1

A/N: Not me with another short klonnie AU when I haven't updated my other stuff. But as I always say, it's the nature of the beast. I don't call the shots with my muse y'all. But you can enjoy this delicious historical AU I've cooked up after devouring Vikings Valhalla on Netflix. The plot is loosely based on one of the storylines, that of Emma of Normandy and King Canute. But is very loose.

Warnings: Violence, Swearing, mentions of religion (Christianity and Norse Paganism), OOC behaviors

London, England 1016 AD

For Klaus Mikealson, little came close to the pleasure of carrying a sack filled with gold.

That sparse list included the crisp morning air blessed by fresh dew, the spray of warm blood on his skin from a fallen enemy in battle, and the embrace of a large-breasted companion in the aftermath of victory. One might argue that spending time with his siblings earned a place, but that depended on his mood.

Most of his countrymen believed that the vigor of a battle should be its own reward. Klaus, however, believed that wars must always come to a conclusion. Both positive and negative. There were no negatives in his current case.

Rather, it was a start of a glorious new future marked by the splendor offered by the North Sea. A corner he'd just plucked for his people.

"You've done it, brother," Kol appeared seemingly from thin air to interrupt his musings by smacking his shoulder with a wide grin. There were still streaks of blood on his face, juxtaposed with his white teeth and the bearskin draped over his shoulders. Remnants of the earlier battle. Kol was one of those who relished in the ferocity of battle. A true berserker who took no thought in tearing down a field full of men to enrich Vallhala's halls.

Klaus allowed himself a slow grin. "I think you'll find that we did it."

Kol shook his head, chuckling. The strategy is on you and Elijah. Attacking in the marshes to distract them from our approach from the south. The risk was worth it, even if I had to spend all night knee-deep in filth with my men."

Klaus shrugged, bouncing his brother's hand on his shoulder. "Perhaps the stacks of gold coins will ease your shit-caked suffering."

Kol threw his head back in roaring laughter. "Niklaus Silver-Eye! You've given us all of England on a silver platter." And what a gleaming platter it arrived on.

They stood in one of the chapels surrounding the main castle as his men razed through the room with glee and impatience. They adorned it with many strange items dedicated to the Christian faith, like crosses and chalices, but the particulars concerned Klaus little. His brother Elijah was the one who'd taken an intellectual interest in all the little obtuse rituals of the Christians. He spent their youth gleaning information from their thralls and the few brave priests who ventured into the Danelaw. It should be no surprise, seeing as their mother gave him a Christian name as if to cement his future interest.

Klaus' own concern lay with the chests filled with gold and silver coins minted with the likeness of England's coward of a king. A king he'd defeated in an impressive sweep.

The throne of England.

An elusive prize, despite how close in reach it seemed. Men before him were content to scrape around the edges, worrying themselves with repetitive raids. He dreamed of something greater. A worthy ascension to push his dreams of an empire into motion. Not even his bastard father could claim an accomplishment close to this.

Snorri, one of his trusted, arrived in the room with a quick message. "My king, we've brought the prisoner. Should we present him?" The men called for the head of the prisoner before he answered.

"Let the boy rat crawl on his knees! He promised to cripple us, so let him grovel and lick our ankles like the dog he claimed we are!" Kol shouted, spittle flying from passion.

The men roared in hearty approval. The English king was not loved after what his father did. The innocents in Danelaw who wanted nothing but to dwell as both pagan and christian, despite their differences, deserved more than a cowardly attack. Slaughtered for the sin of being Northern.

Klaus mirrored their indignation, but felt no need to indulge his petty instincts at the moment. That would come later. He wanted something from their prisoner.

"Bring him. On both feet," He emphasized. Kol booed him but didn't voice any real disapproval.

Mocking cheers heightened the moment the disgraced boy king, Jeremy Gilbert of Wessex, was led into the room, bound and dragged like a common slave. The men shouted insults in Norse and those who spoke minimal English ensured to shout the dirtiest insults they knew.

Jeremy's wide eyes held an impressive amount of defiance, despite the fear clouding them. A shame it hadn't quite been beaten out of him yet. His clothes were torn and muddied, the useful remnants of his once magnificent armor stripped away. Cuts and bruises littered lily pale royal skin that suffered no blemish before now. Klaus recalled how hours earlier, during their pre-battle parley, he'd sat on a majestic horse surrounded by an impressive army, telling the Viking that he would have his head in unshakeable confidence.

The man was cowed by defeat. It was a sight too sweet, not the savor.

"King Jeremy Gilbert of England," Klaus greeted in fluent English, drawing pronunciation of his title to impress upon the mockery.

The boy stood tall, using venomous hatred to cloud the visible shame of being in front of his enemy.

Klaus stood from the chair he'd lounged in, strolling toward his prisoner. He retrieved a dagger from his saddle belt, stroking its hilt with his thumb. "Do you remember when I offered you a peaceful solution earlier?"

King Jeremy said nothing. One of his minders smacked his back with the butt of his sword, sending the young man down on his knees with a groan.

"Yes, I do." He replied in a raspy voice.

"Good." Klaus crouched before him, dropping the dagger to the ground with a clatter. He saw Jeremy's eyes follow the blade with calculated interest. Hope was indeed a dangerous thing. "I want you to muse on that. That if you've taken my offer, you'd be in a unique position at the moment."

"I surrender to no one." Jeremy clenched his teeth with venom. "Especially not a godless pagan."

Klaus tilted his head, switching to Norse to include his men in the ridicule. "But is it not a godless pagan you bow before now?"

That earned a round of boisterous laughter. A deep red shade crept from Jeremy's neck upwards to the rest of his face. Klaus chuckled at the gall of the young king. A part of him sympathized with him; he was a young man inexperienced in many ways, encumbered by a throne without instruction on how to navigate. A position he'd been in once upon a time. Of course, Jeremy's father, the bastard King Alaric, died from body wearied by age. Klaus slit the throat of his own father. The decisions of their parents brought them to this moment.

"Are you going to kill me?" Jeremy asked in a weary tone.

"Hungry for death, are you?" Klaus leaned closer to the boy's face. His singular silver eye gleamed beneath the flickering torches above.

Jeremy tried to direct his sight on the wall behind Klaus, vehemently trying not to make eye contact. But like everyone the Northman encountered, Jeremy's eyes drifted of their own accord to gaze on the strange silver coloring in his left eye. He could not blame the boy. For it was an unnatural thing to behold and the reasoning behind his name.

Klaus Silver-Eye.

"If I were in your place, I too might beg for death. I'm aware you Christians believe paradise awaits you on the other side of Midgard. Are you eager for paradise, King Jeremy?"

"Is there a point to this mockery?" Jeremy ground out.

Klaus smirked, tilting his head sideways in amusement. English arrogance could not be matched. Part of him respected the boy's obstinance despite the annoyance lingering. "You truly do not know how to wear defeat at all. Especially for your first time." He turned to address his brother. "I would like to be alone with our prisoner."

Kol gave his brother a questioning look but concurred with Klaus' wishes and led the men out of the room to plunder the rest of the castle's treasures.

He waited until everyone departed before using the dagger to cut off Jeremy's restraints. Relief clouded the young king's features as he rushed to rub the feeling back into his numb wrists. He looked up in curiosity. "Why did you release me?"

The Viking spun the hilt of his dagger between his fore and index finger. "I've seen you in battle. If you managed to overpower me long enough to slit my throat, I'd be impressed. And do not get too excited, as you are still a prisoner for the foreseeable future."

Jeremy exhaled. "Fair enough."

Klaus fell back in his chair, leaving Jeremy still on his knees. "I also thought to allow you some grace before I ask a very important question."

A mirthless chuckle escaped Jeremy. He stretched his fingers, still unable to feel them at the tips. "Do I have a choice?"

"No, you do not. Where is the woman?"

"What woman?"

"The woman. The one who spoke during our negotiations," Klaus spoke in a lower voice. "Where is she now?"

Jeremy's face scrunched in confusion. "Bonnie?"

Even the sound of her name sent chills below his skin. It was the same sensation he experienced upon sighting her on the battlefield. As her imp husband swore obscenities dressed as brave-speak, she remained behind, standing tall upon the stone walls of the city draped in a velvet garment and white furs, as if to symbolize that she was the true force of protection London had to offer.

For a moment, her eyes met his, and he remembered the first time he saw her face. In the cold, damp forest floor all those years ago in Upsala. Resigned to death until the All-mother granted him a vision. A glimpse into the destiny woven for him and the face of the woman who would lead him there.

His left eye throbbed.

Klaus tightened his grip on the armrest. "She is your Queen, is she not?"

Jeremy licked his cracked lips in hesitation. Some of that stubbornly concealed fear now made its way to the surface at his realization. "The guards should have taken her to a safe place once you breached our defenses. I pray to God that is the case. But I am struck with the painful realization that your men might have her already."

Klaus exhaled. "In that case, all is well, then."

Jeremy's eyes narrowed. "What do you want with my wife? She is an innocent, good woman! I'd rather her dead than fall into your heathen grasp!"

He leaned forward, eye to eye with his kneeling prisoner. "I'd say that is an unfortunate way for a man to speak about his wife, but thank you for answering."

"What do you want with her?" There was sympathy to be had for any man showing concern for his wife. Especially one who feared what inhuman things a godless Northman might have in store for her.

Klaus grinned, gripping the hilt of his dagger. "Nothing that concerns you."

Defeat has a peculiar taste.

One that Queen Bonnie of England bears with dignified sobriety. It coats the inside of her mouth like dust that cannot be washed down, no matter how much water she drank. And she'd had a lot ever since the scouts rode back to the city in a panic to announce her husband the king was taken captive and their forces defeated.

Not wine, though. Her head would need to remain clear about the events that would proceed.

Soft violet bathed the sky to welcome the morning and sent bright sunlight streaming through the arched windows of her quarters. A calming sight to follow the bloodbath that followed hours before.

A few miles away lay the remnants of the decimated English forces. The victors had long since seized London, chanting war songs in their Norse to further drive the sting of defeat into the heart of the people.

Her people.

"Sister," Elena wept. Fear and misery marred her pretty face, as were all the women in the Queens' chambers. They huddled together in solidarity, praying and whispering words in empty comfort to one another. They had breached the castle moments before and, by estimation of the few guards with them, it wouldn't be long until their boastful enemies swarmed their wing. "What are we going to do? They'll kill us all."

"No, they won't," Bonnie soothed her sister-in-law. Death wouldn't be the worst thing to find them. No one could claim ignorance of the Vikings and their habits, even if they tried.

The Northmen would plunder and take an assortment of prizes for their troubles. The very thought of the latter sent a cold rush of fury through her. She would not allow anyone under her protection to become a Viking war prize.

"Do you think King Jeremy is still alive?" asked Lady Anna. She sat in a corner with Bonnie's other ladies crouched by her. Despite their current plight, Bonnie felt a small wave of satisfaction when her pretty face was distorted by raw melancholy.

Lady Anna of Mercia, her husband's pretty little mistress. Jeremy was many things, but subtlety was not his forte. She'd known for a few months now, thanks to the careless glances and touches of the windswept lovers, along with solemn confirmation from servants favored to her purse. Dispensing anger was a waste of energy until it brought obstacles that inconvenienced her. A man with a mistress was nothing of note, but a mistress who talked was a dangerous thing.

"Yes." Bonnie paused. "They took great care to capture and not kill him. He is needed." The words were meant to bring minor comfort, but only made Anna release the tears she'd been holding without success.

"Those heathens have him!" She sobbed. "They have the King and we have no hope!" In less dire circumstances, Bonnie might have laughed at Lady Anna's foolishness. Crying more than your lover's wife called for unneeded attention a wiser woman might avoid.

No, there was hope. A slim chance more delicate than a thread, but Bonnie had no other choice. She'd survived three years in the treacherous English court and remained unstung by its many vipers. All the while smiling prettily and keeping her claws concealed, except for a few strategic swipes.

Earned the respect of the council by force and used that same temerity to take every other thing that hadn't been given to her. She was so close to regaining everything taken from her family after Alaric of Wessex became regent and passed it down to his son, whom she wedded for necessity's sake.

Bonnie had come too far to be taken down by a mere invasion.

"I need to go to the throne room."

"That's dangerous, my Queen," Lady Caroline cautioned. "That's the first place the Vikings will look for you."

"We need to keep you safe from the Danish King," Marcellus, her cousin, and advisor added.

A hound sniffing for a prize. How fitting. Silver-Eye could drive his wet snout into the castle's foundation, but he would find only the queen in her rightful place.

"I am still the queen of England," Bonnie stated. Anna's brief glances did nothing to deter the truth of her words. "That is exactly what he'll meet. A queen."

"You are more than that. You are England," said Marcel. "And with England dead, there is no more hope for us all."

Bonnie mulled over his words, letting the of it wisdom wash over her stubborn resolve. The fate of her husband is unknown to her, but there is little doubt his current position is not favorable.

She is all they have left of the fallen kingdom.

"I feel ill at ease just sitting and waiting to die," Bonnie confessed to his ears alone.

Marcel grabbed her hand in comfort. She admired how he could push aside his own dis-ease for her sake. "You will not die. I will make sure of it."

"You plan to puppet Silver-Eye by use of your charming personality?"

He grinned at her sardonic phrasing. His thumb brushed the center of her palm. "I have pledged to follow you until my end, cousin, through any means necessary. No matter what bitter waters we shall navigate."

Soft ease encased her for the first time since the previous night. It's a drop of relief and doesn't reach the sharper corners of her mind where her fear is rooted, but even a small thing is not to be taken for granted. Marcel kissed the center of her palm just as the heavy doors opened with a violent slam, earning screams of unrestrained terror from all the inhabitants of her chambers.

The guards unsheathed their swords. But the attempt is nothing but a weak effort. They were outnumbered.

Bonnie swallowed her terror to face the intruders. The Vikings sauntered inside, hot from battle, and eyes peeled for any treasure worth plucking. Their dangerous eyes glided over all the women, blazing with lust for many hideous things. Barbarianism at its finest.

Marcel positioned himself in front of her, but she gripped his elbow like a vise, unable to cower even for her own good. One of them spoke up with an authority none of the others possessed, despite being younger than most of the men. His torso was bare and covered in faded runes. Tattoos typical of the Northmen.

"Which one of you is Queen Bonnie?" He asked.

No one spoke. Elena's frightened eyes darted in her direction but remained silent in admirable support. Marcel tried to push her further behind him but she pushed forward, heart pounding in fear, but face trained in rigid coolness.

"I am Bonnie of England."

He surveys her from head to toe. "You are shorter than I expected the English queen to be." His men follow in laughter and her chest burned in fury.

"Forgive me if I am unconcerned with disappointing the notions of a death-hungry heathen," Bonnie coldly stated. "I demand an audience with your king, as is my right." She expected offense but seemed to amuse him more.

The Viking's grin bore mischief, but strangely, didn't frighten her. "Lucky you. My brother demands the same thing."

A/N: ILY all.