity.

"Our gods often thread the ground of Midgard, yes," she said, "especially old Odin. If you are met with a one-eyed wanderer with a raven companion and a fondness for games of wit, accept his counsel and offer him the gift of your knowledge. You will be glad of it."

Oswald glanced at Sýnin, who was feeding on the scraps of food left by the fireside, and he raised one eyebrow. Eivor, amusingly enough, remained unaware of his reaction. She only continued to spin yarns about her gods' greatest glories—and their greatest follies. She was in the middle of a particularly enthusiastic retelling of the time the thunder god Thor had fished the World Serpent out of the sea when Finnr stood up, stretching and making his joints pop.

"It's getting late," the steward said, pointing to the sun as it dipped closer to the horizon. "The boy has rested long enough, I think."

"So I have," Oswald said, with a tired chuckle. He made to stand, and his aching legs protested at the treatment. Eivor moved toward him, holding up her hand. Oswald smiled as he took it, and she helped him to his feet.

"This experience," he added, sweeping the dirt from his tunic, "though quite painful, was also… strangely invigorating."

"You've taken a liking to the heat of battle, then?" Eivor said, teasing.

"I wouldn't say that, but…" Oswald's expression grew sheepish. "It feels as if my mind has grown somehow clearer. Thank you, Eivor."

Eivor seemed amused and baffled in equal parts by his words of gratitude. Finnr simply pawned at his beard.

"A seaside brawl won't change the brothers' minds," he said. "Oswald must show results. Redress old wrongs. Fight back against Rued and his men."

Oswald quickly assessed their options. "The raiders who attacked Beteleah have a camp down the coast," he said. "The sooner we remove them, the better." That camp was also disturbingly close to Elmenham. Oswald could no longer ignore that threat.

"That would go a long way to building you up," Finnr said, nodding. "And if you brought gifts for the brothers, spoils from the raid, they'd be in your debt. Eivor, I expect your crew could help with this attack. You left your longship in Northwic, didn't you?"

"Yes," Eivor said, "With some luck, they haven't burned the whole place down in my absence. Or drank the entirety of your ale supplies."

Finnr scowled, and she huffed out a laugh in response.

"Save for my predecessor Aethelred," Oswald mused, "no Saxon has been willing to take a stand against Rued's clan before. We're a kingdom of farmers and merchants."

"Even farmers and merchants can fight when led by the right person," Eivor said.

"I hope your faith in pig farmers is not misplaced, Eivor," Finnr said.

"There is work to do, yes," Oswald admitted. "But we will rise to meet Rued's clan. God will make certain of it."

Eivor nodded. "Time to wet your blade, lord. Will you be ready when I bring my longship to Elmenham?"

I most definitely won't, Oswald thought. "Yes," he said, instead.

Elmenham, 873

Finnr stayed in Elmenham to teach Oswald the basics of battle while Eivor returned to Northwic. The old man was a decidedly less violent tutor, though he had far less patience for Oswald's blunders. When he was not subjecting Oswald to gruelling sparring sessions, Finnr had him running around the village and working on exercises meant to build up his strength. The steward seemed grudgingly impressed by Oswald's physical aptitudes.

"We're a village of farmers," Oswald had explained, a bit peevishly. "What do you think we do all day, lounge in the sun? When it is time for the harvest, the strength of every arm is needed."

At these words, Finnr had given him a strange look. "Fair enough. At least you'll have the stamina for battle. Now, only time will tell if you have the stomach for it..."

Three days after Oswald's seaside duel with Eivor, a scout came riding into town, screaming that a Dane longship was making its way upriver. The whole of Elmenham was in uproar after this, and Oswald spent the better part of his morning assuring his people that no harm would come to their families or livelihoods.

"The Raven clan are our allies," he told the frightened villagers assembled before him in front of the longhouse. He'd made sure to wear his father's armour, hoping that it would bring them some comfort to know he was going to fight on their behalf, much like Lord Osmund had once done. "Together, we will put an end to the raiders causing trouble across in Norfulc. This, I promise you."

"Have you gone mad, lord?" Wayland shouted. "They'll fight by your side, aye, but the moment they'll have what they seek, those beasts will return here and burn Elmenham to the ground!"

"You've brought doom upon us all!" cried Cwenburg, Sigelm's wife. "God will punish us for your ill show of mercy!"

Oswald's smile almost dissipated. Almost. She could be right. It would be ever so easy for Eivor and her crew to disembark from that longship and lay waste to Elmenham. He could indeed have brought a pack of ravenous wolves within their village. And yet…

"As my mother has always said," Oswald proclaimed, "act in kindness once, and that kindness will be repaid a thousandfold later on. I trust in Eivor, and in Finnr as well. I simply—and humbly—ask that you trust me in return."

His words were met with doubtful mutters on the crowd's part. Then, there was a great cry, and people began to point toward the docks. Oswald saw that great blue-green sail gliding across the river—and felt his heart lodging in his throat. All of his instincts—finely sharpened after five years of hellish raids—were telling him to run. Oswald looked at the carved dragon's head at the bow, and all he could see was the fleet of black-sailed ships storming Northwic after King Edmund's defeat outside of Theotford.

The villagers swarmed into the longhouse, screaming, yet Oswald simply stood still, unable to move a muscle, fighting his own desire to turn tail and flee. Then he took one step forward—and that was it. Oswald went against the tide of people surging away from the docks, marching toward whatever fate he would find there.

Finnr was already waiting by the river's edge. "Gods…" he said, breathlessly, as the longship made to dock. "What a beauty she is!"

Eivor jumped from the boat, landing next to him with almost inhuman grace. "Isn't she? People have fallen in love with less."

Finnr touched the intricate carvings at the bow. "By Thor's beard, I'd take her out for a trip, I would."

"In your dreams, old man," Eivor answered. Finally, she noticed Oswald. "My lord! Already dressed for war, are you? That's a fine helm you have."

Oswald adjusted his father's helmet. It seemed almost too big for him—as did the rest of Lord Osmund's mail, in fact. "I'm ready, yes."

With her help, he climbed into the longship, finding himself faced by an entire crew of Norse warriors in full battle gear. The savage markings and scars upon their faces only added to their frightful appearances. Oswald's mouth grew dry as he felt their stares upon him; the sight was more daunting than he would have expected.

One shieldmaiden could not stop looking at Oswald. Both sides of her head were shaved, leaving only a strip of dark hair at the top. "Is that him?" she said to Eivor. "That's the lordling we're taking a-viking?"

"Yes," Eivor answered. "That's Thegn Oswald of Elmenham."

In response, the whole of her crew burst into laughter. Oswald sighed, having well expected that reaction by now.

"He looks like some poor lad who stole his father's armour!" the shieldmaiden said. "Look at that wee little face, look at it!"

"Birna," Eivor chided, though she was only half-serious.

"It is my father's armour," Oswald said. "I'll grow into it, eventually." He thought quickly about it, then added, "Give or take a dozen years, I'd say." He was relieved to hear Birna and a few others give a slight chuckle at this feeble jest.

"Today, you'll honour the man's name by fighting these curs," Eivor said. "The whole of your father's line must be looking at you from your heaven, Oswald. Make them proud."

"Have you ever killed a man before, little lord?" Birna asked; there was a strange gleam in her eyes, one that made Oswald rather uneasy.

"No," he said. That would not be the answer that those war-hardened raiders would want to hear, and so he added, "But I've been in battle. Against the Ragnarssons."

"Worthy foes, to be sure," Eivor commented. "Worthier than that scum Rued."

Worthy. Danes and Norses seemed fixated on that concept. They were as terrified of being found unworthy as Christians were afraid of the evil of temptation. Oswald mulled over this information, wondering how he could put that knowledge to good use.

He turned to look upon his village. A surprising number of people had come out of the longhouse. They stood at a reasonable distance from the docks, holding on to each other for support, their faces heavy with suspicion and worry.

"One moment, Eivor," Oswald said. "I must address my people." He held on to the railing of the ship, trying to keep himself steady. "Everyone! I will return by the end of the day, bringing forth a victory for East Anglia! The first of many, God willing!"

His words were only met with silence and apprehensive looks. Oswald's own people doubted him. No wonder the Danes did not want to back his claim.

"I will return!" he called, in a louder voice. Oswald would not show just how much their lack of faith affected him. "Trust that the Lord will see us through these hardships! And keep Elmenham safe in my absence!"

Before his courage could fail him, Oswald went to sit in the longship, heart pounding. There, the die was cast. All Oswald could do now was to trust in Eivor and her people. Common sense dictated that he remained cautious; he was surrounded by barbarous heathens, after all. Still, as he wrapped his hands around the oar, another feeling bloomed inside his chest, one he had not felt for years.

Hope. The presence of these brutish warriors filled him with hope. Oswald could have almost laughed at the absurdity of it all.

"All right!" Eivor said fiercely, taking place at the ship's bow. "Time to go a-viking, my ravens. We'll leave none of that vermin alive! To war!"

She raised her axe in the air, and her crew returned her cry with equal fervour. Oswald could feel their voices booming in his very ribcage, and the stomping of their feet made it so the whole world appeared to be shaking as well. God, it felt as if his insides had turned to mush… and yet he found himself inhabited by a strange, primal sort of feeling, and he punched in the air as well, shouting alongside the raiders of the Raven clan, "To war! TO WAR!"