The smoke that surrounded the field nearly swallowed her once lit. She saw, through the shuffle of feet, Ubbe raise his arm toward his counterpart on the far side and drop his torch, igniting the line of fire that raced down the field and wrapped around Harald's numbers that gathered at the base of the low hill. It was almost beautiful, the red and orange against the dull, dark field, a prelude to the scarlet soon to be staining it. The warmth that came from the fires could have warmed a thousand hearths and she started to flush from her spot.

Battle cries reverberated up the field – cries to Odin, calls to God and her arms prickled from them. Was it still an honor to die in battle as a Christian?

Ubbe had moved from his spot. She hadn't noticed him travel after lighting his line and she regretted not following his movement. Her eyes were pulled toward him, trying to scan the feet she could see through, but couldn't find him. She could, however, see Alfred's horse and figured Ubbe would be by his King's side.

Then in a blur, the hooves were moving, feet were racing and the line was breaking, pushing forward. The catapult lines were cut, and their long arms swung in arcs, flinging their flaming contents over the field and into her old companions. Their cries shivered up her spine. The armies merged, mixing like brackish water, flowing into one another but remaining separate, two opposing masses pulled into one. Swords clashed together, their metal ringing amongst the trees and the groans followed of those fallen upon them. She winced. Archers then notched their flaming arrows and they flew to those remaining in the back of Harald's lines, piercing through thick armor. She could have joined them, she thought. At least then she would have been useful with her bow, instead of strapped to this oak tree.

Scrunching her nose, she picked up her shield and took a step forward to take a closer look at the field. The fires raged on, leaving just the opening where she stood agape along the line of catapults. She pressed up further, making sure to stay in line with the oak as to not lose her target if needed. Crouching behind a spent catapult, she peered at the chaos below.

They were evenly matched with numbers, she feared. She hoped the surprise of the catapults and the fires lost some of Harald's men, but so far it didn't look as though it did. Looking for Alfred's horse, she couldn't see any riders still aloft their beasts and she panicked for him. He couldn't be lost already, could he? He wasn't wearing his crown, and he wasn't the easiest to spot in the swirl of mud forming under the ash, but she strained her eyes for him anyway.

First, she saw Aethelred cutting through the arm of a shield maiden and then thrusting his sword through her chest. Her own chest ached in response. Then a few feet from him, she found his brother, his sword still looking unnatural in his hands, but he was flush against an axe and sliced the belly of his opponent open with quick motion. She breathed a sigh of relief and tried to look for Ubbe.

Trying to spot a Viking in a hoard of Vikings proved difficult. She first looked for axe wielders – and then laughed at herself as a better half of the fighters gripped axes. Then it was his braid, could she see that flying about as he turned? For once she was glad he didn't bind it up as she feared someone would yank on it in battle, for she spotted him as he twisted to slash the diaphragm of one man and fling a second axe hard into another's chest. He gave a rousing, bellowed cry that pierced above the cacophony, fueling his own adrenaline. He was nearly skipping as he pulled the axe from the fallen man and shoved it through the neck of another before moving further up the field.

She tried to follow the chaos. Tried to follow the swings and slashes, the cuts and dives, but they began to run together. Bodies were moving too quickly in both armies, falling, fleeing or fighting. Her head spun from it and she got lost in the movement. Then, a sunbeam ricocheted into her eye from a sword below. Ducking further behind the catapult to rub out the pain that singed her forehead, she groaned and took the moment to pause. Popping back up, her eyes found the fray again and locked onto Harald.

He looked lost, alone in the sea of his men. Twirling about, his eyes were darting to and fro, not focusing on but one target, but the many assaults bombarding him. Lhyrie could see him clearly, as though the smoke had cleared, as though the mud stopped kicking up from feet below, seen as clear as the stars on a brisk night. The uncertainty and anxiety from when she journeyed to his camp with Ubbe masked the hatred she still felt for Harald – he had killed Ellisif the day before their battle with Aethelwulf but it boiled in her now. She crept around the corner of the safety of the catapult.

Ubbe had said to use her bow if she was able. There seemed to be no Saxon between her and him, so he would be an easy target for her to do so. Staying low, she reached behind her to grasp onto the soft fletching of an arrow. Harald turned and sliced the back of a soldier to his right. He looked through the field and Lhyrie thought her opportunity was going to be lost as he made to rush through a group of men wrestling to his left but was forced to knock off another attack coming from behind.

She lifted her bow and notched carefully, still hunched around the barricade of the catapult. Pulling the tense string back, her fingers grazed her cheek and her eyes found the weak spots in his armor. His neck was bare, the armor between his shoulder and arm loose with time and his legs unprotected. Her aim rose for his neck. Again, the battle seemed to quiet around him. He stood alone as her fingers stood still on the bow string for that blink of her eyelid. She gulped with him.

"Að!" He cried. Her arrow left the string. Retreat. She cursed under her breath and watched as the arrow flew to the relinquished man.

It flew through the air, perfectly toward him; through the smoke and the mud kicking up as his troops turned toward him, registering his shout. The dark tip collided with his shoulder, lodged between the links of metal stitched over his leather and he gave a cry of pain as it jolted him a step backward in the muck. He groaned as he tore the arrow from his arm.

Lhyrie cursed again as something sharp jabbed into her hand. Her bow splintered at its grip. Lodged into her palm was a long piece of yew, blood pooling around it. She cursed again and flung the bow on to the ground before tearing into her bag for a piece of cloth. She swiped a line of rosemary balm with her finger as she withdrew a bandage from her bag and then carefully pried out the stuck piece of wood. Sighing with relief, she applied pressure to her palm and looked back out to the field.

Harald had moved from his spot, of course. His legs moved but she hoped he lost use of his arm for a few days. Most of his men had fled, retreating back through the simmering line of fire into the sanctuary of the woods. Those who remained were being bound already and she hurriedly bound her own bandage into a simple pull knot before placing her medical bag back over her shoulder to trudge down the slope.

In the middle of the field, the warmth from the smoldering fires was stronger than ever. Wiping away the sweat and mud that instantly pooled there, Lhyrie focused on not stumbling over the still bodies that strewn about the field. Those that were moving, or struggling, she tried to avert her eyes from despite her heart pulling to help them, to start healing. No, she needed to find Ubbe. And then she nearly stopped in the field. Her heart sank. What if Ubbe lay still like countless others in the field? She pushed on, eyes scanning.

She found Bjorn – and was that Gunnhild? – near the center, both covered in mud. Bjorn had a nasty cut over his eye that was the only thing other than brown running down his cheek. His brother wasn't near him. She passed earldermen she hardly knew, especially now in their mess. More brothers clasped in arms and her heart galloped faster. Where was he? She pleaded to herself.

Then, a hand grabbed at her wrist, another at her waist and she was yanked backward. Her feet twirled easily in the soft earth and then suddenly every part of her was pressed against Ubbe. If not for his hands pressing her hard against himself, she would have toppled in the mud, her toes hardly touched the earth. His hands pushed against and into her back and hair; the mud and blood and sweat smearing onto her own leather. The taste of blood was still warm on his lips but she was just grateful it was there.

"Are you injured?" She pulled back and drew a finger down his cheek, carving a line out of the mess stuck there.

He shook his head in answer with a smile. The white of his smile was blinding against the dark mud and blood. He plucked another quick kiss on her lips before pulling her tight against him again. Lhyrie stayed on her toes and hooked her chin on his shoulder to avoid a face full of leather and blood. She was grateful to hold onto him and didn't want to let go. His leather was warm, no doubt helped by the extra fires still smoldering on the outskirts and she could have almost fallen asleep from the warmth until her name was cried across the field.

They broke apart and her head snapped to where she thought it was called. "Lhyrie!" Her name was shouted again. It sounded like Alfred. She strained her eyes through the smoke.

"There!" Ubbe pointed. Alfred knelt halfway through the field, shaking a body that was quiet.

Lhyrie forced herself to move, to pull her feet to whoever Alfred was mourning. She sent a quick prayer it wasn't Aethelred. Ubbe moved with her, driving her pace forward, their steps rushed and urgent. A few yards from them, she noticed Aethelred was standing next to his brother – that was good at least, Lhyrie thought. He was shielding the slain though and it did not lessen her worry.

Alfred pierced up at them as they came closer. "Please," he begged, tears starting in his eyes. His grip on the dark leather of Bishop Heahmund was desperate.

Lhyrie knelt next to him, her breath still in her own chest. It matched the chest of Heahmund in front of her, but hers did not have the three arrows piercing it. Ubbe rushed opposite of her and crouched low. Her hands stroked the hard leather. They came up slick with blood. She gulped.

Adding to the arrows, there seemed to be a stab wound leading to the rush of blood. Reaching into her bag, Lhyrie grabbed a sleeve of water and poured it over him. She wiped his abdomen in between the arrow piercings. Yes, a stab wound. If not for his leather, his stomach would have been spewing onto his chest like the man who laid next to him. Ubbe must have seen into the wound as well because his eyes flicked up to her. She pressed her lips hard together and reached for bandages in her bag.

"I need you to saw off the arrows," she told Ubbe. She tried to sound convincing, like this would bring back the wind to his pierced lungs. "Carefully and close to the skin."

He nodded hard and pulled the axe from his back holster. Using the cheek of his extra axe, he braced one side of the arrow and sliced quickly through it. The action rocked Heahmund back and forth. A groan peeked from the man's lips.

Lhyrie quickly swooped her ear down to his mouth to listen for more. But nothing else came and her hair did not move from his breath. Death had a final noise. "I said carefully," she snipped, shooting a glare to Ubbe. He would know of the noises the dead made but Alfred would not. She was grateful Alfred wasn't next to Ubbe, but above Heahmund's head – he couldn't see her eyes. She didn't want the hope to linger there longer than it should.

Ubbe cleared his throat and resumed his task with lighter taps on the next arrow. She pressed her fingers into Heahmund's throat to feel for the blood's movement underneath it. His flesh was still warm and dewy, it at almost caused her to pull her hand back. But the fires still going would keep him warm, wouldn't they. She pressed on, her tips prodding for the pulse. For a moment she felt a flash of one, but then Ubbe finished his cut through the arrow and the beat stopped.

Lhyrie pressed her lips together once more and stole another quick glance to Ubbe whose eyes never left her. He stopped his progress on the last arrow and rose slowly.

"What?" Alfred's eyes darted between the two of them.

Lhyrie gulped and poured more water over Heahmund, wiping his leather again. No fresh blood poured from his abdomen and her bandages were only stained lightly, instead of dripping of blood as they should have been. She wrung the water out of them into a puddle by her knees. She avoided Alfred's gaze.

Alfred rose as Ubbe gripped Heahmund's sword that stuck in the earth near his feet. It looked as though Ubbe didn't want to touch it, as he lifted it cautiously like the blade would come alive at him, but he took the few steps and held out the sword to Alfred nevertheless.

Alfred shook his head fiercely. "You heard him."

Lhyrie continued to wipe, her cloth still clean. Finally, she lifted her fingers to close his eyes gently. "There is nothing more," she said softly. She looked up at them from her spot. The sun cast halos around both men.

Alfred set his jaw then shook his head. Wiping under his eye, he spread a new line of mud there. Lhyrie noticed then the deep laceration on the bridge of his nose and rose promptly, reaching back in her bag for a remedy. She pulled out a vial and reached for him, but Alfred shook her off.

"You should take his sword," he told Ubbe, clearing his throat. Ubbe still held the sword out to him and it nearly dropped from his hands.

"No," he grumbled with a shake of his head. Both men looked exhausted from the day. Ubbe was going to lose any formality if they stayed in the field much longer and that was acceptable alone with Alfred but not in the presence of his court. "It belongs to him."

"It will be buried with him then."

Ubbe nodded in agreement. He bent back down and cut down the last arrow before folding Heahmund's arms over his sword on his chest. He almost looked at peace.

"Let us pray," Alfred lowered his head. Lhyrie shifted and glanced at Ubbe who did the same, but folded his hands together and looked down at his feet. "Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let Perpetual light shine upon them. May their souls and the souls of the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace. Amen."

"Amen," their band finished together. She fumbled through the cross.

Lhyrie shook off the still awkward custom and dug her hands back into her bag. "May I see to your injury now?" She asked the King.

"We should transport the injured back to Winchester," he said, almost absentmindedly.

"Yes," Aethelred nearly laughed out of exhaustion.

"We can transport the dead after."

"I agree," someone else added.

Lhyrie stood, balm in hand, ready to pounce on his nose. She hesitated as Alfred observed the aftermath.

"Just do it, Lhyr," Ubbe laughed. Alfred's head snapped over to hers and he noticed the supplies in her hand.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"No need, sire," she said with a smirk, swiping witch hazel onto the laceration. He winced hard.

As Lhyrie finished layering balm, Alfred looked restless. "We must move." As he said it, a wagon and carriage came into view in the horizon. "I will ride my horse in," he told his earldermen sternly, a tone not accustomed of coming from his throat.

"Of course, my lord," one of them gulped. "It was…" his explanation didn't want to come, "precautionary."

"Yes, yes," Alfred said with a cough.

Lhyrie cleared her own throat. She stuffed the balm back into her bag and stifled through it briefly, bringing some of the bandages to the top. She still had plenty of clean ones to spare. "I will help those injured to the wagons," she said toward Ubbe. "If I am needed."

Ubbe nodded but was not looking at her. He was scanning the field, searching the faces. "I will gather our things," he said, distracted. "I will find you before we depart." His blue eyes found hers then, his search over.

"Gentlemen," Alfred began, "and lady," he extended his head toward her. "Let us celebrate together in Winchester." He clapped his brother on his back whose smile Lhyrie had never seen so wide. It was refreshing.

Lhyrie turned and looked about the field. The men departed around her and she stood alone, seeing who to turn to next, who to help. Most who could move were already making their way up to the wagons or their horses. Those limping found shoulders to lean on. Everyone moving on the field was standing. Everyone still was laying in the muck. Sighing, she tightened her bag on her shoulder and climbed the slope up to the wagons. Maybe she could heal who needed it before they departed.

Moving, she saw Bjorn again and clearly saw it was Gunnhild who was with him before. Her hands were bound and she was a step behind him now as they walked. She refused to look anywhere but her own feet and nearly tripped. Bjorn did not help her.

At the wagons, there were a few shoulders she moved back into socket, an arm or two snapped back into place and leg wounds wrapped until her bandages were gone. She felt accomplished, at least until she could get back to Winchester and be with the full supplies of the Beaton. Wiping the sweat off her brow, someone's blood smeared there and she regretted not keeping at least one cloth for her own use.

The clack of the wagons sounded off to the distance and she was alone. The other abled men journeyed to their horses away from the field. Now she was just surrounded by the dead. Ubbe said he would find her, but where was he? Lhyrie sighed and sat down. She stared at the unmoving.

A few months ago, she would have seen the Valkyries descend to take the dead or Odin walking among them, choosing those to go to Valhalla. Now, she just saw bodies on the earth. She could not see angels or their souls rising to Heaven. She could not see any form of God on the field. Heahmund was the only corpse from the field who had been moved so even his form of holiness was gone. She shook her head hard and buried her face in her knees, tired of the view. It was eerily silent.

Her skin crawled and goose flesh prickled it. She rubbed the back of her neck, trying to shake the feeling. Picking her head off her knees, the world was lopsided and dark. Lhyrie shook her head but it made the world tilt further. She thought the strewn bodies would slide right off. She pressed her eyes tight, trying to rid the vision. Was it her previous Gods mocking her? Please Loki. Stop, she begged of him if he even existed. Pressing her palms tight to her eyes, she willed it away, wished all the bodies just to be gone in a blink. She opened them, but the world was right side up, bodies still in their unmoving stations. Lhyrie huffed and stood, wiping her hands on her pants. Unsure of where to turn, she went back to the oak tree. Whatever Ubbe was doing, at least that was a common point they knew and he could meet her there.

Her shield was still by the catapult she abandoned her bow next to. She left the splintered bow in the dirt but picked up her shield. Ahead of her, she expected Ubbe to be leaning casually on the oak, long legs stretched in front of him, arms crossed, and his eyes drooped in sleep; but she found it empty except the apple and bannock she left there. She sighed again and trudged forward.

Then, again, around a tree, a hand around her wrist pulled her to her side and the grip on her shield dropped. Ubbe pressed himself back into her, his lips now cold but still tasting of iron. A hand mingled into her hair, unraveling it from her braid as another pressed into her low back. Once the shock of his second ambush settled, she wrapped her arms around him, entwining her own fingers into his coiled hair. His beard was stiff with dried blood, the rust highlighting the red already there. It was rough on her cheeks but she dug into him anyway.

"Are you just going to greet me like that going forward?" She asked once they broke apart.

"Forever," he smirked.

His next kiss was equally as longing as the last one. His mouth forced hers open to meet his and she surged up to him. Her hair had fallen completely from her braid now and his dirty fingers tangled in it.

"Everyone is gone now." There was an air of yearning question in his voice.

"Was that your plan?" She poked him in the chest and he grabbed her hand gently, bringing it up to his lips. His head shook as he kissed her fingertips. She laughed. "I don't believe you."

She felt her warmth start to grow in her, a need building in her as Ubbe had built during battle. Him like this: intense, uncut, doubtlessly human made her want to rip off every buckle of his cuirass and give in to the need. Ubbe gripped her hand to his chest. She could feel the strong beat even through the thick layers of leather.

Despite the need growing, the desire from this morning of her pressed against the rough bark of the oak tree and the length of Ubbe against her, she stopped herself. "No."

He groaned and rolled his eyes.

"We will be back at our rooms soon enough and I will not be a mess."

Ubbe cocked an eyebrow at her. For a moment, she thought he would just start to untie her leather here so by the time they arrived at Winchester she would be completely bare. Instead, in one quick motion, he picked her up under the crook of her knees and flung her over his shoulder.

"Hey!" She squealed, punching his low back.

"We need to get to Winchester," he quipped back.

"Are you going to walk back?" She pressed on his back to try to lift herself.

Ubbe peered over his shoulder at her but just found her hips. He placed a hand on her bottom and squeezed. She squirmed while he chuckled. "I brought our horses over."

She plopped back down, no longer resisting the gravity of keeping herself up. Dirt was everywhere on him and now transferred onto her leather. So much for not getting dirty. Ubbe set her on her horse and looked her up and down, looking at the mix staining her. A smug smile creeped on his lips. She slapped him on his shoulder and they rode back to Winchester quickly.

Alfred was already starting to gather an assembly in the courtyard to celebrate their victory before everyone could be dismissed, squandering Ubbe's plans. He fidgeted uncomfortably but accepted the praise of his tactics from the King. Lhyrie squeezed his hand tight in hers as they stood there. But any giddiness left them when Bjorn came to tell them Lagertha had not returned with the living. They returned to the field promptly and did not leave until dawn the next morning, empty handed.