Jack readied his bow, narrowing his eyes at the target several yards in front of him. He pulled the bowstring tight, and then let it loose.

thwack!

The arrow embedded itself in the wood which held the straw-stuffed target up. Better than last time, Jack thought, eyeing the arrows that littered the ground in front of the target.

"You are terrible," Skakki said cheerfully. Egil didn't say anything, as he was too busy laughing. Jack thanked whichever gods were listening that Thorgil was not there to witness his incompetency with a bow.

"Well, what else would you expect?" Jack groused. "The only aiming I have ever done is throwing rocks at birds!"

"And I suppose you could only do that because Saxon birds are fat and lazy?"

"If you two are just going to tease me, and not help at all, I do not see why I should be doing this," Jack said, setting his bow on the ground. "And since all Saxons are fat and lazy, I think I shall go and eat all the jam I saw in your larder this morning."

Skakki stopped Jack with a broad hand on his shoulder. "Stay," he said. "I will teach you how to shoot. It is a useful skill!"

"And if nothing else," Egil added. "We will be able to save the elderberry jam from your greedy fingers."

"Don't you have a farm to take care of?" Jack asked the Northman. "And better things to do besides tease me endlessly?"

"I have many responsibilities," Egil said. "But this is more fun. My wife and husband can take care of things while I watch you struggle."

"Was he always this awful?" Jack called to Skakki, who at the other end of the field, picking up the arrows Jack had shot. "Did I just not notice?"

Skakki just laughed. The kindaskitur.

Jack flung himself to the ground, deciding to sit for as long as he was able.

"Why the foul mood, little skald?" Egil asked from his spot in the grass. "Surely Thorgil teases you worse than us old men?"

"I'm used to that," Jack explained. "In all my times that I have been among you Northmen, none have jested with me as you do now."

"Ah," Egil said. "Perhaps it is because we are more comfortable? We have just returned from a successful pillagi- er, trade expedition. Or maybe we jest so easily because you are no longer a suckling baby, who would cry at the slightest provocation."

"I was never like that! I took Thorgil's taunts quite well when I was a lad."

"You're still a lad," Skakki said, walking over with the discarded arrows bundled in his hands. "When we are all old and grey and in our dotage, you shall still be our little skald."

Jack frowned. "Just teach me to shoot, O Horse Lord."

Hours later, with a set of pinched-red and tired arms, Jack flung himself onto one of the long benches in Skakki's great hall. Heide had a soft smile at the head of the table as she watched the boy loll his head onto Thorgil's shoulder.

"Long day?" the shield maiden asked, jabbing an elbow into Jack's side.

"I never want to see a bow again," Jack moaned, moving a hand over his torso to guard it from any other sharp elbows.

"Is that what my brother made you do all day?"

"Aye," Jack said. "My arms are pinched from the bow string."

"Poor child," Thorgil cooed. "Little baby bird, hurt by a twanging string."

"What did you do today?" Best to ignore the jest, Jack thought.

Thorgil spat into the straw that lay on the floor of the hall before answering. "Women's things," she said. "Terrible."

"Perhaps we should trade," Jack offered. "I can work at Heide's loom and you can deal with your brother."

"Do you not know, Jack? We Northmen are all about suffering." She finally pushed Jack's head off her shoulder. "Regardless, we mustn't get too comfortable here. We have to get to Niðavellir before the winter storms set in."

"We have several moons yet. And it is not as if we have not journeyed through cold weather yet."

Thorgil spat again.

As it was, the two spent around fourteen days on the island. There were many things to do in Skakki's lands, and there was also the matter of getting enough fresh water and preserved food to last the duo and the crew that would go along with them to take them to Ivar the Boneless' lands, and Schlaup's halls.

Most days started the same: Jack normally awoke first, and would break his fast with whoever else was awake. Rune was often seated at the long table in the center of the hall, and would eat with Jack as the rest of the household began to wake up.

Rune ate slowly; his gnarled hands could not move quickly, and even when he made slow progress, it pained him. Even so, he smiled and listened attentively to Jack as they both tore bread and sipped fresh water from glazed clay cups. The old man's eyes lit up as Jack described his years of schooling at the hands of the Wise who still dwelt on the Isles.

He spoke of his nights spent in the hazel woods that surrounded the stone structure of the school. Of the normal things that called the woods their home, mostly. Soft-eared does that would curl up by your side when it snowed. Birds, smarter than the ones who sang in Midgard, more intelligent than even the owls Jack and Thorgil had aided in Jotunheim. They caroled and cawed and delivered news of the wide world beyond the isles. Yes, it is winter in the land of the Saxons, they would say. The pock-marked lass with a wing 'cross her face is keeping warm in the Saxon lands. They told Thorgil of her people's raids against the Christians along the North Sea. They would irritably inform the both of them that Seafarer was alive and yes, he is very well, and very fast. They would never regrow the feathers on their tail ends! There were voles burying through the ground, rabbits bounding between the trunks of trees, and at night, small hedgehogs nuzzling at the ground, searching for food to eat.

And then, well… there were things in those woods not of Midgard. There were wraiths who would wander between the hazels and the ash, harmless but for the chill they sent down your spine. Hobgoblins, too, capering and skirling and searching for the nuts they loved. (Never the Bugaboo, or the Nemesis, or Mumsie, however. None of the Bugaboo's court would leave Northumbria or stray too far from Pega, whom they still hoped would be queen.) There were less friendly beings too. The Wise taught their students to repel these beings. Anything from the nine realms could learn to navigate the twisting pathways of the woods. Elves, bitter and vengeful ones who had left Partholis' realm would sometimes appear. Though they were to fade from the world like mist shredding in the wind, they could still fight. Jack still felt pain in his back from elf-shot, and he had scars hidden beneath his clothes, caused by all manner of elvish blade. St. Columba's staff, obviously, was good on sending the Fair Folk along their not-so-merry way. Ogres, sometimes, making an incredible racket with the breaking of branches and their stomping feet. Best to avoid those, usually. Never a dwarf, though, was seen in those woods. They did not like leaving their mountain kingdoms.

"Dwarves?" Rune had asked when Jack mentioned them. "Why do you mention the great forgers, if you never saw one?"

"Er," Jack said. "I suppose they are just on my mind. Are you aware of where myself and Thorgil are headed on our journey?" Rune did not, and said as much. "We are tasked with retrieving a dwarvish ring from one of the mountain kingdoms."

"Niðavellir, eh?" Rune responded. "How splendid!"

And that was all he said on the subject.

After his dágmal, there were many things to occupy a young man's time on Horse Island. Most of the time, Jack asked Thorgil or another Northman to help him with his fighting.

At the School of Bards, students were taught to think with their minds. To connect with the life force, you did not need muscle. One only needed a relatively clear mind and the ability to disconnect from the restraints of being human. Of being locked in a cage.

So after years of schooling, Jack's arms and legs were as scrawny as they were when he was a lad of thirteen or so. And Thorgil always felt inclined to point this out as the hacked away at each other with wooden practice swords.

"Loni was right," she chided, thrusting her sword towards a weak spot in Jack's defense, on his left side. He brought up his sword, blocking the hit. Thorgil shouted when Jack whacked her side in the same movement. She kicked out at his leg and lashed out savagely with the practice sword, landing a hit on Jack's chest that was sure to bruise later. He yelped loudly, as Thorgil added with a laugh: "You have the arms of a soft spring chick!"

"You waste your breath with insults," Jack told his friend. "Though praps I should not complain. I would not like to fight you with all the strength you have!"

"Wise of you," Thorgil said. "Though I shall never be at full strength again." She ducked beneath a swipe that Jack made.

"Being a berserker does not give you your full strength," Jack said, breathing heavily at this point. "You will always be strong, Thorgil."

Thorgil's lips became a flat line. She met all of Jack's sword strikes, forcing him backwards, towards the fence that marked off the space for the training grounds. He needed to push Thorgil in the opposite direction, so he did not get pinned against or flipped over the fence. But he did not have the strength. After Thorgil landed several hits on his unprotected skin, he could feel his arms becoming tired, his strikes less potent. He was not surprised when Thorgil finally managed to knock him over. She hit Jack's side, hard, and he doubled over in pain. Then, she dug her pommel into his stomach, knocking him into the grass that sprouted out of the ground in the training ring.

She then threw herself on the grass next to Jack, leaning over him. No longer did she look grim, pale, with her lips drawn tight. Without the distraction of the fight, her anger showed freely on her face. Her eyebrows knitted together, and her mouth was in a sneer, making the scars on her face twist in her rage. Blood filled her freckled face, making the scars from her fight with the troll bear flare bright red. The ever-blowing wind from the sea whipped her golden hair around her head, making her look like the warrior out of legend that she was.

"I do not need your pity, Saxon," Thorgil bit out. "I lost my rage, and my hand, and all you do is look at me with sympathy in your eyes!"

"Not pity," Jack told her. He just laid there in the grass, not moving. He looked up into the grey eyes of the snarling princess. "Never pity. I do not lie, Jill. You are the strongest warrior I have ever known. No matter what you lose, you have your will. That will never fail."

Her hair created a curtain around both of their heads. Though the wind stirred it, it still created a private space between them. Jack was all of the sudden very aware of the fact that they were alone in the training ring. "Then what is it?" she asked.

"What is what?"

"You look at me, and it is not as you used to. Not as when we were children. What has changed?"

Jack hesitated as he thought of what excuse to say, Thorgil sat back up. She drew her legs up to her bound chest, and turned her fierce eyes away from Jack.

He sat up as well, but leaned back on his forearms, letting most of his body rest against the grass.

"It is nothing, dearest," he eventually said. An outright lie, of course. Thorgil seemed to know this. She lifted her hand from where it rested on her knee and brought it down to her side. She very slowly intertwined her weapon-calloused fingers with Jack's, whose hands were also calloused, but by more gentle, homely things. A burn from turning over an oat cake that was too hot. Hardened spots on his palm from holding a farm tool. The tips of his fingers, pressed and rubbed smooth from the strings of The Bard's whalebone harp.

"Dýrr," Thorgil said.

That sort of thing, of course, only happened when sparring with Thorgil. Skakki was more wont to tackle Jack to the ground than hold his hand.

Along with sword, Jack also trained with daggers and with the bow and arrow. Two weeks was not long enough to become proficient with the bow, but Jack still retained some of the knife fighting skill that Olaf One-Brow taught him. He was fast, and though not as small as he was when he was a lad of eleven summers, still smaller than most of the Northmen. And he had learned many dirty tricks from his time as a slave in the Northland. It was always a joy when, armed with just a small knife and his wits, he could take down a giant like Skakki.

Skakki did not find much joy in it, though he roared in laughter when he swiped Jack off of his feet as well. No matter how well one fights with a knife, they can still be knocked over when an arm the size of a tree trunk sweeps past their ankles.

Fighting, although a favorite Northman pass time, was not the only thing to do on the island.

As warlike as the Northmen were, they were still able to enjoy a good saga. Many of the nights spent in Skakki's hall were filled with good drink and better song. And many a day Jack spent seated next to Rune, singing songs, reciting poetry, or writing verse of their own.

One night, Jack had an elbow on the table, and a cup of cider in his hand. He was listening to Thorgil tell her own tale. That is, the Saga of Thorgil Silverhand. Having told the tale many times, (and written it himself), Jack did not pay too close attention. He stopped listening some time around the tricking and slaughter of the dragonlets in Jotunheim. Something about "the wolf headed warrior, guided by the servant of Odin, steel serpent in her silver hands"... Jack remembered when he first recited the saga, and how he thought it was his best work. All true, of course, but it was much more impressive when surrounded by the Streams of Life, with the salmon leaping by your side. Less so when surrounded by drunken vikings and farmers. So, the young man let himself drift away. He listened with one ear to the steady cantation of his dearest one's voice and let the life force draw him into its folds.

A land blessed by the yarthkins does not forget it. Ere the ground on Horse Island bore full harvests. The water was ever sweet and full of what makes things alive. The life force around the place was also full of the influence of the landvættir. Everything was more intense, more green and vibrant. Jack felt… Jack didn't feel anything, really. He was not Jack when he was in this place. He was just part of everything, he existed. He was.

All around he could feel the footsteps of all the men who had walked the ground on the island. Good men, like Bjorn Skull-Splitter could be sensed. Worse men, too, like Einar, or the Pictish kings who came before him. Not that any of them were there, no. They were departed, living in realms of the dead, whether it be Valhalla or wherever the Picts went when they died.

Death. Unlife.

It did no good to think of it while trying to commune with the life force. Dwelling on men was never an aid in connecting with life, not when most of them had cut themselves off from it.

He directed his mind outside of the solid walls of Skakki's halls, yet still away from the sea that threw itself against the cliff. Jack focused on the fields outside.

Rolling hills and rippling grass, undisturbed but by the wingbeats of birds for centuries. Despite the name men gave to the land, the land did not long hold the memory of hooves pounding against it. Rather, it knew the burrowing of small rodents, the buzzing of insects, and the calls of thousands of birds, over hundreds of years, all finding joy in wheeling over the foamy stretches of the sea.

Yes, the land and the skies both felt joy in the birds that dwelt in both of their domains. The beating of wings, yet also the small patter of talons against rocky crags. The dive when a single soul sees the silver shine of a fish in the water, but the coo and hum of thousands at the chicks that broke their way out of a multitude of eggs. The life force found most freedom in the birds, who were not bound by land, sea, or sky. Perhaps that is wh-

"-ack!"

A hand on his shoulder.

"Jack!"

The young bard pulled his awareness out of the rise and fall of the life force, and instead put it in a more corporeal place. His own body.

He turned his head towards the source of contact. Thorgil had her hand on him, and she was saying something.

"Hm?"

"I said, you should give us Olaf's praise-poem."

"We are sharing all of my poetry, tonight, are we?" Jack asked the shield maiden.

"It seems so," she replied.

"We have yet to hear Beowulf," Rune pointed out. "But perhaps that can be saved for another night?"

Jack nodded at that, then cleared his throat a few times, until the hall quieted. Once most everyone in the hall was looking at him, he began.

Listen, ring-bearers, while I speak

Of the glories of battle, of Olaf most brave.

Generous is he, that striker of terror.

Lucky are they who sit in Olaf's hall,

Gifted with glory, treasure, and fame.

The wolf-headed men call him leader.

Odin's skull-pickers name him friend.

On he went, reciting the praise-song. Though everyone in the room had heard the saga several times, they still clapped loudly once Jack had finished the tale. (Which was quite long- Olaf had done many deeds, and many of them foul. Not that the Northmen minded.)

Nights were not always spent in Skakki's halls, surrounded by the sounds of Northmen eating and drinking. A few nights, Jack would go out by himself to wander to the edge of the island. He did not arm himself, except with St. Columba's staff and robe. He would bring along something to eat, sometimes. Smoked meat or an apple. But sometimes he was too busy meditating to eat. He would sit on the beach, or on the edge of the rocky crags that were on the north side of the island, and simply listen to the sea.

From years of living next to it, and bobbing along in it in coracles or slender Northman ships, one would think that Jack would get tired of the sea. But he never did.

As a boy, Jack had not understood why the Bard loved living next to the sea so much, especially on the cliff in the Roman hut. But that had changed. The life force was close, here. It was strongest at the border between worlds. While it was true of the borders between, say, Midgard and Jotunheim, it could be the border between much more common things, such as land and sea, sea and sky. The life force made itself known in the places in between, even to those not trained to feel it.

Jack wondered how close the life force would be underground, in a mountain kingdom.

When Jack and Thorgil left, there were a few tears shed. Jack brushes them from his eyes when he kisses Rune goodbye- the old warrior is too old to go on the sea voyage to Ivar's lands. He makes no move to brush them away when Heide pulls him close to her chest, when she says farewell, "but not forrr too long," she adds, with a kiss to his brow.

Thorgil grumbled under her breath when Heide gives her a kiss as well, but Jack was almost sure that she still appreciated it.

Goodbyes can only last so long, and much too soon for Jack's taste, Skakki's ship, and Egil's ship trailing closely behind, left Horse Island behind. Jack watched the island from the deck of the dragon ship until it was just a pale line on the horizon.

Once the island was gone from sight, he turned and walked to the prow of the drekkar, where Thorgil was once again plying the tiller.

Together, they turned north.

A/N: Hi, exams are not over yet, but I finished this and wanted to post so all of you could get a little bit of something new. This fic almost has 100 views, and I can't believe it! Thank you all so much for taking the time to read this!

As always, a review or a fave are always GREATLY appreciated. Tell me what you all think! Tell me what characters you would like to see, or ideas for what could happen next. I don't have an exact plan for this fic, other than what the ending will eventually be, so suggestions will always be welcome!

Also, reminder that I am on ao3, under the pseud brodayhey. The mirror of Béagsele over there needs a little bit of love.

See you all for chapter 5 :^)