Three days after the battle, the Vikings still remained within the Walled City.

Sections of the city were still burning long after the fighting had ended. The great fire weapons of the Divine Pyre had scorched the narrow streets and alleyways of their stronghold in an attempt to snuff out the heathen's attack without thought or care for those on their own side that might get caught in the flames. Entire blocks of warehouses, markets-stalls or closely pressed apartments had gone up in burning fire and smoke, leaving behind only blackened stone husks as any wood and cloth had burned away, turning the city into a half-charred corpse rather than a city of splendor and prosperity as promised by the priests during the height of their oppressive reign. Now the buildings remained quiet and empty, the streets choked full of blackened rubble and soot-covered bodies, those lying dead where they fell and the ones left alive to step over them and seek refuge under the indifferent watch of their new Viking masters.

What parts of the city that had managed to avoid the worst of the fighting were now in the control of the Northmen. Slowly, their camp outside the walls had begun to trickle inward through the gate as the promise of treasure locked away in the vault bid them to dig in and stay. Tents had been set up within the burned-out buildings or in the large squares throughout the city, the sound of Ashfeld prayers that had filled the air during the siege giving way to Valkenheim songs of victory as the Vikings settled in. It may not have been to their liking, but they would not be parted from their prize no matter how great their urge was to return to their longships and make sail up river to return home. Or at least Erik Golden-Shield would not allow them to do so.

The King remained ever present at the fortress protecting the vault, giving orders for his great audacious tent to be brought in so that he could camp right outside its doors, with the banners of his clan flying high over the city as its undeniable new ruler. From the fortress, across the charred breadth of the conquered city, the tallest tower of the keep remained eerily silent after the bitter sermons of Osric Ead had been suddenly, and quite violently, cut short. What was even more odd, perhaps than the quiet tower, was the occurrence of Herleif and Ivar setting up their camps within the keep together, opting to put some space between themselves and Erik while he continued to brood over the location of the missing second vault key. Never before had their two clans remained sequestered so close together without the threat of violence breaking out between them, between Ivar and Herleif especially, but it was a big enough city that they would surely not need to look at each other if they so wished.

It was that fact that Herleif was lamenting now as he wandered the crowded streets looking for his brother, again. The sheer size of the city astounded him, knowing of no such place like it in the north except perhaps for Iarla Stronghold. He kept getting turned around, cursing Gunnar's name every time he found himself in some dead-end alley or walked into the same square for a second or third time after making another wrong turn. It amazed him how the people of Ashfeld could build upwards so quickly with stone, piling bricks upon bricks to make their mazes of towers and long rows of buildings, making art of rock with their smooth statues and snarling gargoyles seemingly as easy as any carpenter might work wood in the north. He almost felt it had been easier to navigate through all the fire and fighting than creeping through the shadows of these towering structures. Then at least, he could just follow the direction of fleeing Knights to know where he was going.

"Damn builders," he grumbled to himself as he passed yet another tavern that some warriors had managed to get open and break out the ale, wondering if he might just abandon his search for Gunnar and join them for a drink instead, "You would think after so many raids they would learn not to bother..." Continuing his search, he seemed to come across everyone except for this brother, further increasing his frustrations as the day carried on.

According to Ragnar, who he found busying himself organizing and sharpening his new collection of knives that he had taken from the Pyre corpses piled for burying, told him he had seen Gunnar in the eastern part of the city giving aid to the wounded.

Ragna, who was looking through her collection of Knight ornaments she had taken as trophies and deciding which she would trade with her brother for a few new knives, said that Gunnar was off to the west, helping pick out which prisoners would be chosen as thralls to take back to Valkenheim.

When he came across Helge, who was dutifully picking through an uncomfortably large pile of human teeth still bloody around the roots and depositing a few into a pouch occasionally, she told him that he would find Gunnar exactly where he was. Then she laughed at him when he frowned and cursed her cryptic sense of humor.

He did not even bother to ask Skuld as he passed her in the street, searching aimlessly as the sun rose higher into the sky.

In the end, and speaking to no less than three of his hersir, one was finally able to point him in a sensible direction to find Gunnar. He had been spotted with the Lion Flame, heading off into a part of the city that had been cleared out of cultists and was now abandoned. That was all Herleif needed to hear to know he was finally heading in the right direction.

Things were quiet when he arrived. The markets and houses here were empty and void of life, with their inhabitants sequestered with the rest of the prisoners taken after the battle. It cast a sense of eerie dread over Herleif as he searched for any sign of the Lion Flame, spotting only the lingering scars of the battle as he passed by the abandoned buildings: a broken door here, a turned-over stall there, the charred remains of a burned out building there, a splatter of blood smeared across the cobblestones where someone had been dragged away. The city seemed to rise up and close around him, baring its wounds accusingly as if he alone were to blame.

After all, he had seen the horde through the gate to conquer the city with steel and fire. Why shouldn't he bear the responsibility for the choices he had made, of the lives he had cut short, all in the name of glory and honor? It was the Viking way.

He passed by the statue of some hero mounted on horseback in an open square; their sword pointed defiantly towards the north in opposition to its heathen enemy, its head shorn clean off from its armored shoulders. It was impossible to know now whether the head was taken during the battle or even before that as an idol deemed false by the Pyre usurpers when they imposed their own ideals and laid claim to the fortress beneath the volcano. Beyond the statue, atop a long stone staircase carved into the mountainside, sat a large building set with tall pillars along its facade and a rising tower on one end. It looked to be home and fortress both, but whatever wealthy magistrate or corrupt priest had lived here was now long gone. Empty chests and broken crates lined the staircase down from the villa's open doorway, their contents now stolen by Viking raiders when they had swept through this neighborhood days ago. Nothing was left now except the ghost of a resurrected city cast back to the dust once again.

Thinking that he had missed his brother and the Knights, whose company Gunnar now seemed to prefer, Herleif made to return the way he had come, but the glint of metal shining back near the mansion caught his attention.

At the foot of the rocky hill was a carved entryway that Herleif had first taken for a cellar beneath the villa, with two smooth pillars flanking an open doorway leading within. As he approached, he saw from the evidence of splintered planks now cast aside that the entrance had once been boarded up and that a golden phoenix with a red 'x' painted upon the door that now stood open. On either side of the door, lining the stone wall from end to end, were weapons, with thick leather belts looped and tied around those that rested in sheaths. Longswords, poleaxes, the spiked head of a flail carefully wrapped up next to a shield painted with two flags and a black sword, along with a sheathed shortsword and a dagger, all left outside. There was even a two-handed great axe next to the sword and dagger, an axe which Herleif would have recognized even if all the weapons in Valkenheim had been gathered into one spot.

Herleif paused for a moment, considering how foolish it was to just leave such fine weapons as these lying around and abandoned in a city full of warriors desperate for any kind of loot. It was obvious why they had been left outside, though. He had seen such madness before on raids during his younger days and taken advantage of such traditions when it had suited him. Now that he stood before the door, he could hear soft music coming from within, delicate words, and the slow tune of a flute. Glancing to the archway above his head, he could see the cracked stone base where undoubtedly a small cross had stood before it, too, had been cast down like all the other places of worship the Divine Pyre had deemed heretical during their reign. Shaking his head, he put a comforting hand on the hilt of his own sword hanging at his hip and stepped inside the cool shade of the small church.

Passing through a small narthex, he walked into the nave proper, finding the members of the dishonored Lion Flame Legion as he had expected, but somehow still left surprised by what he saw. He had never hated the people of Ashfeld for their different faith as some of his kinsmen did, but then he had never paid it much mind either. The question of whose god or gods were stronger had never shaken his own belief in the Æsir, but here in this little church, somehow appearing so resilient against the Pyre's destruction, he could not deny how the splendor of their small congregation struck him.

Light filled the space from an open window carved through the rock, illuminating a simple wooden cross that stood upon a stone altar on the far side of the hall, its silhouette casting a shadow over the Knights who knelt before it. A shadow of piety, of deliverance, the shining rays of light striking forth from the outstretched arms of the cross like holy redemption for what was done to cast off the tyranny of false priests.

The walls were painted with images in bright colors, depicting the stories from the holy book that predated Ashfeld before the Cataclysm. A man and a woman, naked in a garden, the woman holding an apple while a snake coiled its way to her out of a tree. Another of a man ready to sacrifice a young boy, his knife raised, but his gaze was fixed on a winged woman that flew above him, blowing a horn as rays of light split through the clouds. On the other wall, a babe swaddled in a manger, three kings bearing gifts, and three shepherds bowed in worship while the newborn child's parents watched over him. There were more besides, scenes that Herleif recognized from other churches he had plundered in his youth. Always there was the image of the babe now grown into a man and nailed to the cross, his followers weeping at his feet with their hands clasped together, but as always, he bore a golden circle about his head like a crown, as if this death was the greatest glory he could bestow upon his worshipers.

Herleif did not understand it, but he knew that whatever story their sacred book told, the people of Ashfeld now viewed the cross upon which this man had died as the holiest of symbols. They bowed before it. They worshiped it as if the man still hung upon it dying, his brow bleeding from his crown of thorns. Sometimes he did appear upon the crosses they carved and hung in their churches, gaunt and near death. A god killed upon the cross, worshiped by an entire kingdom, and yet from the way these people praised him, it seemed that he was always alive in their hearts.

The Knights were all gathered in the rear of the nave, up close near the altar, their dwindling number occupying the space as they knelt in their scuffed armor, heads bowed, hands pressed before them in prayer. One of them was playing a wooden flute, the crisp notes coming on slow and beautiful, keeping a steady rhythm as the church was filled with singing. The sound of the Lion Flame harmonized, calling out their praises to their Lord, their almighty God. He saw Judith at the front, her back turned to him as she looked up at the cross from where she knelt. The music faded away, and she lifted her head to the cross, spreading her arms out wide, always leading her legion, whether upon the battlefield or in prayer.

"O Lord, our protection, our redemption," she said in a solemn voice of the deepest respect, "Direct our minds by Thy gracious presence, and watch over our paths with guiding love, that among the snares which lie hidden in the path that we now walk we will press onward with hearts fixed on Thee. That by faith we may come to be where Thou would have us. Strengthen and confirm us, O Lord, as your cross is the rock of faith, and that our minds will not be shaken by the attacks of our enemy. For Thou alone are holy. May the infinite and glorious Trinity, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, direct our lives in good works, and after our passage through this world, grant us to eternal rest with the righteous. Grant this, O eternal and almighty God. Amen."

The musical notes began again and joined the voices of the Knights, which echoed wonderfully within the church, sounding from the rafters and the stone walls like ringing bells as they once again began to sing, making it seem that there were far more of them than were present, all giving thanks, all united as one in faith and in worship.

Herleif had to respect it, no matter what he thought of their traditions or their heritage. He knew enough of their language to listen and follow along. Though he might stand as a heathen within this house of holy worship, there was no denying just how elegant it all sounded.

O strength of Wisdom
who, circling, circled,
enclosing all
in one life-giving path,
three wings you have:
one soars to the heights,
one distills its essence upon the earth,
and the third is everywhere.
Praise to you, as is fitting,
O Wisdom

Herleif did not know why he felt such a tightness in his throat as he listened, felt such a chill run down his back, and the hairs on his arms stand on end. He simply listened, not making a sound, loathe to disturb this incredible peace he somehow felt he had intruded on. This moment belonged to the followers of this lone God. It belonged to Judith and her Knights, who had struggled against faithlessness and abandonment to achieve something great, something they would only be cursed and exiled for, a moment that they unquestionably deserved. He didn't belong here and suddenly felt very foolish for having entered the church at all. Turning to leave, he tried to remain as quiet as possible and depart unnoticed but stopped when he spotted Gunnar sitting on a bench next to him at the back of the hall.

If Gunnar had seen Herleif enter, he didn't show it. His attention was fixed solely on the majestic display before them. Gunnar sat there as if captured by a spell, his helmet left forgotten beside him, elbows propped on his knees, and his chin resting on his clasped hands. He looked to be very much in prayer himself, and for a moment, Herleif felt a tinge of worry over just how deep his brother had fallen in with these devout Knights. He glanced down at the Thor's hammer dangling from his brother's neck, the same one they had sworn on all those years ago, sworn to always fight by each other's side. It seemed they had been fighting each other more and more lately, burdening his heart with a weight of guilt. Now he wanted to leave the church all the more, but he had not come all this way to depart alone.

"Gunnar," he whispered, voice hoarse after staying silent for so long. His brother perked up, broken from his trance, and blinked up as if just noticing Herleif for the first time. He frowned in question, and Herleif gestured towards the door for their departure, but Gunnar remained sitting, giving another questioning look as if needing a reason to leave the Knights behind. Now Herleif frowned back, having no appreciation for having to explain himself nor the reasons that felt foul on his tongue. "We have been summoned. Erik has something he wishes to show us."

Gunnar gave a soft grumble of annoyance, and truthfully Herleif felt much the same. "Later," he growled.

"No, now," Herleif hissed back, but Gunnar ignored him and looked back at the Knights as they sang. Herleif gnashed his teeth but knew this was no place to lose his temper. His brother just had such a talent for stoking his anger, a skill he'd always had since their childhood. Willing himself to take a breath and let it go, Herleif allowed himself to be drawn back into the blissful singing, finding that it offered a surprising amount of peace to his concerns, even if he did not quite believe in the words. He took in a breath and sighed, "I will say one thing for these tins. They know how to sing a beautiful prayer."

"Aye," Gunnar whispered in reply, his eyes fixed forward in stunned amazement, "beautiful."

Herleif lifted his brows as he looked at his brother and followed his gaze to the gathered Knights, jaw going tight as he tensed in dismay. He saw her plainly enough, kneeling off to the side of the congregation between Marcelo and Coal. She didn't have her helmet or her hood on now, brown hair curling about her ears. Her voice was lovely to listen to among the others, and he could see well enough why his brother was drawn to her. What truly struck him, though, was when Priscilla glanced sideways back at Gunnar and offered him the barest hint of a smile. Gunnar's face lit up like a child seeing the northern lights in the winter sky for the first time.

"Come on," Herleif demanded, hitting Gunnar's shoulder to reclaim his attention. His brother grumbled but knew from the glare Herleif gave him that this was not a request. Grabbing his helmet, Gunnar stood and shifted his way out from between the benches, glancing back at Priscilla more than once.

They left together, and Herleif tried to hold onto the peace he had felt back inside as the singing faded to a quiet murmur, but just hearing Gunnar tromp along behind only reminded him of how he had gone searching for his brother again when he should have been by his side to begin with. "Do not forget your axe," he muttered angrily as he stepped outside back into the square, feeling the need to fret over his brother and resenting him for it at the same time.

"What does Erik want to show us?" Gunnar asked, snatching up his axe and resting it on one shoulder as he followed, helmet swinging in his other hand as they went.

Herleif frowned and did not look back at him. "I do not know."

"Is there any news of the second key?"

"I do not know."

"When will we leave? I want the treasure we are owed as much as the next man, but Erik can't think to keep us here forever if-"

"I do not know!" Herleif finally snapped, rounding on Gunnar with his teeth bared, spittle flying as he snarled, "He commands, and I obey! That is the way of things now, so do not pester me with questions when their answers are far beyond my control!"

Gunnar stopped short before him, eyes wide with shock. "I was only asking. What's crawled up your backside? You're acting more sour than Thor at Thrym's wedding feast."

"You! You are what troubles me and has troubled me ever since we marched from Eitrivatnen!" Herleif shouted, stabbing a finger into Gunnar's chest. Then he snatched up the Thor's hammer hanging from his brother's neck, holding it up so that the dull metal shone between them. "Do you not remember the oath we swore upon this very amulet? The oath we made to honor each other as family? As brothers?"

"Yes, I remember," Gunnar shot back, returning Herleif's scowl. "How could I ever forget? And it has always been an oath kept..."

"Is it!?" Herleif dropped the small hammer and gave Gunnar a hard shove. "We are meant to fight together, Gunnar! Not be at odds over the schemes of some Ashfeld woman! For all the love of the gods, she is a Peacekeeper! Her ways are steeped in treachery and lies! I always knew you to be a fool, but I could never believe how unfathomably stupid you are to fall in league with the likes of her!"

To his credit, Gunnar did not strike back at Herleif like the last time they had argued in such a way. Instead, he slowly backed away with eyes cast down at his boots but did not give up the fight entirely. "You welcome the rest of the Knights into our clan with open arms, even when they pit you against Erik and his disregard for their lives, but you single me out for my closeness to Priscilla? I have already explained myself to you once, brother. I will not do so again."

Herleif squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed at his face, willing himself to resist the urge to knock his brother's head off to mimic the nearby statue. "There is nothing to explain. You have made your intentions clear. We are meant to be fighting in this raid together, but it was not you who came to my aid outside of the keep, was it? I owe that honor to my new oath-brother, a man I have wanted to kill on more than one occasion, but still, he was the one who stood fighting by my side while you were off gallivanting with that hooded sneak." He paused a moment, squinting up at the sun through the dark clouds and lingering smoke as he tried to think of a way to make Gunnar see reason. To remind him of what they had come here to do.

"I recall a time when you would criticize me for not sailing my longships across the sea to raid. You would drink, and you would blather to the hall, even when you knew I was listening. Blather on about how I would not feed the raven. How I would not heed the call of the steel storm. I set myself to improving our home without the need for bloodshed, to leave something behind for my children that I could be proud of, and yet you were not content. You left to find your own adventure, to forge your own legend, without a care for what I was trying to do. I did not wish to see you go, but I allowed it with the promise that we would always remain brothers, and I was content. Well, I have finally gone on a raid again, Gunnar. The greatest raid in the history of our people, as Erik would say. My sword has tasted the blood of my enemies again, and I have watered the ground of Ashfeld with the blood of our people. And where have you been? Still looking to your legend, never content, all while I have lost nearly everything I have tried to build."

Those words cut at Gunnar from the hurt look on his face, and Herleif wished in a way that they had come to blows rather than trading insults that seemed far more hurtful than any punch of a fist. He sighed again, forever wrestling with his temper as he was for Gunnar's attention. "I know you were willing to give your life for her in Erik's tent before the battle. I do not know why she is different from any other girl you have taken to bed over the years, but I know you would have fought for her, even when I told you to keep silent. Please, tell me what I must do to make this right. I have no qualms with the Lion Flame, but she addles your brain, gets under your skin. We made an oath, Gunnar. I expect you to honor it."

For a moment, Gunnar said nothing, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the haft of his axe, eyes turned down toward the ground, chewing at his bottom lip as he thought. Everything about him was so tense, as he always seemed to be when they were together these days. It pained Herleif to see it. He could not say when things had become so strained between them or why speaking to each other had become such a chore, but he wished he could fix it. He missed the days when he and Gunnar would laugh together over cups of ale or make absurd boasts as they trained outside his hall. He wanted things to be the way they used to be, and he almost said as much, hoping it would help, but his brother spoke first.

"There is nothing you can do, Herleif," Gunnar said, staring at him grimly, a hard frown set in his braided beard. "I am not some child to be commanded in this. She is no longer a stranger to me, and I only wish to know her more. Try to stop me, and I will fight you." His gaze turned all the more menacing, becoming so far removed from the joyful little brother Herleif had once known him as, and the axe was held out in front of him not in idleness but as a clear and present threat. "You swore to honor me as your brother, too, remember? Honor me now, then, and stay the fuck out of my business."

So stunned by the clear display of adversity before him, Herleif, for once, had nothing to say. It was the closest Gunnar had ever come to challenging him, a true holmgang, crossing blades in a circle to draw blood or to the death. Such a thought had never crossed his mind in all of his life, not where Gunnar was concerned, and to see that violent glint in his brother's eye staring back at him now turned his heart to ice. He searched Gunnar's face for some hope that he might listen to reason and cast off this woman's spell, speaking softly as if to a small child he did not wish to spook, "What is she to you, that you would forsake your kin so freely to be by her side?"

Gunnar smiled at that, lifting his chin a touch higher and saying with pride, "She is a fighter. She is the fate I didn't know I wanted, but I am certain of it now, and I intend to remain by her side even after this raid is done."

Herleif could only blink, mouth hanging open in stunned disbelief at his brother's defiance. "Gunnar..."

"We should not keep the King waiting," Gunnar said, suddenly moving around Herleif and walking on down the street. Herleif could only watch him go. Somehow it felt like he had been the one defeated and left helpless, all the fight sucked out of him as Gunnar left him behind. He had lost his hold because of this woman's schemes, and now it seemed he would lose his brother to her too.

Perhaps he should have done more to put an end to her tricks back in Eitrivatnen. Now it was too late. To pick a fight with the Peacekeeper now was to pick a fight with Gunnar as well, and that was not something he could bring himself to do, not after they had come so far together.

He didn't know what to do about his brother anymore. He didn't know what to do about anything.