Note: Been thinking about this story idea for a while now. I've been a big fan of the Last Kingdom and its source material, The Saxon Chronicles for years now. Ever since it first started airing. That being said, I was so busy with my classes and my other stories that I couldn't justify starting it…. That of course has changed. This whole process is about my enjoyment as a writer, so if a fun idea pops into my head I'm going to write it.

Note: That doesn't mean of course that I've given up on my other stories. I'm currently working on the next chapters of Black Prince, Earth 33145, True Way of the Sith, Potter DXD, and a couple of surprises as well. But between the heavy summer course load at my university it might take me a while to write and edit all of those.

Note: Since this is taking place after the Battle of Hogwarts there is obviously not going to be an issue of a horcrux in his head.

Note: Also playing with the timeline of the Hogwarts founders because… why the hell not? In addition since their dynamics are a little vague in the books, I'm making Godric and Rowena siblings. Why? Cause it's funny. Come at me bro!

A Wizard In King Alfred's Court

Part One - A Journey Begins

Harry was dizzy. There was really no other way to describe his current experience. He couldn't see anything, he could not move though the sound reaching his ears seemed to imply his heels were dragging against stone, and his head seemed to be spinning.

What had happened? The last thing he remembered was falling asleep in the great hall next to Hermione. A position the two had become very comfortable with ever since Ron had left them in the woods all those months ago. Stupid git, couldn't handle a lack of regular meals for a few fucking months. Regardless of that mess of a friendship, they'd succeeded. Last night the worst dark lord in Britain's history had died at his hands, and though the losses were great peace had finally been restored. So why had he apparently been kidnapped?

He was to get his answer sooner than he thought as a leather sack was suddenly ripped from his head, and as if earmuffs had come with it sound returned as well as light. He groaned as the words of a pitched argument finally registered in his mind. His arms were bound in front of him and he was laying on the stone steps leading up to the veil of death.

"If we are going to do this then he deserves to know why." An aged woman with a giant hat featuring a bird of some kind was arguing with a crowd of similarly aged individuals. No, on closer inspection quite a few were actually quite young, but they were hiding behind the rest. In spite of the terrible circumstances he found himself in, Harry recognized that hat. He'd seen it the day Neville confronted his boggart.

"Mrs. Longbottom?" He wheezed through a very dry throat. Had they stunned him too? "What the hell is going on?" He tried to sit up and the entire population of the room pointed wands at him. Under his breath, so low only he could hear, he intoned, "Transmittere." and smiled as he saw a small runic circle light up on the back of his hand. Out loud once more he asked, "Mrs. Longbottom, you've clearly dragged me into the death chamber against my will, so I ask again, what the hell is going on?"

The woman gave one last glare to the others in her group of conspirators and marched sadly over to him, tears were gathering in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Harry. Truly, I am so, so sorry. If there were any other way, if you were anyone else, I swear we would not be doing this."

Already thinking he knew the answer Harry asked, "Doing what?"

Augusta Longbottom, Grandmother to Neville, matriarch of House Longbottom, shuddered terribly and fell to her knees before the boy who lived, the savior of the wizarding world, her grandson's closest friend, and a boy who by all rights should have been raised in her own house. "You're too powerful, Harry. As Sirius' heir, combined with the inheritance from your parents you'd hold two full seats on the wizengamont, your family wealth is massive beyond anyone else in our country, and now by slaying V-Voldemort," even now she struggled with the name, "there is not a bill you'd sponsor that wouldn't get passed into law. You're going to be that popular."

"I'm not seeing the problem."

The aged woman took a deep breath as she gazed at those gathered behind her before looking back at him, "We of the wizengamont cannot let someone who has such pro-muggleborn ideals hold that much sway in our government. Too many of our old number have already died, so the muggleborn voice is going to be loud enough as it is without your added support. You… have to die. To disappear." She gazed forlornly at the veil, "I'm so terribly sorry."

Harry's eyes shot wide open. He had expected many reasons for what they were clearly about to do, but that one? From her? "Neville told me you supported muggleborns!"

"I do!" She tried to defend herself, "But they still must have their place. As all people must. Killing them off or exiling them completely would destroy our gene pool, decimate our population, and ruin our economy. We know that. But if you were to back the measures we know you would then they would quickly find themselves elevated to be our equals! We would lose everything."

Harry sneered at the crying face of the guilty woman before him. "So in the end, all you care about is your own position and greed. Hermione was right. There's not a single one of you that's worth saving. I can't believe Neville believes in you."

"I'm doing this for Neville!" She exclaimed. "When I am gone he will be the Lord Longbottom and it is his birthright to stand at the top of our society. To hold the honor and prestige his position will represent. How can he do that if the social classes no longer exist?"

"Hmph." Harry created the most disrespectful sound he could in his throat. "That's the biggest load of crap I've ever heard, and I had to sit through Voldemort monologuing about blood purity in my fourth year at Hogwarts. You can justify this to yourself all you want, but in the end it's all about your own greed and fear. Fear of an unknown future where you aren't at the top of the food chain anymore. You know I'm right, and you know it because if Neville were here he'd be screaming in your face and disowning you as a member of his family."

The heartbroken look that passed her face let him know that he was completely right. "It doesn't matter." She whispered, "Neville will never know what happened to you. No one will. No one saw our agents take you from the great hall and tomorrow morning an emergency update from the Daily Prophet will report you went off to live the rest of your life in solitude."

Augusta expected many responses to her words. Anger, frustration, despair, a fresh tirade that she would not be able to dispute about how she was no better than the death eaters he'd killed during the war. But she was utterly unprepared for the booming laughter that left his throat.

He laughed, roared, cackled, and eventually turned his bound wrists enough to show off the glowing circle on the back of his hand. "Funny thing, Augusta." He sneered her name with all the contempt and malice contained in his body. There was quite a lot of it at this point. "You see when we were running the DA we were always worried that one of us would be interrogated by Umbridge and be forced to reveal too much. So we created these transmitter runes to alert the others and let them listen in for names of found students that needed to hide from her little inquisition. During the war they became even more necessary for the same reason, what with your ministry's crackpot trials and pagrams." He looked out on the gathered wizengamont members, "That's right, we know the names of each and every one of you that sentenced innocent witches and wizards to death!" His eyes went back to the face of Augusta, now pale as death as she realized what this meant.

"Neville has one of these too." His grin was sharklike, so full of teeth was it. "My only regret is that I won't get to see him look at you with nothing but shame, hatred, and utter loathing. I hope you live for many years more in the hell you've created for yourself."

"Enough of this!" A grey haired man with a mustache pushed his way through the crowd, leveled his wand at Harry's chest and shouted, "Bombarda!"

A red light impacted the body of the boy who lived, and he found himself pushed across the floor and through the twisting mist of the veil of death.

Years later Harry would only be able to describe three things about what transpired in that dark place between places. First, the crunching of bone as his ribs forced themselves back into place after the attack. Second, a cold as deep as ice sinking into his bones. Third, a voice as devoid of humanity as nails scraping across a chalkboard. It only spoke six words, "It is not yet your time."

The next thing he knew he was crashing onto the ground as if he were being ejected from a faulty portkey. Grass lay beneath him, clear blue skies above, and in the distance naught but mountains and fields. Not a single modern building in sight.

'Well' he thought as he stumbled into a pained sitting position 'as the American's would say, I'm not in Kansas anymore.'

The next few weeks proved to be quite informative for the young wizard. He ran into his first problems when he approached a caravan of apparent traders. From them three things became quickly apparent. First, he didn't speak the language. Second, there was no way he was in the same time period he had left. Third, and most important, he looked absolutely ridiculous in his jeans and ratty t-shirt to these people.

Thinking rapidly he drew the elder wand behind his back, keeping it from view. (His kidnappers had taken his other wand when he was unconscious but when he landed here the three treasures of death had been waiting in his pockets. Strange that.) Casting a translation spell he'd learned from Hermione when the two had briefly discussed fleeing to France, he readdressed the traders and quickly deduced he was indeed in the land of Denmark. That easily explained the mountains and sea in the distance. Furthermore, from the way these people talked about jarls and longships he guessed he was in the viking age. Fucking fantastic.

A quick conjuration of golden coins later and the wizard left the now ecstatic traders having attained loose pants, a sturdy jerkin, and a heavy cloak to block the wind and rain. A bit longer had gone into haggling over the price of the sword on his waist, but he figured it couldn't hurt to have a physical method of defense as well as magical. He'd read a bit about this period of history while traveling the wilds with Hermione, how could he not when she carried an entire library everywhere she went, and from what he knew he definitely wanted to be as armed as possible.

He spent the next four months wandering the strange land he found himself in. With no real goals or objectives in this time he mainly just wanted to see what was out there. Though his path to this place was rocky and depressing, he felt strangely lighter because of it. For the first time he was free of conflicts, responsibilities, prophecies, and expectations. He could actually live for himself! Harry walked, he watched, drank and told stories in mead halls when he reached settlements, and here and there he found warriors willing to teach him a bit of swordplay for gold. He wasn't a master by any means but at least he could handle the blade without cutting his own limbs off. When he looked back at how he used to handle the sword of Gryffindor he shuddered as he considered how lucky he had been with it.

That brought a strange query to his mind one day as he found himself alone in a field. Was Hogwarts around at this time? He didn't really know, but supposedly the sword of Godric would always come to those that truly needed it. Not seeing a problem with trying, he pictured the blade in his mind, imagined it in his hand and only opened his eyes when the familiar weight settled there. He smiled at the intricate weapon before releasing it and watching it disappear before hitting the ground. "I'm sorry friend," he spoke as if the sword was alive, "but I don't have a need for you right now. All the same, thank you for coming."

A Castle Tower in Scotland

Rowena was just settling into the comfy chair behind her desk with a book when her offish muscle-head of a big brother burst into her chamber, a wild look on his face.

"Ro!"

She slammed her book down on the hardwood of her desk, effectively cutting him off before he could say what he came to. "Godric, how many times have I told you not to refer to me by that horrible nickname?" Her thick Scottish brogue was so sickeningly sweet that the red headed warrior couldn't help but gulp in fear. His sister was merciless with her revenge pranks.

"Sorry, Ro-Rowena."

"Better." the statuesque woman leaned back on her chair and crossed her legs on top of the desk. Aw but it felt good to remind her sibling who the real top dog in the family was. "Now what was so important you had to go lumbering up here like a bull?"

"Oh!" The man exclaimed as if he'd actually forgotten his reasons for coming. "This!" he ripped his sword off his hip and slammed it on her desk.

Rowena gave the man a very unimpressed look. "Explain please. Unless this is just you bragging about getting a goblin made sword again, in which case I'll be throwing you out my window."

Godric shuddered at that threat. It wouldn't be the first time his sister had followed through on it. Speaking up quickly he said, "I'm not here to brag, sister. My sword it… disappeared. It was only for a few seconds but one moment it was safely on my waist and the next it wasn't, until it was again. I don't know what to make of it."

"Hm." Rowena folded her hands under chin as she considered this problem. It only took her clever mind a few seconds to come up with a theory. "Godric, you didn't happen to tie your blade to the school and your bloodline did you? Against the law of goblin reaquisition?" The guilty look on his face was more than enough answer for her. She groaned, "Putting aside the headache that is most certainly going to cause in the future, I'd say we have two possibilities here. First, a student in need called for it. However, considering we only have forty pupils at the moment and only a few over the age of twelve I highly doubt any have problems big enough to require a sword to solve them."

"Then what's the second theory?"

"I was just getting to that, big brother. Now, if you have indeed also tied it to your bloodline then the simplest solution would be that it was called for by one of your heirs."

The man paled. "Ro, I swear I've been careful. I've cast the spell every time I've humped a girl since I was a teenager."

"Stop calling me Ro." The woman groused before levering her feet back to the floor. "Listen Godric, what I'm saying is that we might need to consider the possibility that one of your heirs has traveled through time."

The redhead's eyes grew as wide as saucers. "Is that even possible?"

"Who knows. Magic is weird sometimes. Now off with you. I have a book to finish."

The big man left, grumbling all the while as his sister smiled behind the safety of her pages. Aw yes, it felt good to be the headmistress. Salazar got his dank dungeons, Helga her kitchens and infirmary, Godric his constantly shifting training room, but she got the best perk of all… bossing her big brother around.

Denmark

Harry was having a very nice evening all things considered. Yes he was technically homeless and sleeping in the tall grass, but he also had the vast expanse of stars over his head and the quiet music of nature in his ears. The peace he felt in this moment had him wondering if he'd have enjoyed his time in the wilderness during his old life if he hadn't been on the run to survive the whole time.

Those musings were suddenly interrupted as the peace of the night was broken by the shrill screech of horses and the screams of children calling for help. Jumping up in place the wizard drew his wand and sword in either hand and ran towards the sounds. As it turned out, even in this new world he had a noble streak when children were in danger.

It only took a few minutes of running to track down the source. A large farmhouse was being circled by a group of armed horsemen. They were clearly terrorizing a family clustered together in front of it behind a rather large pair of men, one dark of hair and the other gray. There was a woman and two children. That last observation decided Harry's course of action. With a roar he charged in casting cutting curses at every rider he could see. By the time he made it to the main group ten bodies littered the ground.

One man hopped off his horse to come after him with a spear but Harry remembered his lessons, ducked under the thrust of the weapon and rammed the tip of his blade up through the armpit of the warrior. He was wearing chain mail, but at this close a range, with the amount of power he brought into the stab, he cut right through it. The man died with a gasp and Harry carried on running up to the big men's side.

"Who are you? What were those spells?" The dark haired one asked.

Putting aside the question as to how the man knew about magic, Harry asked, "Are you really going to question me now or are we going to kill these fuckers?"

The men nodded their understanding and readied their own weapons, a sword and bearded axe respectively. The next ten minutes were tough for them all. They became a sweating cursing, and magic casting triangle of blood and tears as they fended off the attackers. By the end fifteen more bodies littered the dirt and mud while five others rode off into the hills.

Still breathing hard, Harry sheathed his sword and was about to ask what the hell had happened here when a small bundle of fire red hair latched itself onto his leg. The wizard looked down and found a little girl clinging to him and crying. Nodding to the clearly nervous woman that had to be her mother, he squatted down to be at eye level with her.

"Hey now, little one. Everything's fine now." He wiped the tears from her face with his hands. "What is your name?"

His question had the desired effect of stalling her sobs as she thought about her answer. "I-I am Thyra, Mr. Skald."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Skald?"

The other child, a boy clearly several years older than Thyra, stepped forward. "A user of magic and poetry. That is what you are right? We saw you use magic to kill Helek's men."

"Hm. Maybe I am, minus the poetry. Who are you?"

Before the boy could answer, the big man stepped forward and pulled Harry into a massive bear hug. As he wheezed for air in the crushing embrace the man said, "He is Young Ragnar, and I am his father, Ragnar. You have saved my family this day, stranger."

He finally released him and the wizard managed to say, "My name is Harry, not stranger. But why were these people attacking you?"

"You do not know?"

"I was sleeping in the hills over yonder when I heard the screams and decided to help."

Ragnar nodded his understanding. "I am the earl of these lands, but our neighbor Helek apparently desires them for himself. He sent his warriors in the night like a coward, hoping to kill us in our sleep and take them."

"Hm." Harry glanced over the corpses on the ground meaningfully, "Doesn't seem to have worked out well for him."

"Indeed." It was the grey haired man this time that stepped forth to hug him. "My name is Ravn, and it is my son and his family you saved this night." He waved to the wandering horses of the fallen. "Will you join us in protecting them further?"

The old Harry, the one of England, would have declined. He would have shied away from what he would perceive as needless slaughter. But the new Harry, the one that was again looking into the eyes of a little red haired girl, still sniffling yet hopeful could not stomach a world where someone that had attacked her was still breathing.

It was bloody work. That night Harry joined Earl Ragnar, his father Ravn, and thirty of his men as they rode out to Helek's lands. They fought, they burned, and by the next nightfall Ragnar was holding the man's severed head. He gave managership of his newly acquired lands to one of his trusted captains and insisted that Harry stay with him for a week at least as thanks for the aid he gave them. The promise of gold was also given but at the time all Harry wanted was a bed to sleep in for a while.

A week turned into a month. A month turned into a year. One year turned into five. In that time he mastered the sword under Ravn, became as good as a little brother to Ragnar, and became the most overprotective uncle to Thyra that anyone had ever seen. Local boys were terrified at the very prospect of ever courting her when she grew up, not because they'd need to face her father, but her skald uncle. That was something else of interest to the wizard. Magic it seemed, at least in some form, was openly accepted in Denmark. Or at the very least it wasn't discriminated against. According to Ragnar many chieftains would pay dearly to gain a skalds service.

The biggest issue Harry had with the family during his stay in their home was the fact they owned slaves. Ravn saw the discomfort on his face every time he was served by them, and quickly enough confronted him when he was alone.

"What is your problem with our slaves, Harry? Have they offended you?"

Harry could have lied, he could have said it was nothing, but the kindness he had been shown by these people made the very idea of being dishonest laughable to him. "I… I was a slave once. Long ago. It is… painful for me to see others in the same position. I do not mean to criticize your ways, I know enough of the world to know that it is a way of life in this time. Yet still." And he did. He was still ashamed of the knowledge that Britain had famously hauled millions of Africans from their homelands to the Americas. And that was centuries from now!

"Oh." The older man, starting to lose his sight, nodded knowingly and leaned against the wall next to him. The two simply stood there for a few minutes before he elaborated on his thoughts. "I will not lie to you, Harry. There are places in our lands where slaves are mistreated. It is a sad fact that cannot be ignored. That being said, we do not act that way here with ours. All of our slaves are told of the price they were bought for. Over time working for us they work off that debt, and when it is done they are freed."

Harry eyed the man. "That is… new."

Ravn chuckled, "Aye, based on the strangeness of your accent I can imagine this way is not the one you are used to. Our slaves are an investment, and once they are paid off, then their future is there own. Many have stayed here and planted roots over the years. You even fought with a few the night you arrived in our lives."

The two spent another hour talking on the subject, and though Harry imaged he'd always be a bit wary of slavery, he could at least accept a society where they could actually earn freedom. It was a better chance than the Dursleys had ever offered him. And to be fair, he never once witnessed Ragnar or his family abuse those beneath them.

But all good things had to come to an end eventually. Harry was in the practice yard with Young Ragnar. It was really just a big circle of wound branches, but it served its purpose. The two were trading blows and blocks on sword and shield respectively when Ragnar the Elder walked up to them, purpose heavy in his stride. The two stopped at his approach.

"Something wrong, Ragnar?" Harry asked as he rested the flat of his blade on his shoulder.

"No, my friend." the dark haired northman was smiling ear to ear. "Jarl Ubba has decreed a migration and the formation of a great army. We are to raid deep into England in the spring and create settlements and farms. Just picture it, Harry. Farmland as far as the eye can see."

Harry could indeed. From his memories. But he didn't say anything. Instead he simply dropped his shield and clamped a familiar hand on his friend's shoulder. "Are you asking me to come with you, brother?"

The older man shrugged. "You are family. I just assumed you'd choose to come on your own."

The wizard chuckled heartily. "You know me too well. Aye I'll be with you."

It was as he was speaking that Harry noticed the similarities that had formed between them over the last five years. He and Ragnar were of a similar height now, (funny what regular hearty meals do a body), He'd grown out his hair into a long braid that hung between his shoulder blades, and his beard though short and neat, was oiled to a shine. He'd even developed a fine appreciation for tattoos. Yes, he'd well and truly found his place amongst these people.

The rest of the season was spent collecting the rest of the harvest, slaughtering the livestock, packing up supplies for the trip, selling off what could not be carried on the ship, and readying weapons for the coming raid.

This was not the first time Harry had been off to raid. Indeed for the last four years he'd been going out with both of the Ragnar's on the yearly raids. It helped explain why the two thought his English accent was strange even though they'd already been to the country. The English language it seemed had changed enough to be near unrecognizable. Thank the gods for his translator charm.

Sure the old version of him might have had a problem with going to a random place and raiding it clean, but the new Harry had made his peace with the world he found himself in, brutal and unforgiving as it was. He realized that in this place you were either at the top of the food chain or the bottom. He'd been at the bottom before and had sworn to never be so again. He didn't take to all of the violence that went on with women, and he'd straight up killed a few people that went after kids, but he'd be lying to himself if he said the rush of battle didn't create a certain kind of thrill inside him. Getting up close and taking someone on directly with his sword was just… different from attacking from a distance with his wand. More visceral, powerful, pleasurable.

It also helped that most of the English he'd killed had been screaming expletives at him about witchcraft and religion and how he, his parents, his lovers, and every one of his potential children deserved to burn in hell for simply existing and or traveling with pagans. It got pretty hard to feel bad about slicing some throats when that kind of drivel was coming out of them.

A few months later and they were off, the men that was, they'd braved the storms of the open seas and were now rowing down the mighty rivers of England. The women folk and other civilians would be following once they received word that land had been secured. There was something soothing about the beat of the big drums, the motion of the oars as they rowed, and the songs that the men sang in the spaces of silence. An unspoken camaraderie between warriors on the way to battle and fame.

It was as they were rowing that shouts started coming from the banks across from them. English shouts. As the others carried on Harry stood up from his bench, padded with the furs of animals he'd successfully hunted, and made his way to stand beside Ragnar at the head of the ship as he too gazed at the source of the sounds. It was hard to tell at a distance, but the owner of the irritating voice appeared to be well dressed. Perhaps a lord?

"They're awful spies aren't they, brother?" He asked calmly, earning a smirk from the bigger man.

"Aye, but they've been following us on the banks for a while now so they aren't all bad. Just impatient." He pointed at the screamer, "What is he saying, Harry?" good humor was sparkling in his eyes as he asked the question.

In turn, the wizard tilted his head to listen more carefully. If he was being honest he'd heard the screaming and just blocked it out. He'd found over the last few years that English Christians tended to only raise their voices when talking about the virtues of their 'God'. By the goddess of magic herself how had the country he came from come out of this wretched place? "He's spouting the usual drivel about how we are nothing and his god will crush yours like so much cracked egg shells. Oh! He's offering to match swords with us. Should we oblige him?"

Ragnar's smirk turned into a full on grin at his words. "I think we shall." He turned to face his helmsman and hollered, "Kjartan! Let's teach this whelp a lesson."

Harry eyed the dark haired vassal. He had never much trusted the shifty eyed Kjartan, and had thus made it a point to never use his magic around him. As far as the man knew he was just a very skilled swordsman with an aura of mystery. Better not to let your enemies know all of your tricks after all.

The helmsman of many years laughed joyously and aimed the nose of the vessel dutifully toward the shore, "Aye, Earl Ragnar." More loudly he addressed the crew, "Taking her in at speed! Be ready now!" At his words the men doubled their efforts on the oars and within less than a minute their hull was sliding along the silt of the shore.

The men quickly formed up on the bank with swords drawn and shields locked into a wall as they stood shoulder to shoulder. The Englishman, or Saxons as Harry kept trying to remind himself to call them, were rushing out at them in a disorderly line.

"Idiots." Harry muttered under his breath. On the water he'd seen that they had horses. If they wanted to truly break through a viking shield wall they'd have charged their beasts straight into them. Northmen could withstand much, but not the weight of a full grown horse. Instead, the morons ran at them themselves and straight-up bounced off of their shields to fall on their asses.

Harry could still see the look of shocked confusion on the leader's face as he shoved his sword through it. Damned fool probably trusted completely in the belief that his superior god would give his men the power to break through any defense the raiders could bring to bear on them. Why couldn't the people of this time realize that the gods didn't give a shit about their world? Even Ragnar was guilty of occasionally giving credit for his accomplishments to absent deities. Now Harry wasn't disputing the existence of higher powers. He wielded arcane might after all, but he didn't subscribe to the belief that they were the end all be all of every choice or action.

Beside him in the shield wall men heaved, stabbed, and laughed with the joy of battle as one after the other the Saxons rammed themselves at them… and died because of it. It only took a few minutes, but by the end the ground was littered with the dead.

"Well that was anticlimactic." Harry mused as he cleaned his blade on the cloak of one of the fallen. It was the same simple weapon he'd acquired upon his arrival in the strange land. Ragnar had offered to procure him a better one, but the wizard had grown used to it, and extravagance had never been a part of his nature. A simple weapon, for the simple act of killing.

"Aye." Ragnar leaned his shield against the side of the boat before hefting an axe to take the boy's head. He, like his wizard friend, had judged the quality of his clothing as being that of a nobleman. "Those horses are not tired enough to have traveled a distance, and we did see that keep on the cliff a few miles back. Would you mind taking a look along the way for anymore patrols? I'd hate to be delayed in delivering their lordling back to them."

Harry agreed to scout ahead and made his way into the trees. Once there he slipped the invisibility cloak out of its pouch on his belt and wound it over his shoulders and head, disappearing from sight. As always the world turned into a muted shade of itself and he made his way through the brush and foliage of the wilderness.

It didn't take long to find the tracks their foes had made as they galloped after them, and a short investigation quickly lead to the aforementioned fortress. As he sat there observing it his fingers idly twirled around the resurrection stone and the warm hand of his mother laid itself on his shoulder. He sighed with enjoyment. He never really understood why the legends depicted the dead as cold beings that strove to drive their loved ones mad. Though being in the land of the living was clearly uncomfortable for them, they'd never tried to get him to join them too early. Perhaps it had something to do with being the full master of death, and not just a wielder of the stone.

"You fought well before, Harry." She praised him from beneath the safety of his cloak.

He chuckled in response. "Thank you. You know, it still surprises me how understanding you all are with what I do here. I can't imagine you ever foresaw your little boy slaughtering entire towns for coin."

Lily huffed as she surveyed the forces manning the walls in the distance. "I'll admit, it was an adjustment. But after all that you did for Britain, and what that bitch Augusta did to you… The world doesn't deserve your kindness. This is a harsh time to live, and you need to do whatever is necessary to survive in it." The hand on his shoulder moved to his cheek and she said, "I am only glad that you have not grown needlessly cruel in the process. Now, how can I help?"

He pointed across the ground between his position and the clearly barricaded gate. "Can you see if there are any hidden ditches from here to there? I think Ragnar is gonna mess with their heads a bit and I don't want his horse breaking a leg with him still on it."

"Oh yes, Ragnar. You know I still want to meet your new big brother." She teased him lightly with a lilt in her voice.

Harry blushed. Even after all this time the idea of his found family still lightened his heart. "He wants to meet you too, if only to question how I didn't get your hair. He still doesn't believe that my mother was a redhead."

Lily laughed out loud in that musical voice that only the holder of the stone could hear and floated off into the distance to perform her reconnaissance. After a while she confirmed the path was clear, ordered him in her best motherly command voice to call more often, and returned to the realm of the dead. He reported back to the ship and Ragnar presented the head to the fortress defenders before riding as if Hela herself was chasing after him back to the ship and casting off once more.

Later, when Harry had asked him why he went through the whole charade in the first place, he told him that an army entrenched behind a wall is costly to remove. Better to make them angry and come outside to face their attackers instead. He just assumed they'd join the force coming to face their great army in the field, leaving the fort open for raiding after they won.

Harry agreed with the logic behind the act. It still surprised him how effective the northmen were when it came to acts of psychological warfare. But those thoughts would have to wait. Eoferwic was growing closer in the distance, which meant the long awaited meeting with Jarl Ubba was about to begin.