Surprise crossed Askeladd's face after I swore, and it had me blinking at him in return.

Don't tell me…

He laughed boastfully, all his teeth showing when he did, his eyes closing briefly from the effort. "What did you just say?" he asked in Norse, then switched to English effortlessly, "Fuck me sideways?" Then reverted back to Norse. "Can't say I've heard that before."

Of course he knew English. The sly, bushy brow bastard.

"I didn't understand him? What did he say? Was that English?" As the men nearby exchanged familiar inquiries, I chose to tune them out, directing my attention instead to soothing the tender spot on my stomach where I had been struck beneath my poncho. Grateful that the pain resided in a different location than the blow I endured three days prior. My face throbbed too, but not as bad as my stomach. Why did he have to hit me so hard?

"I must ask," Askeladd started, his hand falling to in-between his legs joining his other hand, his eyes regarding me shrewdly, "why'd you and the whelp stay behind? Understand the pup, but you?" He leaned forward, his eyes sparkling like he knew some hidden detail about me. "What's your reasoning? Surely you didn't think we wouldn't find out?"

Before I could answer, the berserker pirate, Bjorn, spoke up. "Wait, aren't you the brat who challenged me on the boat?" He circled around me as he spoke, and stood next to Askeladd. He then crossed his arms, a smile playing on his lips that was neither cruel nor sadistic, strangely enough. "You got some balls on you, kid."

My eyes drifted back to Askeladd, who's eyebrow arched as he waited for my answer. "We didn't stay behind by choice," I admitted. There was no use lying about this part of our story. "We were in the cargo bay, and before we knew it, you guys were towing us out to sea."

"Ha!" One of the pirates laughed outright suddenly. Askeladd glances to my left as the other pirate continued, "I almost forgot how much he sounds like a girl! Your balls haven't dropped yet, lad? Maybe we should check to be sure!"

I looked in the general direction the voice came from, but made sure I could still see Askeladd in my peripheral. I didn't know what my game plan was going to be, but pirates, or vikings in general, didn't take kindly to insults, and looked down on anyone who allowed themselves to be insulted without any sort of retaliation. Either by dueling, or dishing out their own comeback until one ceased, or it also broke out into a duel. If I didn't want them to look down at me, I needed to react to the insult… "If you're mistaking me for a girl," I started, "then I doubt you'll be able to tell the difference between a dick and a vagina."

My stupid comeback elicited a few stifled chuckles from the pirates, while the one I presumed to be the instigator wore a distinctly sour expression. "Fucking dumb brat," he drew his sword suddenly. "If we're killing him, I call the first shot," he declared. He stood tall, a broad-shouldered man, his short brown beard looked haphazardly trimmed and his hair cropped close to his scalp. Yet, despite his imposing stature, there was a certain lack of intellectual gleam in his small, beady eyes.

He looked strong, but stupid.

The words that spilled from my lips I regretted instantly, as if they had a will of their own. "By all means, take the first shot. If your aim is as sharp as your humor, I might actually stand a chance."

Fuck me. Why did I say that? The first comeback should have been enough.

Why was I so dumb sometimes!

"That's it you little shit," he took a step forward menacingly, his sword gripped tightly in his right hand. "I'm going to enjoy killing you!"

Askeladd's hand came up, halting the man's advances. "Now, now" he chided with a smirk, letting his hand fall back into his lap. "We'll make time for that soon enough." His eyes came back to me, amused. "If he's itching for death, we'll gladly oblige. But I'm not finished with my interrogation."

"What purpose does this serve, Askeladd?" The other pirate asked, lowering his sword. "Just let me kill 'em. Whatever questions you have, the answers won't matter after they're dead."

"You'll get your chance, Frode. Just give me a moment, will ya?" Askeladd's gaze flickered back to the figure he addressed as Frode. Though his words bore a casual, almost playful tone, his eyes betrayed a deeper emotion. Was that a glint of hatred simmering within his gaze?

This man was a very complicated individual. I could tell that much.

"Fine," Frode said, not seeing the look Askeladd was directing toward him. "But I'm the one that's gonna kill 'em. Ya hear?" He delivered the final remark to the assembled group, asserting his claim with certainty. Some of the men responded with indifferent shrugs, while others offered only token objections. It appeared that, much like Frode, there were others present who harbored a similar desire for my death.

Bloodthirsty bastards.

Well, I'd screwed myself over. How was I going to get out of this? Why couldn't I filter what comes out of my mouth!

"Now then," Askeladd said, turning his attention back toward me. I hated when he looked at me. "Here's the deal kid, answer my questions and I'll ask for a quick and swift death"-ask was the key word there-"don't answer 'em, then, well, I'm sure your imagination is as quick witted as that mouth of yours." His cruel smirk only widened.

"Ask away then. I have nothing to hide." I said. And as he was asking his questions, I would attempt to think of a way out of this mess.

Again, that amusement flashed in his eyes, like he knew something before it vanished to his usual smug smirk. "Back during our ambush, you told Thors that I wouldn't hold up my end of our deal. What made you think I wouldn't?"

Really? Wasn't it obvious? "The way you made your vow in Odin's name," I paused and added offhandedly, "and your eyes."

While his lips retained their smirk, his eyes remained devoid of amusement, betraying a contrasting emotion that interested me ever so slightly. He didn't like what I said. "How so?"

"The tone you used-"

"Not about the vow," he clarified.

"Why does it-" I halted, recalling his earlier warning. It was imperative to respond to his inquiries without resistance; the consequences of defiance at the hands of a murdering, raping pirate were uncertain and potentially severe. Especially when he was the leader and could order my death instantly. I needed to stay on his goof side as long as possible. That also meant I shouldn't say anything more than might piss him off. "I once heard an old saying when I was young: 'The eyes are the window to the soul.' Since then, I've found it effortless to discern people's intentions," I remarked, before adding almost as an afterthought, "In the moment."

I hoped my response sufficed, finding his question peculiar. Why did it even matter? I pondered, tempted to voice my thoughts.

Why did any of this matter? Despite my disgust, the fat pirate I'd pissed off did bring up a reasonable question.

His gaze narrowed, the smirk fading from his face. "Is that so? Just like that," he asked skeptically, clearly unconvinced.

He remained unconvinced, and I couldn't blame him. It wasn't as if I could divulge that in my previous life, my family encompassed a spectrum of personalities—from the deceitful and manipulative to the untrustworthy. You learned to discern such traits and recognize them in others. And considering the family business , I ran into a lot of people like my family. However, revealing such personal insights was out of the question.

How could I even broach the topic of reincarnation with someone like him ? Or anyone for that matter. And why would I even want to to begin with? Born a thousand years in the future, only to die and be reborn a thousand years in the past—it sounded utterly nonsensical. Hell, they'd probably just kill me on the spot for how dumb it sounded.

Or kill me because they thought I was insane.

"Yep. Easy as breathing." For a fish on land.

His eyes narrowed. "And what do you read from me?" Askeladd inquired, his gaze piercing as he awaited my response.

His question gave me pause. Why was he so interested? What did he want to hear? I mulled over my response, careful not to set him off and have him whip out his sword right then and there. Glancing around at the men listening in, I couldn't help but wonder why Askeladd was so curious, and why he'd ask such a question in front of them. Did he genuinely want to know what I thought of him? His actions, like not wanting to kill Thors and offering him leadership, hinted at a more complex character. But why ask such a question, risking his standing with his crew?

Then again, even if I were to strike the nail on the head, he would simply chuckle it away, and his crew would unquestioningly follow suit. They didn't strike me as the sharpest bunch, likely the reason Askeladd retained them.

However, amidst the crew, there was Bjorn. Unlike the other pirates, his frequent sidelong glances at Askeladd suggested a deeper awareness of the situation than his comrades possessed. He saw how serious Askeladd got, and it made him curious.

Now, the question remained: divulge the truth, potentially sealing my own fate by revealing too much to his crew, or fabricate a lie and still face the risk of insta-death if he saw through it.

Then again, I couldn't claim to understand Askeladd's true intentions. My analysis of the man was built on shaky ground, considering my limited acquaintance with him (thank god). Ultimately, he could simply scoff at my conclusions and command Frode to do his worst.

I glanced at Frode, and an idea struck me. One I was going to file for later, if it came to it.

When Askeladd asked Thors to be their leader, he meant every word of it. If Thors agreed, that day would have been markedly different. Thors would probably be alive…

And Askeladd would have willingly been his right hand man, risking everything he was now, sitting across from me.

"You have a goal," I said cautiously, choosing my words carefully. "And you'll risk everything to achieve that goal." I put emphasis on 'everything', then, succumbing to my own foolishness, injected a touch of Irish into the mix, saying, "Agus is fuath leat do chuid fear ." And you hate your men.

He didn't react to my words, but instead asked, "What language was that?"

"Celtic," I offered. Not a complete lie but I didn't care.

A fleeting thought crossed my mind: Did he understand Irish as well? No, he wouldn't have asked if he did.

The abrupt shift in his demeanor, accentuated by his furrowed brows and piercing gaze, sent a shiver coursing down my spine. It was evident I had said something wrong. In an attempt to diffuse the tension, I raised my hands, palms forward, in a gesture of peace, offering, "Or not," Even Bjorn appeared surprised by Askeladd's response, his gaze unwavering, attentively monitoring his leader's every facial movement. "What do I know? I'm just a wandering chef. Not like it's any of my business!"

There was a long pregnant pause, then…

"Ah, the wandering chef?" chimed in another pirate to my right. "Torgrim, recall when that friendly woman who welcomed us into her home back in that backwater rock? Didn't she mention the delicious jerky she gave us was made by a ' wandering chef', did she not?"

My head whipped to the side. At that moment, I didn't care what face I was making, or what my eyes were betraying, or if Askeladd was in my peripheral vision, watching how my eyes reacted to this new information. A burly figure with blonde hair scratched his chin, pondering as his gaze drifted upward. "Oh yeah, that woman. She was friendly alright," he said with a vicious smile. "And yeah, you're right. She did say that weird word. Chef, was it? Yeah, yeah, it's coming back to me now."

My hands tightened around the fabric at my knees. The first speaker, a slender man with hair and gray eyes mirroring the larger man's, took a measured step forward. "You wouldn't happen to be the chef she mentioned, would you?" He was smiling, talking to me so casually. He couldn't see the rage building in me.

What did they do to Brynhild?!

Through clenched teeth they couldn't see, I replied, "Probably. I should be the only one in existence."

The thin blonde man's face brightened up. "Really?" he started, his hand resting on his hip as he spoke animatedly. "How the hell did you get it so chewy without drying it out? And what was that juice that covered it? It was delicious!"

Soy-free teriyaki sauce. Or, the closest I could get to it. "Just one of the many recipes I know."

"Well, can I get this "recipe" before you die? Can't let that go to waste, now can we?"

I smiled with my eyes, my hands relaxing. I needed to keep my emotions in check. Whatever they did, it was in the past now.

Calm your Fiadh. Take a deep breath. Now wasn't the time.

"I'd love to, but you gotta ask your boss first. And I have a lot more similar recipes if you're willing to lend an ear." Anything that would keep me alive for longer. Perhaps, just perhaps, this could serve as my escape route from the predicament. Otherwise, I would need to resort to the new plan B.

"Like hell! I'm not waiting for that foolery! Who gives a fuck about what fucking food tastes like?! We're pirates! As long as the meat and women are good, it's a good day!" Frode spoke up again, swinging his sword in front of him in agitation.

"You don't understand, Frode," the thin blonde man said in my defense, surprisingly. "That was the best damn jerky I've ever tasted. I'd pay good coin to try that again, and I don't pay for shit!" He laughed at his joke.

Giving Askeladd the side-eye, I braced myself for either a yawn or a smirk, but to my surprise, he lounged forward, chin propped on his hand, giving me a contemplative stare. My fingers twisted the fabric at my knees as tension crept in. Was he still holding a grudge, or was this just his version of a staring contest?

No. He was deciding something. What that was was anyone's guess.

"Are ya finished, Askeladd? I'm itching to begin," Frode inquired, drawing Askeladd's attention with just a glance.

Askeladd straightened, his response casual yet laden with a hint of cruelty. "By all means," he waved indifferently. Then, his smirk returned in full force as he added, "But do remember to remove his hat before the deed. It's only polite." My heart sank at the suggestion, realizing the gravity of the situation.

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

"Unbelievable," I muttered quietly to myself.

"Sorry, pal!" the slender blonde man chimed in cheerfully. "Did my best! Try not to die, will ya?" With a jovial grin, he edged back into the bustling crowd, which seemed to press in around us, their raucous cheers filling the air.

"Kill 'em, Frode!"

"I want to see his guts fall! Let them splatter the ground!"

"Make sure you put up a fight, kid! Don't let it end too soon!"

"He has no chance! Look how scrawny he is? Frode is going to cut him in half before the kid even knows what hit 'em."

"You got this, kid!"

"Who said that?" Frode yelled into the crowd as he positioned himself opposite me, to my left. I rose from my seat with deliberate care, masking the twinge of discomfort that stabbed at my stomach with each movement.

"Here, kid! You're gonna need this!"

A sword was suddenly flung at my feet. I scowled at it, finding dry blood on it.

Gross.

I shifted my gaze towards Frode before stealing a sidelong glance at Askeladd. With his arms folded across his chest, he lounged casually, his legs now crossed at the ankles. Our eyes met, and a wicked grin danced across his lips, deepening into his usual smirk as he caught my glance.

"If we're doing this," I called out loud enough for everyone to hear, shifting my attention back to Frode. "What happens if I win?"

"You're not going to, so let's not waste time with hypotheticals," Frode declared, casually bouncing his sword in his hand. How was he not cutting himself? It must not be that sharp.

It did have a nice point to it, though.

"So, after I can declare my winnings. Got it." I remarked dryly, before bending at the knees to retrieve the sword. But before i grabbed it, I reached inside my poncho and grabbed a large cloth. Carefully, I wrapped it around my left palm a couple times over, then tied it tight. When I grabbed the sword and rose slowly, the sword stubbornly remained close to the ground, its weight proving more cumbersome than anticipated. With a furrowed brow, I struggled to lift it, managing only to lift the hilt up before the tip sank back into the earth. "What the hell, why is it so heavy?" I exclaimed, making my astonishment evident.

Laughter erupted from the surrounding crowd, amplifying my embarrassment.

"You can't be serious! You talked all high and mighty and this is the best you got? Pathetic!" He laughed at me, his large stomach jiggling as he did it.

"The sword looks about the same weight as the one he held on the boat?" I heard Bjorn ask to my right, and I hoped Frode didn't hear him.

With no indication that Frode did her Bjorns remark, plan B kicked off. I was crossing my fingers that my beginner's luck had stayed with me, because what I was about to attempt felt like diving headfirst into suicide.

"Makes sense. After all, it was your mother that taught me as much." Nothing like a mom joke to provoke a fragile ego. Or maybe I should have made it about his dad? But it was stupid enough to work.

"What did you say, you little shit?" He spat, his sword now at his side, anger radiating off him in waves.

"Oh, struggling to grasp the complexity of my words, are we?" I taunted, hunching down to a squat as my voice rang out impishly. "Perhaps a rough landing on the head as a baby explains it. It would certainly account for the stupid expression you're making. Do I need to break it down like I'm speaking to a baby, will that help you understand me better?"

He took the bait and lunged forward, his sword arcing menacingly overhead with a shout, completely skipping any oaths that were declared before a proper duel would take place. With little time to spare, I easily lifted the blood rusted blade over my head, readying myself to muster every ounce of strength to not buckle under his swing. As he brought his weapon down towards my head, I took a step toward his personal space and braced myself for the impending clash.

I merely stood my ground, allowing him to exert all the effort. His wrist met the edge of my sword that lay in both of my hands, the sharp edge digging into my clothed covered hand, and I silently thanked myself for bracing against the impending impact. Suddenly, blood spurred in all directions, and Frode crumbled backwards, collapsing to the ground.

His hand completely severed.

His sword thumped to the ground, and seizing the moment, I swiftly snatched it up, deftly prying his fingers off the hilt. Standing at Frode's side, I kicked away the hand that clung desperately to his forearm as blood gushed from his wound. As it fell to his side with my foot pushing it down with all my weight, with my final blow, I plunged his own blade into the palm of his hand, using my shoulder and body weight to achieve this, pinning it to the ground.

Then, the dried, bloody sword given to me was pointed at his neck, my foot sitting atop his chest.

"I win," I uttered, striving to maintain a composed tone, though inwardly grappling with a sense of self-disgust, particularly as he grimaced in agony, his eyes beseeching me with desperation, his teeth gritted in pain and sheer anger. There was no pleasure I felt from this outcome.

I didn't want to hurt him, but he, and everyone else, didn't give me a choice. Not like I would admit that to them.

Askeladd's laughter sounded from my right, punctuating the tense air. When I looked over to him he abruptly rose from his seat, striding purposefully towards us, his gaze fixed on Frode. Instinctively, I edged away, reluctant to remain in his proximity as he leaned over Frode with both of his hands clasped behind his back, meticulously inspecting his hands - hand.

And it was then I heard the cheering around me. None of them gave a damn that I wounded their comrade to the point of crippling them. All they cared about was the fight and bloodshed.

"Why Frode, look at your hand!" Askeladd grasped the severed limb that I discarded near Frode, examining it by turning it over and over with a mixture of fascination and nonchalance. I struggled to suppress the urge to retch. "Now, if I wasn't a damned bastard, I'd tell you that true strength does not lie in the limbs we possess, but the unwavering resolve of one's soul." Laughter rippled through the men surrounding us. "But we all know that'd be a damn lie." With a dismissive gesture, he tossed the hand onto Frode's abdomen, prompting a grimace of pain and resentment. "Clean yourself up," he said casually before redirecting his attention to me, his hand resting casually on his hip, his infuriating smirk still firmly in place. "And you need to declare your prize."

I was worried I wouldn't be able to declare one since we didn't declare our duel under Odin, but Askeladd didn't seem to care.

I waved my hand in front of me, and said nonchalantly, "Just wanna get out of here alive," then added hastily, "and unscathed."

"Done." He turned fully toward me. "I Askeladd, son of Olaf, grant your freedom in the name of Odin."

The way he was smirking at me, like he was expecting something was infuriating. He knew I knew damn well declaring anything under Odin meant jack shit for him. What was he playing at?

"I wouldn't dare. In the name of Artorius my ancestor, my men will all be withdrawn," Askeladd said, meaning every word of it.

Later, I would unpack what he revealed. But now…

I pointed my finger at him. "Promise it on your ancestor, Artorius."

He didn't look surprised. Instead he only looked even more smug. He was…predicting me.

He shrugged his shoulders, putting on an act. "If you insist. In the name of Artorius my ancestor, my men will leave you alone."

"Are you included in your men?"

I had to be thorough…

He arched his brow, but didn't react. "I do." He was purposefully not reacting, but I wasn't going to call him out on it.

But, something did come to mind when he said Artorius again. And it stemmed from my short-term obsession with King Arthur when I was younger in my old life. You could blame Disney for the start of all that…

Askeladd began to turn towards Bjorn, but halted mid-motion with his back to me as I asked, "So, by any chance, is your ancestor Lucius Artorius Castus? The figure who supposedly inspired the legend of King Arthur?"

It was probably a stretch, yet my long-standing habit of obsessively learning every detail of a certain subject resurfaced, casting its shadow once more. Or, in this case, regurgitating information I learned from a topic I'd obsessed over in my previous life.

He didn't glance in my direction, denying me the chance to decipher his thoughts—though I doubted my ability to read him anyway. Instead, he dismissed me with a wave of his hand. "Who knows," he muttered before striding away.

As he departed, my gaze lingered on his retreating figure momentarily before shifting to the sword in my grasp. Who did this belong to? Would it be impolite to discard it? Tentatively, I held it between my thumb and forefinger, recoiling at the sight of dried blood staining the hilt.

"Whose sword does this belong to?" I queried, a hint of uncertainty lingering in my tone. Perhaps, I pondered, it wasn't wise to pose such a question, uncertain of the associations it might entail.

"Don't worry about it," a voice interjected from my right, as an arm swiftly enveloped me. I tensed instinctively, yet allowed the figure to relieve me of the sword, watching it thump to the ground. Turning, I found myself face to face with the slender, blonde individual from before— the very same who made it known he liked my jerky.

"Can't believe you survived that duel! And you did it so quickly too," he exclaimed, steering me towards a nearby building where a campfire awaited. Ahead, the big blond guy he was talking to earlier sat at the fire with his arms crossed, watching our approach. "Gotta hand it to you, for someone your size, that's seriously impressive." As we reached the fire, he let go of my shoulder and gestured for me to take a seat on the ground. When I settled down, he sat beside me, flashing a friendly grin, as if we were old pals catching up.

He pointed to the fatter one. "That's my brother Torgrim." Then he pointed to his chest. "And you can call me Atli."

So, we were doing introductions? I noticed he didn't give his father's name…

"Thorben." That's the name Leif gave me on the spot.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Thorben! Now that you're a free man, care to share that recipe?"

I shrugged. "Sure, but the ingredients might not be easy to come by."

He frowned in disappointment. "That's a shame. How did you manage to acquire them?"

"Because I'm a professional, and I collect a lot of spices, herbs, and whatnots."

"You collect?"

That's when I delved into the pockets of my poncho, retrieving my stash of spice packets. Unfurling them, I displayed their contents to him. He leaned in, his eyes narrowing as he inspected the assortment. "Looks like leaves and dried grass to me," he remarked skeptically.

"Smell it."

He leaned in a bit closer, inhaling the aroma of my exquisite spices. Then, he leaned back, his expression tinged with surprise. "Hmm, those smell unusual, but not unpleasant. Not like the dried leaves you'd find on the forest floor. Are these what you used on the jerky?"

"That's because these are meticulously crafted spices intended to elevate our meals. And some of them were used," I explained, a sense of excitement bubbling within me. "If you're interested," I began eagerly, "I can whip up something that'll have your taste buds singing?"

Atli's smile widened. "Well, I suppose we can't refuse such an offer, can we, Torgrim?" He glanced at Torgrim, who observed us with a silent, skeptical gaze.

"Do as you please, it matters little to me," Torgrim replied indifferently, prodding the fire between us with a stick.

I made a conscious effort to push aside thoughts about the origins of the ingredients I was allowed to sift through. Instead, I focused solely on my current task, all the while hoping for another sighting of Thorfinn to reassure me of his well-being.

Sticking around seemed to be my only viable option, albeit reluctantly. Atli taking me to the side was luck. It gave me a reason to stick around without raising any eyebrows. Luck I was going to take full advantage of. However, I could only trust that Askeladd's men held enough regard for Askeladd to refrain from any deceitful actions behind my back. And once Thorfinn made another appearance, I could finally get out of this mess and hightail it back to Iceland.

If my luck held out, maybe I could win over some of these pirates with my cooking skills. I wasn't expecting miracles, though. Even if I did manage to impress them, I'd only trust them as far as I could throw them. Once they got tired of me, they'd turn on me instantly, no doubt about it. But hey, no harm in trying to butter them up, even if it's just for the short haul. And besides, it's all just temporary until Thorfinn swings by. Short-term gigs? Yeah, I could handle that.

I quietly resolved to minimize my interactions with Askeladd, recognizing the wisdom in sidestepping any unnecessary encounters with a figure whose motives seem as enigmatic as a shadow in the dead of night.