Archive of Our Own ^beta

It has been a dark time.

All the light for the day after their return had already been used up before the sun even rose. Osferth had stared into Gisela’s pyre until his eyes could barely work, Uhtred too. They had taken vigil over her burning body until the flames died out, then remained there until their eyes became blinded again, this time by the sunrise.

She had gone into labour too early. Gisela hadn’t been expecting until after Blood Month, and that is a moon’s cycle and a half from now. That was the only reason Osferth accompanied Uhtred on his mission to quell Bloodhair and his pack of Danes ravaging the countryside. Otherwise, he would have stayed. She assured them her due date was far, and to both go. But her child is here, hale and strong, and she is not. As she would have said, a life given can sometimes become a life taken.

A dark time indeed.

Uhtred wants to leave for Coccham as soon as possible, to be rid of the stench of Winchester and to soothe his aching heart. Though Winchester is Osferth’s birthplace, it never felt like a home to him. He lived with his mother until he turned eight. By then, everyone around him guessed he would become a beta, and his father had him sent to the monastery. But when he presented as an alpha at eighteen - back to Winchester he came. No man of the faith could be an alpha, nor omega. There he met Lord Uhtred, and begged to be sworn into his service.

He knows his home lies in the man heading Coccham-bound, rather than the destination itself. Where his Lord goes, his home goes. And the same for Finan, and Sihtric, and Clapa, and the many other men who have sworn themselves to Uhtred over the past few years. Clapa joked once in a Mercian tavern that Uhtred is like an old crone who can’t help but take in ugly old barn cats - as much as Osferth does not want to be referred to as a cat, the analogy is accurate.

So, that morning, they began packing. And then Father Beocca approaches them.

“You are needed at the palace of the king,” Father Beocca stands hunched-over, picking at the skin surrounding his nails as he addresses Uhtred, “It would be better if you heard it from him yourself. You alone.”

Osferth sees Uhtred looking over at him and the rest of his men, little Stiorra perched on his hip. For a moment, it appears he would heed Father Beocca’s words and enter the den of lions all by himself. But then his gaze locks onto Osferth.

“I will take one of my men with me. Finan,” The Irishman perks up, expecting to hear he would be entering the palace as well. Given that he has the most training in how to speak to royalty and noblemen - Finan still hasn’t told them why or how he received such training, but his parlay is grand enough to support his claim - it is not outlandish for him to assume that he would be accompanying Uhtred. But then the omega says, “Take Stiorra. Watch her, and Young Uhtred, and the babe. Osferth, come with me.”

He does not question Uhtred until they reach the palace.

“Why me, Lord?”

“I am Uhtred, Osferth, not Lord,” His Lord grumbles, then, softly and sternly, “I want you there.”

Usually, Uhtred would banter. He would ask Osferth why not you or do you not think yourself capable or anything matching that calibre. But his Lord is tired, grieved, and likely wants nothing more than to return home and to the nest he and Gisela still have constructed there.

It is a wonder that they were able to have children at all - both of them being omegas. But God works in mysterious ways, and they have been blessed thrice with babes, until now.

When they enter the King’s Hall, it appears the entire Witan has congregated - not entirely unusual, given they have just defeated Bloodhair and must discuss what to do. But what intrigues Osferth is the gaggle of priests and monks in the corner. As far as he knew, the only holy man regularly attending such Witans is Father Beocca. Why are they here?

Before Uhtred can even so much as speak a word, Lady Aelswith’s face sours and she spits, “What is he doing here?”

The Witan all turn to look at Osferth. Most know who he is - when Osferth returned from the monastery, his cousin Aethelwold took one look at him and immediately recognized him. Osferth does admit he has a distinguishable appearance, though not one that matches his father well. Aethelwold nonetheless began crowing to anyone who would listen that King Alfred’s bastard had returned to Winchester, that he had been rejected fully by the Church. The latter claim hurt more than Osferth cared to admit - the Church rejected Osferth as a member on the basis of his gender and on his bastardry.

After Aethelwold’s ears reached the palace, Osferth heard the rumour Lady Aelswith had wanted him thrown out. He is a bastard, born of sin, she had cried, or so said Aethelwold, he will place a curse upon us with his presence, make him leave! But his father refused. No one except for a nosy Aethelwold bothered to seek him out, and no Steapa came to escort him out of the town. No, Osferth found his own way out of Winchester when he begged Lord Uhtred to take him in.

He did not even know Lady Aelswith knew what he looked like. Maybe she could see the King in him, being married to him and all.

“Lord,” Uhtred bows his head, “Lady. You have called for me, have you not?”

So he is still capable of japes. Good.

“Him,” Aelswith seethes.

Uhtred’s tone hardens a little bit, and chastenes her, “His name is Osferth, Lady.”

“I want him removed,” She then looks him in the eye, and Osferth is taken aback by the depths of hate he finds there.

“Then we will leave,” Uhtred’s voice raises. He turns around, grabs Osferth’s shoulder, and mutters, “We must go.”

“It is fine, Aelswith,” The King turns to his wife, “He may stay. Uhtred, stay.”

The Witan may not whisper, but their eyes tell all of the words they will say about this encounter later. Osferth sees Aethelwold in particular smirking to himself, especially when Osferth shrinks in upon himself and Lady Aelswith develops a hideous scowl upon her face. Osferth knows his behaviour is not Alpha-like, that he should fortify himself and stand strong. That the omega at his side is more confident than him is laughable to them, he understands. But Osferth had been raised by beta ascetics who believed in humility above all else, and does not know how else to act. Finan and Clapa have joked about teaching him what it means to be an alpha since they met him, and he wishes he had taken them up on their ingenuine offer, if only to not be hunched in front of these people.

Uhtred quickly changes the topic to what he believes the Witan has been called about, “I've been saying to Father Beocca that you should be seizing Bloodhair’s ships.”

“Earl Sigurd is finished with, defeated. Take away his ships, and we take away the means by which he will leave these lands.

“Then take half the ships,” Uhtred says, “We’ve killed half his men.”

It is evident to anyone who knows him that Uhtred is a broken man. His eyes, normally lined with kohl with a spark of defiance in them, are bare and downcast. He stands straight, but his arms hang limp at his sides. And the most telling of all, Uhtred has muted his scent. That overwhelming, all-consuming peppermint is naught but a hint in the air. Normally, Uhtred let his scent reign free, and it would tell anyone of how he felt. That he is not doing so now… he is hurting.

“Haesten is about to send Bloodhair on his way, Uhtred,” His brother Edward says, leaning forward in his seat by the King’s side, “We’ve been assured. He will soon be gone.”

Their father looks at Edward softly, lovingly - then his face hardens when he addresses Osferth and Uhtred, “To the matter in hand.”

Uhtred glances at Osferth in confusion, one that Osferth mirrors. That wasn’t the subject of the Witan?

“Uhtred,” His father leans forward slightly on his throne, “I do not forget what you have done these past days-”

“Past years, Lord,” Father Beocca speaks up from his place by the wall. Even though he is an advisor to the King, he is not permitted a chair. But he remains ever present, a figure on the fringe no one could forget.

And Uhtred has done much for Wessex’s ruler. For years he has served his King - they even have a certain camaraderie, now. His father, Osferth dares to say, may begin to trust Uhtred soon.

The King pauses for a long moment, then says, “I am acutely aware of what you have lost, of your suffering.”

Uhtred averts his eyes yet again, biting out, “Lord.”

“Gisela was a most hospitable woman. How is the child?”

The boy is small but strong, with soft skin and wispy hair. Unpresented - he will present in his adolescence and discover whether or not he is to be an omega, beta, or alpha. A name still not has been chosen for him, though Osferth remembers the names Gisela and Uhtred had thrown around. Osbert, Oswald, Ragnar, Alfred. The last one was said as a joke, though Uhtred’s face had blanched so much in horror that Gisela could not keep the ruse up for long before bursting into laughter. The boy is likely with Sihtric now - the omega always did get along tremendously well with infants.

It does not escape Osferth’s attention how Lady Aelswith’s face twists at the mention of Gisela. But the Lady regularly contorts her pretty face into something out of a monster story, so he ignored it.

Uhtred jerks his head, “She has given him her strength, Lord.”

“And life.”

“Yes,” Another short reply. But what else is Uhtred to say to that reminder?

“She was a good woman.”

Lady Aelswith again makes a face, as if she is about to scoff. Osferth narrows his eyes at her, both for her disrespect and for her prejudice about heathens. Gisela had been so kind to everyone she met. She was the first person to give Osferth a chance, not Uhtred, not the monks, and certainly not his father. Osferth is sure that his Uncle Leofric, if he had been given permission to raise him, would never have done him wrong - but his uncle’s soul rests in Heaven after Ethandun, and so he will never know. Despite the Lady’s sneering, Osferth knows his father speaks true of his feelings about Gisela, for she was an incredibly good woman.

His Lord understands that too, “Thank you, Lord.”

“There has been a desecration,” The words tumble out of Lady Aelswith’s mouth as if she has been holding them in since Uhtred and Osferth entered. His father looks tired with her for interrupting, for ruining the tentative bond he has forged with Uhtred, but Osferth knows he will not oppose his wife in public - not over something small, “You were seen.”

Osferth realizes what they speak of, and why all those priests are here. Upon their return, Uhtred ordered Gisela dug up so he could give her a Dane burial. A heathen burial.

Uhtred’s scent sparks with confusion.

“The graveyard, Uhtred. It is blessed, holy ground,” Father Beocca informs him.

“You do not have the right nor authority to break this ground,” Lady Aelswith speaks slowly, as if Uhtred is a disobedient child caught escaping their bedchambers after dark, rather than her husband’s man, “You were seen willfully disturbing the peace of the dead.”

“I disturbed no one but my wife,” Uhtred says even more slowly, any more and he would be saying the letters which formed his words. With that small, fixed smile on his face he only wears when he wants to be done with a thing as soon as possible without resorting to violence - so, anytime he must interact with the King’s wife - he continues, “If what I have done is wrong, I apologize-”

“It is very wrong,” She is staunch.

“-I did put the earth back into the hole, Lady.”

She repeats, “It was a desecration.”

“If I may, Lord,” Osferth interjects.

“You may not-”

Osferth does not wait for his father’s wife to put him down for the umpteenth time. Instead, he barrels on, “The Lady Gisela was never baptised, Lord.”

“Your point?”

He can feel himself growing flustered, but he thankfully does not stutter, “Anyone, man or woman, cannot be given last rites before they are given their first. She should not have been buried to begin with.”

Some members of the Witan look thoughtful. They contemplate his reasoning. But then the King shoots him down.

“Nonetheless, he disturbed the holy ground upon which other, baptised Christians were buried,” His father says. Uhtred gently thanks Osferth for his attempt regardless with a push of his scent towards him. His father continues, “Uhtred, I admit I am at a loss with what to do. Is an apology enough?”

A deep and ugly rage begins to take hold of Osferth’s heart, squeezing and puncturing it as if it is gripped by the hand of the blonde-haired witch. To interrogate a grieving man before the Witan, his most loyal man, forms a torrent of fire in his spirit.

“If it is heartfelt, Lord,” Father Beocca tries defending Uhtred, “God is merciful.”

Edward pipes up, “He is, and Uhtred’s actions, understandable.”

Osferth cannot help but survey his younger brother. He resembles Aelswith more than their father - a blessing. It is evident he worships Uhtred, and sees him as a grand hero. And he is right.

Aelswith’s tone becomes softer, more didactic as she addresses her son, “But not forgivable.”

“Lord, I swear,” Uhtred sighs. He is finished with all this. Osferth can tell that all he wants to do is take his beating and be done with it. His heart tightens again. His Lord should not feel like that, should not have to resign himself to their ill-treatment of him. If anything, it should be them kissing Uhtred’s feet, begging his mercy, “I meant no insult.”

“If I may speak, Lord?” Osferth’s head whips around to the cloister of monks. The man in the wheelchair is the one who addressed the King. Osferth does not know his name, though he knows he is pious - whenever Finan and Osferth go to church here in Winchester, the monk is there.

His father nods.

“As the bast-” The monk backtracks upon the scathing glare the King and his wife level upon him, “-Lord’s man has said, the woman Gisela was a pagan, and as such did not belong in holy ground. By removing her, I would say the Lord Uhtred was undoing what should never have been done.”

And if the monk had stopped there, it would have been perfect. But he keeps going, “Her continued presence would have further poisoned the soil. In my opinion, the dead are well rid of her.”

Poisoned? Well rid of her?

Uhtred staggers back a bit at the monk’s audacity. Slowly, he says, “Rid of her?”

Osferth too scowls at the monk, inching closer to his Lord’s side. The man has spoken out of turn.

“Brother Godwin speaks in your favour, Uhtred.” Aethelwold simpers. It is then that it occurs to Osferth that Aethelwold must be involved, somehow, in what this monk is saying. His cousin had been glancing at Godwin’s direction throughout the hearing, as if anticipating his words.

This will not bode well.

“I speak the truth,” The monk insists, waving his hands. Heads spin to his direction as his tone becomes more crooked, words crueler, “Gisela was a pagan and a whore, still married to Aelfric of Bebbanburg.”

The last person who had called Gisela a whore found themselves dead on the floor of a church by Uhtred’s hand, Osferth has been told. He hadn’t questioned it - Uhtred loves his wife. But seeing his Lord this angry is not something Osferth ever expected. It is a different sort of rage than that of battle. It is cold, ugly, so unlike the flames that lick at Osferth’s ribs.

“You will say no more, priest,” Uhtred seethes, “You will say no more-”

“In the eyes of God, she was a whore, and her children, bastards-”

“Enough, Godwin,” Father Beocca calls.

“I would have the poor wretches taken and baptized-” His voice grows louder as he anticipates Uhtred’s interrupting him, but of course, between the two of them, Uhtred would command the room.

“Lord, I will listen to this nonsense no more-”

The King only looks down. He says nothing as the monk continues spewing his filth before the Witan, spreading his poison about a dead woman who had not a sinful bone in her body.

The monk gets up from his chair, hobbling with the use of his stick, all the while words keep spilling from his crackled, spit-frothed mouth, “The souls in heaven are rejoicing-”

“Godwin!

“-that the heathen Gisela has been taken from the earth and burnt-”

“Brother Godwin!” His father finally snaps.

Osferth can barely see anymore, his vision tunneling black as the monk approaches him. Each tap of his cane, nearing closer and closer, is like the sounds of swords hitting shield walls, of bodies hitting floors, of his blood rushing in his ears to the beating of his witch-squeezed heart. He is faintly aware that he is growling, that he has lightly pushed Uhtred away as this disease of a being encroaches upon his space.

Godwin grips Osferth then, cold fingers gripping into his arm as he snarls, “She was of no greater worth than the witch Skade whom he has bought to-”

A pale, slim hand reaches up and soundlessly strikes itself across Godwin’s puffy face. He falls down to the floor with a crash and a groan.

The room begins making an awful din, men scurrying to the fallen monk. Osferth backs away, and Uhtred grabs him by the shoulders. They say nothing, they can’t say anything, as the men of God attempt reviving him. And when they fail, when the monk’s chest refuses to rise and fall, they begin to shout.

Osferth doesn’t know what they say, or what he should say, for the blindness in his eyes has traded itself in favour of deafness and dumbness. He has finally killed a man. Not in battle, as he had hoped. It should bring him a sense of… not peace, or joy, exactly. Maybe relief, that he could kill. He has been fearing lately that he never would, that he would spend the rest of his life un-triumphant by means of battle. But his anger has fizzled out, after leaving a burnt hole deep inside of him. Osferth wants to dunk himself in the river, or claw his chest open to carve the char out of his ribcage.

Then, he can finally hear again, can finally sense Uhtred defending him, “The monk had touched him-”

“He killed him!”

“It was a slap, nothing more!” Uhtred counters. But it is no use, the entire room is panicked and jeering at Osferth. Above all is Lady Aelswith, who is gripping her cross so tightly her knuckles are white, “You all heard what he was saying of my wife-”

“He is a loathsome creature, born of sin-” She cries, “Look upon what he has done! Be witness to the true nature of bastards-”

Osferth can no longer bear it. He runs.