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Chapter Text

List of Characters

Geir Dagrsson – Gale Dekarios

Mýrún Aosdottir – Mystra

Þara - Tara

Møyfrid - Morena Dekarios

Dagr - Gale’s late father

Cadwallon - Cazador Szarr

Ӕlfstan - Astarion Ancunín

Káta Pállsdottir - Karlach

Lækný Vlaakiðsdottir - Lae’zel

Sigrid Arnaldrsdóttir - Shadowheart

Wulf - Wyll

Danr - Dammon

Pehtwine - Petras

Deorwyn - Dalyria

Leodmar - Leon

Ӕbbe - Aurelia

Ymma - Violet

Uhtred - Yousen

Sӕbeorht - Sebastian

Ulferth - Ulder

Dunnstan - Chamberlain Dufay

Vígdís - Viconia

Godric - Gortash

Osgyth - Orin

Cyneric - Ketheric

Baldred - Balthazar

Goda- Godey

Atheric - Abdirak

Glossary

Chapter 2

Old Norse terms:

• gyðja: priestess; can refer to both female deities and women who held positions of spiritual authority.
• seiðr: pre-Christian Norse magic, primarily associated with women.
• seiðmaðr: a male practitioner of seiðr.
• völva: seeress, known for her role in divination, prophecy, and practice of seiðr.

Old Norse phrases and expressions:

• Heimskr saxar: Stupid Saxon.
• Óðins skegg!: By Odin’s beard!

Chapter 3

Anglo-Saxon terms:

• buhr: a fortified town, popularized by Alfred the Great.
• hæðen: heathen
• hæðencynn: heathen/pagan people
• wicing: Viking (singular)
• wyrd: the Anglo-Saxon and Norse concept of fate or personal destiny. Though predetermined, it was a more active form of fate given that an individual could influence their own wyrd through their behaviour or actions.

Anglo-Saxon phrases and expressions:

• Ece Drihten: Eternal Lord
• God ure helpe: God help us.

Chapter 4

Old Norse terms:

• kyrtill: overtunic
• morgen-gifu: compensation paid to the bride to ensure her financial security and for her sexual availability or virginity.
• mundr: a dowry; a payment to the father of the bride for control of the right of protection and legal guardianship.

Anglo-Saxon phrases and expressions:

• deoran: darling

Chapter 5

Old Norse phrases and expressions:

• statt: stop, stand down

Anglo-Saxon phrases and expressions:

• Eow het secgan þeoden min, þæt he eower æþelu can ond ge him syndon hider wilcuman: My lord sends this message: he knows your kin and bids you welcome.
• wesaþ hale: hello (pl.)
• wes þu hal: hello (sing.)
• sigedrihten min: my victorious lord

Chapter 6

Old Norse phrases and expressions:

• Ýmirs frosteistna: By Ymir's frosty balls
• handsal: the transference of a right, bargain, or duty to another by joining hands; considered a formal, legal agreement.
• heiman-fylgja: the dowry, which was given to and administered by the husband to be kept as a trust.

Chapter 7

Old Norse terms:

• Norns: a group of deities in Norse mythology responsible for shaping the course of human destinies. Often represented as Urðr, Verðandi, and Skuld, who weave the threads of fate.

Anglo-Saxon terms:

• witan: the king's council in the Anglo-Saxon government until the 11th century.

Anglo-Saxon phrases and expressions:

• Ic gelyfe on ænne God ælmihtigne þe ealle þing gesceop and geworhte: I believe in only God almighty, creator of all things.
• And ic gelyfe and georne witon þæt Crist Godes sunu to mannum com for ealles mancynnes ðearfe: And I believe and fully know that Christ, God's son, came to man for all of mankind's need.
• And ic gelyfe þæt ða godan and wel Cristenan þe her on worulde Gode wel gecwemdon þonne on an sculon into heofonum faran and ðær siððanwununge habban mid Gode selfum and mid his englum a on ecnesse: And I believe that good and full Christians who are obedient to God in this world shall then, at once, go into heaven and there afterwards, dwell with God himself and his angels for eternity.

Chapter 8

Old Norse terms:

• fóstbræðralag: "foster brotherhood"; an agreement in which two or more unrelated Norsemen agreed to create a bond socially equivalent to kinship.

Chapter 9

Old Norse terms:

• Æsir - the principal group of Norse gods
• ljósálfar - "light elves", considered the greatest and most beautiful elves in Norse mythology
• skald - an early medieval Scandinavian poet, often found in royal courts and tasked with performing music, composing poems, and otherwise providing entertainment

Anglo-Saxon terms:

• hearpe - the Anglo-Saxon lyre, characterized by a long, shallow and broadly rectangular shape and played by plucking the strings
• scop - the Anglo-Saxon counterpart to a skald
• bēot - a ritualized boast to proclaim one's acceptance of a seemingly impossible challenge in order to gain tremendous glory for actually accomplishing it. Bēots were usually performed in a mead hall, involved reciting one's past deeds, and followed a specific spoken structure.

Chapter 11

Old Norse phrases and expressions:

• Þarftu að vera í því? - Do you have to wear that?
• Ok skilja okkur eftir óvarinn? Ek efi þat. - And leave us undefended otherwise? I don't think so.
• Jæja. Þat er ljótt. - Well, it's ugly.
• Fátt er ljótt á Lækný. Né þú. - Nothing looks ugly on Lækný. Or you.

Old Norse terms:

• skógarmaðr - a full outlaw. There were two types of outlawry: partial and full. Full outlaws were banished from their community and often forced to go into hiding in the wilderness to avoid being killed by the people they wronged, hence the term ("skóg" - forest; "maðr" - person).

Anglo-Saxon Terms:

• scirgerefa - a sheriff. In the Anglo-Saxon context, sheriffs were responsible for collecting taxes, enforcing the law, and generally keeping the peace in a specific county.

Chapter 12

Old Norse phrases and expressions:

• Sá ek hversu hann leit á þik. - I saw the way he looked at you.
• brjóstbarn - suckling baby

Chapter Text

The early morning sun streamed through the opening in the roof, creating an ephemeral glow to the room. The scents of the village, the smell of food being cooked and fresh bales of hay, permeated their way into the home.

Geir Dagrsson blinked open his eyes, slowly coming to consciousness as last night's festivities came rushing back into his mind. How gloriously they had all feasted and drank mead, while the skalds sang their tales and the women danced in merriment. They had fended off another wave of disgruntled Saxons trying to force them out of East Anglia, which now rested under Danelaw, and that was all the reason to celebrate.

“Mmm, up already, Gale?” came his lover’s voice behind him. 

Geir turned on his side in the tangled furs with a hearty smile, and faced Mýrún Aosdottir, a gyðja of Freyja, his beloved and soon-to-be betrothed. She knew him too well. Those closest to him called him Gale, a nickname derived from having been born during a large windstorm. If he was going to be honest, it was a name he vastly preferred. A spear, a geir, could fell one man. A storm, thousands.

“With you by my side, how could I not? Seeing your radiant beauty each morning is what gives me the strength to carry forward,” Gale said, meeting Mýrún’s eyes, before dipping his head to connect their lips in a kiss. They had returned to her inherited home last eve, and spent hours rutting and tangling together in her bed, before falling asleep next to the cozy fire that had burnt out overnight. His love for her knew no bounds, and waking to her once more always eased his heart.  

Their kiss grew more passionate as Mýrún swiped her tongue against the seam of his lips, demanding more. Gale happily obliged, parting his own as he slipped his tongue into her mouth. The continued brushes of their lips grew more heated, as Gale shifted to place himself directly between her spread legs. When his cock rested against her slick folds, he bucked against her, the wet slide hitting her sweet spot and making Mýrún moan beneath him.

Gale palmed at her breasts, hovering over her form as he savoured her rich taste, and just as he was lining himself up to slip into her silken channel, the moment was cut short by a familiar voice.

“Mr. Dagrsson, I do apologize for interrupting but you are being summoned to the Long House.” Þara, the piebald raven he had somehow conjured as a young boy, said. She had descended from the smoke hole, having pecked her way in, and was perched at the edge of the bed frame, sharp green eyes staring their way.

Gale grunted in annoyance, rolling off of Mýrún and helping her adjust the furs around her chest. “Now is really not the time, Þara,” Gale grumbled to his long-time friend and companion.

“Unfortunately, I do not have a say in the matter. Your mother asked me to retrieve you, and with haste. She said it was a most urgent matter,” Þara insisted, flapping her wings wide as if to emphasize the point.

Gale sighed out in annoyance. “Tell her I will be there soon.”

Þara nodded her beaked head. “I shall return at once and update her. Try not to dally.” With that, Þara spread her wings wide and soared up through the hole once more. The little jewel around her ankle gleamed in the light as she left.

Gale fell back against the furs with a puff of air as Mýrún crawled over to him and rested her head on his chest.

“If your mother sent Þara to fetch you, it must be important. While I would rather keep you all to myself, I know you have your responsibilities to tend to, as do I,” Mýrún said, drawing lazy circles against Gale’s muscled torso with a finger.

Gale bristled at the word responsibilities. Being the only son of the village chief, it had always come with an additional set of rules to follow. He was also the only seiðmaðr in the village, and by far one of the most powerful wielders of it. Thus, from the age when he could board a long boat and join raids, he was used primarily for his seiðr . Fireballs granted by the will of Surtr would rain down onto thatched roofs. Lightning cast by power of Þórr would split trees and rock the earth. Gale did not particularly enjoy raids, but they had their purpose. He was deadly with an axe, sword, or seiðr. But combined? Lethal.

“My love? Are you alright?” Mýrún inquired, clearly sensing he was lost in his own thoughts.

Gale nodded his head. “Yes. I was just thinking.”

“You always are.” Mýrún’s sly smile indicated that it was one of the things she liked most about him.

“I should get cleaned up. I wouldn’t want to keep my mother waiting.” Gale gave Mýrún a slow and gentle peck, before he disentangled from her limbs and set about getting ready.

He walked over to the small wash basin and dunked in the clean cloth hanging nearby, before scrubbing every inch of his skin, reaching every nook and crevice. He lowered his tangled hair into the tub, washing away built-up sweat and grime from last night, before wringing out damp strands and letting them drip dry. Behind him, Mýrún let out an appreciative noise, considering he was still naked, and he shot her a smoldering look full of promise over his shoulder.

Once he felt sufficiently dry, he vacated the space and indicated for Mýrún to take her turn and prepare for the day as he set about dressing. First, he rolled his deep purple tunic over his head before pulling up his braies and brown linen trousers and securing them around his hips with a drawstring. The finishing touch was a leather belt over his tunic around his waist. He found his leg wraps draped over a bench and sat down to put them on.

The leg wraps were Gale’s least favourite part. His knees ached as he bent down and started winding them up from his feet. He kept one end pinned under his heel, weaving the length of grey wool around his ankles and up to his calves, over and under. Like reciting an incantation, it demanded his focus, but even more than usual. Seiðr was easy. Putting his clothes on right after being so rudely interrupted was not.

When he reached his knees, Gale tucked the ends under themselves, then stepped into his black leather shoes. Fastening his cloak around his shoulders and promptly slipping his trusty rune-carved axe into his belt loop, he stood at the door of Mýrún’s home.

Since her father Ao’s passing some years ago from disease, and her mother having died in childbirth, she was left to tend the home alone. While Geir still lived in the longhouse, he was with Mýrún as often as he could be, helping her tend to the home. Once they were married, they would move in together. Permanently, if he could prove himself a worthy husband. He would be able to offer a second pair of hands to plow and sow their fields, watch their sheep and goats, and take Mýrún’s finely woven cloth to market. They would have a flock of children, beautiful like their mother, and as many as she wanted.

Inhaling a deep breath of morning air, he left and made his way to the centre of their village. 

It was a bit of a trip down memory lane as he recalled their initial arrival here. Originally born in Vatnaleið, or as the Saxon locals called it, Waterdeep, due to the difficult seas and turbulent tides surrounding the settlement, Gale couldn’t help remembering his tender years growing up. 

When he turned five years old, his late father, Dagr, took him and his mother, as well as many others wishing to journey to a new home, across the North Sea. They had made landfall in East Anglia, building a new settlement from scratch. How bare their little village had been in the beginning–just a few wood houses and dried hay over twig roofs to keep them sheltered from the weather while the longhouse was being constructed.

Now, it was a hustling and bustling town, with merchants visiting to trade, vendors on multiple corners, and various skilled tradesmen at work. It warmed his heart to see everything his late father had accomplished. Baldursgata, his father’s legacy.

Reaching the doors of the feast hall, Gale stepped inside, finding the length of the cavernous room empty. Aside from himself, it was just his mother, Møyfrid, poised on the throne, stern and regal, with Þara perched on the top arch. Following an attack by the Saxons a few months ago, when his noble father had been slain, his mother had taken the mantle as jarl.

“Mother, you called for me?” Gale approached her. 

“I did, Geir, my son. You must begin to prepare yourself once this discussion is concluded, because you are going on a journey first thing tomorrow.” Møyfrid kept a calm face as she spoke the words.

Gale tilted his head. “Where exactly am I going? Are we raiding up the coast? Do you need me to travel back to Vatnaleið to trade?”

There was a small shift in his mother’s visage, something that unsettled him. “No, Geir, you will be heading to Ipswich.”

A Saxon city. Gale scrunched his eyebrows. “Why am I going there?”

Møyfrid tapped a finger against the arm of the throne, carefully contemplating her words. “Last night, I met with the baron of Ipswich, Cadwallon. Before you ask, I had received a private letter requesting an audience.”

“Whatever would you need to meet a Saxon baron for?” Gale asked, stunned. 

Møyfrid heaved a sigh. “The Saxons' attacks on villages in East Anglia have been rising in number, and the Baron has proposed a solution. An alliance if you want to call it that, to help smooth over the tensions between our peoples.”

“How exactly does that involve me?” Gale insisted, not satisfied with the vagueness of his mother’s responses.

Møyfrid hesitated. “Geir, as you know, you are the son of a jarl. With that comes an extra set of responsibilities…”

“Please, mother, cease from using that word. I grow tired of it,” Gale interrupted, annoyed at having to hear it once more.

“It is nonetheless true,” Møyfrid continued, unfazed by his reaction. “You know that sometimes, you must do what is best for the village, and the safety of its people.”

Gale felt a sense of unease emanating from his mother, one that made his own gut roil with a strange anxiety. 

“To secure such an alliance, Baron Cadwallon has offered his youngest son, Ӕlfstan, in marriage.” Møyfrid paused for a moment, her eyes boring into him.

Gale shifted his weight from one foot to the other restlessly. Was someone from the village going to need an escort? Not the worst task to be handed. Gale waited for a moment, his mother still silently staring at him, before he finally asked, “And who is the lucky lady I will be travelling with?”

Møyfrid cast her eyes down briefly, before snapping them back up to meet Gale’s. “It is a marriage between Ӕlfstan, and you, Geir.”

He was hearing things, surely. There was no possible way his mother had promised him to some bastard Saxon. He must still be sleeping off a hangover from his over-indulgence in the mead last night, and imagining things. “Ha, I’ve always appreciated your sense of humor, mother. Now, tell me who it actually is.”

Møyfrid’s gaze never wavered from him. Her face never broke into a smile while Gale’s faltered. 

“Mother…you cannot be serious. I am to marry Mýrún as I always intended, and will not breathe the same air as those Saxon swine. How could you even consider this proposal after my father's death?” Gale shouted.

Møyfrid rose from the throne. “Dagr fought valiantly alongside us all to protect this village when the Saxons attacked, and he fell with honour. He is feasting in Valhalla’s halls at this moment, looking down at us squabbling. He knew the price of being jarl, that it could lead to his demise. Just like you must understand that your role is to protect it at whatever cost. You must think with your head and not your heart.” She twisted a ring around her finger, a band of braided gold. “Besides, as you are well aware, I never liked Mýrún and I would never have given her my blessing. She may be a gyðja of Freyja, and we owe her for her service to the Lady, but she is not good for you.”

Gale saw red. The fury in his veins burned with a vengeance. “I am not leaving Baldursgata. I do not care what you think of Mýrún, and I will not go along with this farce of a political alliance. I would rather go to a glorious death as my father did fighting back against those Saxons, or drink myself to death with mead.”

“You will be going. As your mother and your jarl, I command it. There are to be two ceremonies–one in Ipswich to make it official in their customs, and then one here once you grow accustomed to life in Ipswich,” Møyfrid instructed, knowing that Gale would have resisted despite her own selfish wish he would see reason.

“I am the only seiðmaðr in the village, mother. Besides you and a few other seiðkona , you would be sending away a valuable tool of defense!” Gale argued back.

“You will not be gone forever, Geir. Part of the deal struck was that you would return here with your soon to be betrothed once you learn their customs and ways, which I anticipate would take a few months. You would remain here afterwards, and become the next jarl,” Møyfrid explained.

“We cannot sire offspring in such a relationship, and there would be no blood tie linking any children adopted to the throne. What sense is there in any of this?” Gale threw his arms up in disbelief. 

“That may be true, but I currently hold the mantle of jarl temporarily until either you become the next one, or another is chosen. As it stands, you are the key to this alliance and the safety of this village. I will hear no more complaints or rebuttals. It is done and you will be married within the week,” Møyfrid boomed, her voice carrying throughout the empty hall.

Gale ground down his molars in anger. He needed to throw something, rip something in half, or burn something to a crisp to expel the emotions churning inside him. He was furious—at his mother, the Saxons, and himself, for knowing he had no choice aside from bending the knee. Despite all of his resistance, the village would always come first, no matter what he said. “Fine. I will pack my things.” Gale spun around without ceremony, not wishing to betray his true intention of finding a way out of this mess.

“Geir, before you go,” his mother’s voice echoed behind him, “I have tasked Káta, Lækný and Sigrid to be your escort party.”

Gale rolled his eyes. Two shieldmaidens and a village völva. “Mother, I am more than capable of making the journey alone. I doubt any who dare besiege me would survive long once I hit them with a fireball.” 

Møyfrid shook her head. “Geir, you are a valuable target. I will not send you into a potential lion's den alone. I also believe Sigrid’s healing abilities would be especially useful.”

But you will send me to marry one of their cubs. “Whatever you wish, mother. It seems I have no say in my own future, so there is no use in arguing with you further. I will meet them all at the main gates after dawn tomorrow.”

Møyfrid, satisfied, sat back down on the throne. “Obviously, Þara will be going with you. The two of you are thick as thieves.”

Gale glanced at Þara, who held a somewhat forlorn look in her eye. Clearly, she had only learned about the situation at the same time as Gale, hence her silence. “Of course. I would never leave without Þara by my side. I will now take my leave to prepare for the journey,” he told his mother, before turning and walking out the doors.

Geir stalked down the busy street, seething at his predicament. How would he go about telling Mýrún any of this? She would surely be devastated about it all. He had to find a way to break this blasted contract, and by Óðin, he would die trying.

As he stomped down the street and pathways, his mind mired in a fog, a voice called his name, before a hand clasped around his bicep.

“Geir, I was calling your name. I’ve never seen such a severe look on your face. What happened?”

Gale returned to the present from his thoughts, realizing his friend and the village blacksmith, Danr, had stopped him.

“Ah, Danr. I apologize, I was miles away,” Gale admitted. 

“You seem quite upset, Geir. I saw you come from the longhouse, so I take it you were with your mother?” Danr asked, as he gestured for Gale to follow him back to his smithy.

Gale sighed. “My mother has sold me off to marry some Saxon noble’s son, hoping that by securing a feeble alliance, it would allow peace for Baldursgata.” 

Danr, picking up his tongs, froze in place. “She what? That seems drastic. I thought you were supposed to marry Mýrún, no?” He reached into the molten forge and pulled out the blade he had been working on prior to spotting Gale passing by.

“Well, mother never approved of Mýrún, and commanded that I have no choice in the matter,” Gale griped, crossing his arms over his torso and leaning against the wall.

Danr placed the heated blade on the anvil. He grabbed his hammer and brought it down in a set of successive strikes, shaping it and molding it to a sharpened edge, before placing it back into the forge to heat up. He wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand, before shifting his gaze to Gale. “What do you plan to do?”

“I will find a way out of it. I will go there, convince the Baron to renege, and if that fails, I will find another route,” Gale said with a determined glint in his eye.

Danr looked at him with concern. “Do be careful if that is the case. It is unwise to go against your mother, let alone the jarl.”

Gale shrugged. “I will not be saddled with some heimskr saxar until the end of my days. There is a solution to this mess and Óðins skegg, I will find it.” He stepped forward and pulled his axe from his belt. “Since I will be leaving first thing in the morning, I can’t go without my trusty axe not being sharpened by my trusty blacksmith.”

Danr laughed as he reached out, taking the axe. “Of course. I will have it ready for you before you leave.”

With a quick goodbye and feeling somewhat lighter, Gale continued back to Mýrún’s home, finding her pleating her hair on a bench in front of the bed.

“Gale, back so soon? What news?” Mýrún asked, as she wove her long dark tresses into a braid over her shoulder. 

Gale walked up to her, unsure of how to bring up the conversation. “There is news…that much I can say. Mýrún, I don’t know how else to tell you this, but my mother has decided to set up some sort of alliance with the Baron of Ipswich to try and stop the retaliatory attacks by the Saxons.”

Mýrún continued to braid her hair. “Interesting. I wonder what led to that. I think ensuring the village is safe merits working with the locals, even if it's…distasteful.”

Gale inhaled and steadied himself. “She promised me to the Baron’s youngest son, and we are to be married in a week's time.” He blurted out, wanting to say it all and inflict minimal damage.

Mýrún halted her hands. The silence in the home was so deafening Gale could hear his own heartbeat. She sharply spun around, got up and stalked up to him with a look of sheer malice in her eyes. “She did what? We have been planning a marriage for some time, she cannot just do this!”

Gale shook his head solemnly. “She can, she will, and she did. Trust me, I argued with her, but she would hear none of it. I have to leave tomorrow morning.”

Mýrún let out a shrill cry. “Absolutely not. You are to be my husband! I will speak with her, and she will see reason.” As Mýrún attempted to bypass him in her rage, Gale caught her by the wrist.

“It’s no use, Mýrún. She made her decree and I am bound by it. But I have every intention of finding a way out and returning to your embrace once more,” Gale said urgently but soothingly.

Mýrún calmed down, turning around to face him. “I expect no less from you, my heart.” She walked into Gale’s awaiting arms, which pulled her into a tight hug. 

Gale held her close, rubbing a comforting hand up and down her back. “I promise I will return to you as soon as I am able.” They stood like that for a few moments, before Gale stepped back, and began the arduous process of packing for the next day.

Chapter Text

No guest could deny the splendour of the torn-down and carefully rebuilt skeleton of the Roman fortress the Baron Cadwallon called home. His forefathers had spared no expense. The stone walls encircling the burh were over a dozen feet high. The barracks and granaries sported seamlessly tiled red roofs. Even the bathhouses were spared. But no dwelling was as grand as the old praetorium, where the Baron himself lived.

The main hall of the Baron’s estate was filled with opulent tapestries, carved wooden benches, and a large throne at the end of the room. It was a grand space, used for hosting guests, as well as handling decrees.

This morning, it was the gathering space for Cadwallon’s seven children, and yet the Baron himself was nowhere to be seen.

Ӕlfstan stood a distance apart from his siblings, leaning against a wall with his arms crossed over his chest and tapping his foot. The thralls had woken him up at an ungodly hour, announcing that their father had called for all of them to be in the main hall before the sun was fully risen. It had barely given Ӕlfstan a moment to fix his hair into the exact degree of tousled he preferred, or even put on his favourite wired headpiece.

It had been a mad scramble to wash up and get dressed, but Ӕlfstan still managed to look the best out of them all, not just regarding his outfit. It was the one thing he had going for him compared to his siblings—his ethereal looks, passed on from his mother. While they all possessed some of their mother’s traits, Ӕlfstan looked the most like her, or so he was told. He had never met his mother and all the portraits in the burh supposedly did not do her beauty true justice. She had died during his birth, a fact his father never let him forget.

“Ӕlfstan, quit brooding over there and souring the room with your presence,” his older brother Pehtwine chided with a lopsided smirk, goading him into a response.

Ӕlfstan’s eyes shifted to look at his siblings, all more or less spread out in the room. Pehtwine, Uhtred, and Leodmar were off to his right, standing in a half circle where they had originally been deep in conversation, while his sisters Deorwyn, Æbbe, and Ymma , had turned their newfound attention his way.

“It’s Astarion , dear Petras . How rude of you to forget your own brother’s name!” Ӕlfstan returned in feigned offense. In truth, he loathed his given name. He much preferred being called Astarion, a name derived from that of a Greek river god he had come across in a book. While those ancient pagans were wrong about a great many things, the worst being the existence of multiple gods, they had much more imaginative names.

Pehtwine’s face twisted with annoyance. “That's not my name and you know it,” he bit out.

Astarion threw clasped hands over his sternum sardonically. “Oh dear me, I apologize. You are just such a petulant ass, I thought your name was the acronym for it! Pet-ras, get it?”

Pehtwine moved towards Astarion with balled fists, ready to throw hands. Just as Uhtred and Leodmar grabbed him and held him back, the central chamber doors opened with a loud creak.

All of them quieted and straightened their postures as their father Cadwallon walked in. 

His sleek black hair was pulled back into a leather throng. His long cloak trailed behind him, billowing through the air. His strides took him past all seven siblings silently bowing their heads in respect for their father and baron. Astarion ducked his head lower than the rest, still standing apart. As Cadwallon approached the stairs leading to the throne, Astarion and his siblings shuffled themselves into an orderly line.

Reaching the seat of his throne, Cadwallon spun around on his heel, his cloak swishing behind him, before he sat down, and crossed a leg over his knee. His face was impassive as ever, only ever carrying stoicism, or if turned Astarion’s way, a sneer. Which was exactly what it contorted into as his eyes scanned across the line of his children, then landing on Astarion. 

Astarion knew better than to look away, or to produce a grimace in response. It was a lesson learned long ago to not draw his fathers ire, if he could avoid it. His father spewed hatred his way with every breath, never able to let go of the fact that Astarion was the reason his beloved wife had passed. He treated all of Astarion's siblings better, marginally of course, but Astarion took the brunt of it all.

“My children, I have called you all here today to discuss an urgent matter.” Cadwallon's voice echoed as he spoke, drawing their attention. “As you are all well aware, many of our people have been engaging in attacks upon the Danes plaguing our lands. In turn, the Danes have begun raiding villages.”

“We know, father. It has been happening for many moons now,” Deorwyn stated, only to shy her head back down for speaking out of turn. 

Cadwallon stared at her, but quickly returned to his announcement. “In an effort to subdue tensions amongst our peoples, I sent a letter to the Dane settlement, Baldursgata, with a request to speak with the jarl.”

Astarion tensed. Why would his father host an audience with those vile, godless heathens? They were murderers, rapists, and scoundrels, worshipping false gods and performing the most obscene rituals. But Astarion bit his tongue. If he spoke up, he was the one who would be handed a punishment, unlike Deorwyn.

“Father, if you would permit me to ask, and you likely were about to say it anyways, what was the purpose of this meeting?” Leodmar asked. 

Of all of his siblings, Leodmar was the favoured son. Not only was he the oldest, but already married, his wife already having borne him a child. Honourable , as their father would say. Astarion felt the opposite, despising children and wanting nothing to do with one outside of playing the role of loving uncle to his niece. He felt no true bond with his brother, however. His decrepit childhood, lacking any form of affection from those he should be closest with, made sure of that. 

“The purpose, Leodmar, was to forge an alliance, if you wish to call it such, to end the attacks and live in peace. As much as I loathe our Dane neighbours, they are not planning to leave any time soon, and since the King of East Anglia was killed, we are left to fend for ourselves. There are times when strategic alliances must be made,” Cadwallon intonated, before his searching gaze landed back on Astarion once more. “You, Ӕlfstan, will finally prove useful.”

“It’s Astarion,” Astarion muttered under his breath.

Cadwallon’s nostrils flared. “What was that, boy?” he hissed, as he leaned forward in his throne.

Astarion flinched at the venom spewed his way. Boy. Always that term. “I said, it's Astarion,” he repeated louder, not shying away this time.

“You have been spending too much time with Wulf, I see. Filling your head with fairy tales. Myths. Idolatry,” Cadwallon sneered. “You will not use that sacreligious name in this household or my presence again, or there will be consequences. You are a Christian, and you are to serve the Lord in name, mind, and body with the name you were baptized with. Do you understand?”

Astarion fell silent next to his brothers and sisters. He didn’t want to dignify his father’s outburst with a reply, but knew if he didn’t, there would be literal hell to pay—a trip to be locked in the dungeon for a week was his father’s ultimate punishment. It also happened that his father’s favourite pastime was to forget about him being in there, until the kinder of his three sisters would try to step in.

With a slow nod, Astarion gave his silent acknowledgement.

Cadwallon relaxed back in his seat, tension still wrinkling his brow. “As I was saying, Ӕlfstan, you will play a role in this alliance. You are to be married to the son of the jarl within the week.”

Astarion’s world tilted on its axis as gasps from his siblings rang out beside him. A hot flash slashed through him and his ears pounded with the rhythm of his own heartbeat. “W-what?” he squeaked out, his voice nearly a whisper.

“Did you not hear me, boy? I said you are to be married within a week's time to the jarl’s son, to secure peace in East Anglia. I imagine he shall arrive within the next day, and you shall be here to properly greet him,” Cadwallon explained, but Astarion had had enough.

“Absolutely not. I refuse to be joined to a savage hæðen under God, and shall not lay with one either. This is completely absurd!” Astarion shouted, waving his arms in complete disbelief.

Cadwallon was uncharacteristically quiet, as if he knew Astarion would have an outburst in protest. 

“Father, I will not do this. You cannot make me. It is unfair. Do I not have a say in my own future as well? How could you sign my life away to those barbarians just to protect a few farmers and villages!” Astarion fumed.

Cadwallon threw up a single palm. It was all he required to silence a room. “Your wants and needs are inconsequential to me. You are a child of a Baron, and must hold yourself to a higher standard. Don’t think I have not been made aware of your recent little dalliances with that peasant boy, Sӕbeorht. You bring shame upon this household. Your mother is turning in her grave at this very moment due to you. You should be grateful I am refraining from having that boy executed this instant. If you do not marry the Jarl’s son, Geir, then Sӕbeorht will see the end of a headsman’s axe.”

Astarion clammed up the moment Sӕbeorht’s name was mentioned. They had been quiet. Discreet. Someone must have followed him to have discovered their hidden relationship, and he had an inkling who it was. Given the new chorus of his siblings’ shocked gasps, only one was suspiciously quiet. Pehtwine most likely was to blame, considering how much the bastard loved to get under his skin. They were sure to exchange words later, and likely a few fists.

But it was his father’s threat that halted Astarion’s further rebuttals. If he didn’t go along with this sham of a marriage, his father would execute Sӕbeorht, when the man was innocent of any crime. It was just like his father to cruelly wave someone else’s life like that in his face. Sӕbeorht was one of the only people he felt any connection to in his lonely existence, and it was clear his father saw both of them as disposable currency with which to trade. 

How he hated his father. For everything he had ever done to him. And here he was once more, suffering the sting of his father’s injustices towards him, singled out as the one to carry a burden such as this.

Knowing there was no point in arguing further, his father’s mind set in stone, Astarion stepped back into line, hanging his head. Internally, he was boiling over in anger and already cataloguing his options for escape from this nightmare.

Cadwallon’s face returned to its usual impassive state. “Once you are married, it will be your job to acquaint Geir with godliness before you return with him to Baldursgata, as was agreed upon. Now with that out of the way, I have set up appointments with the tailor later today when the sun is at its highest to get your measurements and prepare your wedding outfit. Do not be late. You are all dismissed.”

Astarion remained rigidly in place as each of his brothers and sisters slowly vacated the room, before he finally turned on his own heel. Once outside the chamber, a barrage of inquiries flew his way as bickering began.

“Ӕlfstan, I am sure father is doing this with the best of intentions,” his sister Æbbe claimed, before Ymma stepped in. She was always nice to him, despite keeping a modicum of distance.

“Are you serious, Æbbe? Ӕlfstan is father’s punching bag for everything. It’s no wonder he is the one chosen for it. Father would be well and truly rid of him and we won’t have to listen to all his snivelling anymore, will we?” Ymma sneered. She was the sister closest to him in age and hated him just as much as their father.

“Ymma, mind your tongue. He is still our brother and a cruel fate has been forced upon him,” Uhthred reminded her, before he shifted to look at Astarion. “Ӕlfstan, I know this may seem like the end of the world but have courage. Have faith in God, and He will show you the way.”

Astarion pummelled his way through them, not wanting to hear their buzzing voices in his ears. He beelined it straight for Pehtwine, who was smugly standing on the other side of the hallway.

“You rat bastard. How dare you follow me? You just can’t leave me alone, can you?” Astarion shouted as he jabbed a finger Pehtwine’s way.

“I haven’t the foggiest what you are referring to, little brother.” Pehtwine replied coolly, still wearing a smirk.

“You spied on me and told father about Sӕbeorht, I know you did!” Astarion accused him, not backing down. “Why do you insist on getting under my skin? Are you jealous of me? Or perhaps you kiss father’s ass as much as you do, hoping father would cast me out because you want to take my place!”

Pehtwine’s face turned red as he moved to stand within Astarion’s space. “What was that, Ӕlfstan? Want to run that one by me again?”

Astarion doubled down. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you secretly wanted to fuck a wicing , Petras. Your abrasive personality would suit one in a marriage.”

“Why you little–” Pehtwine commenced, already leaning in and pulling back a clenched fist, before Leodmar shoved his arms into the space between them, forcefully separating them.

“Enough, you two!” he bellowed. “Cease this useless squabbling. Pehtwine, you must stop behaving this way and refrain from doing everything to undermine Ӕlfstan.”

Pehtwine scoffed and stepped back with a scowl. Leodmar turned to face Astarion.

“As for you Ӕlfstan, I am sorry that father is doing this, but you know that going against his word would be foolish. Whether this is God’s will or wyrd , I suggest you make your peace with it. We do not have some of the same freedoms as common folk, such as marrying for love. We are duty bound, and you must follow in yours,” Leodmar implored.

Astarion ignored him, brushing past and walking out of the hall. His sister Deorwyn called out to him, but he paid her no heed.

Not only was he being forced to marry a hæðen Dane, he would be taken from the one place he had called home. He would have to live among pagans for the remainder of his days unless he found a way out of this.

He would find a way to deal retribution for this slight, some way, somehow, towards his horrible father.

It was no surprise that retribution started at the altar.

The chapel was empty. The morning service was finished and the crowd and the brothers in their dusty habits had cleared out, leaving behind only the sweet, smoky smell of incense. Astarion approached the apse slowly, his footsteps echoing too loudly around him.

The wooden cross hanging on the back wall waited for him. Astarion shifted on his feet. On one hand, it didn’t feel right to kneel. He needed strength, like the archangel Michael, and just as much righteous fury to smite the wicked, namely his soon-to-be husband. On the other, supplication was the best way to bend the Lord’s ear. Astarion went onto his knees.

“Pater Noster,” he began. It felt false, like he was trying to put on a performance. He tried again in the common tongue. “Ece Drihten.”

Astarion only had one request: to put a stop to this unholy union. God willing, Geir, son of the jarl, might fall ill before his journey. He might be set upon by bandits on the road. Perhaps the Almighty would take things into His own hands and strike the whole heathen village down with pestilence or a bolt of lightning. Astarion paused. Was it a sin to wish another harm?

Astarion’s fingers fidgeted along his clasped hands. Maybe this was His will. He would never be able to claim to know the Lord’s mind—never, ever—but he couldn’t see the sense in anything his father had planned. At best, he was set on this path to witness, to bring the Word to these devils. At worst?

Astarion changed positions, shifting more of his weight onto the balls of his feet. His knees were starting to hurt.

At worst, this was the fate he deserved. His father had always said he was sinful: vain, proud, deceitful, full of avarice. Astarion agreed sometimes, but this punishment felt undeserved. He had tried his best to live the life he was taught. He had honoured his Father in Heaven and on earth, even though his earthly father was never satisfied with anything he did. He was told he would be rewarded for his deeds. But this was no reward.

 The wooden cross continued to hang from the back wall. Astarion’s mind drew the shape of a man stretched out on it. The sacrificial lamb, slaughtered. Did the Father weep when He thought about the burden His Son had to carry? Or did the Father say that His Son’s wants and needs were, in his own father’s words, inconsequential?

Bitterness tightened Astarion’s jaw. At least the Son of God had a father who loved him.

Footsteps fell across the floor, coming up from behind. Astarion squeezed his eyes shut and loudly said, “Amen.” He rose to his feet and turned around. “I was praying , Wulf.”

Wulf approached with long strides. “I see that. For you to pray, on your knees no less, tells me that something truly terrible must have happened. You are not usually one to turn to the Lord, even when suffering,” he responded.

Astarion sighed, turning away from his attempt to understand why such a fate had befallen him. He faced Wulf, who had come to a stop a few feet behind him, casually standing patiently and waiting for his response.

Wulf was the son of another noble family, one that sat just below Astarion’s. His father, Ulferth, was known for being a kind man, helping those in need. Astarion could turn to them for aid, but it would be seen as treasonous in his father’s eyes. He had never told Wulf of all the lifelong pain he had been subjected to, and only recently began opening up.

“Where do I begin?” Astarion asked. “First, I am woken up at an absurd hour by the thralls. Then I have to rush to get myself ready, for it was at Father’s behest that we all do so. After that we all waited in the main hall for him to show up, because he was late.”

“Sounds like it was something important to get you up so early. But that is definitely odd for him to be late to a meeting he had called,” Wulf chimed in, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Oh, it was important alright. My father has decided to trade me to a heathen in exchange for peace!” Astarion snarled out, rage exploding once more.

Wulf’s jaw dropped. “Sorry, back up. What do you mean he traded you?”

“He met with the jarl of that Dane settlement, Baldursgata, and decided that marrying me off to the jarl’s son was the solution to the woes of our people constantly fighting and slaughtering each other,” Astarion replied, tears on the verge of spilling in his frustration.

Wulf dropped his hands to his hips, and exhaled. “That is a conundrum. Based on what I’ve witnessed so far, I assume you did not take kindly to that.”

Astarion sent him a glare. “What do you think, Wulf?”

“Astarion, try not to view this as the end of the world.” Wulf said calmly. Despite the tension seizing his body, Astarion felt himself begin to relax. Wulf was the only one to call him by the name he desired, not his given name. “I know your father can be a difficult person at the best of times—my own father would echo this statement—but I think it is better to go along with this for now. Who knows, perhaps you will fall in love." Wulf looked wistful.

“They are hæðencynn and I refuse to prostrate myself before one. They are not capable of love, and even if they were, why on God’s green earth would I desire that? They are godless, witless, and they don’t even bathe!” Astarion motioned with his hands as he expunged all the anger brimming inside of him

Wulf chuckled. “Not all are like that, Astarion. I've met many of them, and despite what we have been led to believe, most just want to live their lives in peace. And they do bathe, actually. I’ve seen it myself. A wash basin most days, but every Saturday, they dive into the lakes and rivers for a full body rinse,” he explained. “It’s a bit much, if I’m being honest.”

Astarion harrumphed. Wulf and his bleeding heart. “I don’t even want to know how you came about that knowledge, and I don’t care. I need to find a way out of this mess.” He paused for a moment. “He threatened me with Sӕbeorht. If I didn’t go through with it, he would send him to his grave.”

Wulf’s eyes mellowed and his face was full of compassion. Ever the trustworthy friend, Wulf never told a soul about Sӕbeorht, and never would, knowing that Astarion needed someone in his life in that capacity. But clearly someone else had spilled the beans. “He is blackmailing you into going along with it,” Wulf concluded.

“Yes. I don’t know what to do. I can’t be the only one. As if a Dane would agree to this willingly. I must find a way to free myself from this,” Astarion started with conviction. "I will find a way.”

“ God ure helpe ,” Wulf added, but refrained from commenting further.

This was thin ice to traverse, and if he tried he could find himself on the sharp end of the Baron’s proverbial sword. Baron Cadwallon did not take well to being disobeyed, and had made spectacles of nobles and peasants alike for doing so. Wulf had initially tried to sway Astarion away from Sӕbeorht, for it was risky and if caught, Cadwallon would certainly retaliate. He had been right, despite giving in for Astarion’s happiness.

Now, he was even more worried for Astarion, and how desperately the man was trying to escape this. But he could not hold him back even if he tried. 

“I hope you know what you are doing,” Wulf said at last.

Astarion straightened his posture. God’s will or not, wyrd or not, he was certain he would liberate himself in the end. He took one more look at the wooden cross on the wall of the chapel. As he and Wulf stood side by side, he calculated a strategy for when this ‘Geir’ arrived.

Chapter Text

The sun crested over the hillsides surrounding Baldursgata and the birds sang their early morning tunes. The leftover frost from the cool night was slowly melting under the rising sun and the dew reflected the rays, glowing.

The crisp air made Gale’s breath visibly puff out as he stepped out of Mýrún’s home with a large sack of his belongings in tow. He adjusted his fur cloak over his shoulders to dampen the effects of the chilly air. Mýrún carried a somber look, with downcast eyes aimed at the path below. It was hard for Gale to see her so distraught, and he couldn’t fail her in his promise.

Taking a step back towards her, he laid his sack on the ground and tilted her chin up with a gentle nudge of his hand. “I will be back before you know it, Mýrún,” Gale told her tenderly.

Her eyes shone with unshed tears before she nodded silently. Mýrún rose up onto her toes to meet Gale's lips in an unhurried kiss while Gale caressed her cheek with his thumb.

When Gale pulled back, giving her a small but confident smile, she returned a more timid one. Without another word, Gale bent down and grabbed his burlap sack, tossing it over his shoulder.

They parted. With one more glance Mýrún’s way in a silent goodbye, he ventured to the front gates of Baldursgata as the village slowly woke up alongside him.

It was a short jaunt with the street devoid of people at such an early hour. Soon, he spotted the entourage that was to accompany him standing at the gate.

Sigrid Arnaldrsdóttir stood with her hood over her head and her long black braid spilling out the side. Her face paint was a dark smear across her eyes, indicating her status as the village völva , and her staff was adorned with various charms and runes to amplify her powers. She was a more recent addition to the population, having arrived only a few years ago. Sigrid had few memories, or at least ones she was willing to share. According to her, she was captured during a raid as a young child back in the Motherland, torn away from her family, and forced into cruel thralldom until she was freed via purchase by a woman named Vígdís. Her parents more than likely dead, Sigrid willingly followed Vígdís home, where she was raised to become a völva after experiencing vivid daydreams and witnessing them come to life. However, when Gale pressed her for more about these visions, she withdrew.

Gale had come to know Sigrid as a friend and could easily attest to her healing abilities. At the same time, he always felt a sense of distance, one that she kept with everyone around her. Her visions were rarely fortuitous and frighteningly accurate, and they encompassed knowing whether a stillbirth was to occur or the exact formation an enemy was going to use on the battlefield. While Gale was envious of such foresight, he knew the mental and emotional toll it took on Sigrid, and how often he would stumble upon her looking sleep-deprived and ragged as a result.

Next to Sigrid was Lækný Vlaakiðsdottir, one of their fiercest warriors and a newer face to their settlement, having sailed across the North Sea only one year ago. Her battle prowess was matched by her sharp, cunning mind, able to dissect a battlefield in moments and direct their fighters to a more strategic location. She wore perpetual war paint just under her eyes on her upper cheeks, and usually sported a neutral and unbothered air around her—unless anybody insulted her mother.

It was strange to see someone tracing their lineage through their mother’s name. Lækný never elaborated on her reasoning for it, but Gale had deduced why—she never knew her father, or his name, and her mother had clearly never deigned to share it with her. Thus, Lækný took it upon herself to create a formidable name to match her own ferocity. While Gale was prideful in his own abilities, woe betide anyone facing the pointed end of Lækný’s sword.

On the other side of Sigrid was perhaps the only shieldmaiden capable of holding her own against a berserker from the sagas. Káta Pállsdottir was a force of reckoning, known for bludgeoning her enemies to death in battle. Tall, dark-haired, and ruddy, she was a far cry from the standard of beauty held by both Vikings and Saxons and yet her cheery disposition was fairer than the sun. Trading a plow for an axe, she began working as a mercenary from the age of fifteen in an effort to aid her parents, who were several dozen pieces of hacksilver in debt. Káta had made a name for herself following each successful contract fulfilled and soon, her far-reaching reputation pricked up the ears of Godric, King of Mercia.

She began to work almost exclusively for him, woman or no, heathen or no. She took out political enemies and laid waste to an encampment of another kingdom’s forces aspiring to wage war on Mercia. As Káta had told Gale, it was a job that weighed down both one’s coin purse and heart. When Godric began sending her to hunt down innocents for simply speaking out against him, Káta had left without a second thought. She had already made enough to help her family and had sorely missed them after so many years away. When she returned home, she found her family’s dwelling empty, their disease-ravaged bodies buried in the ground in her absence. There was nothing left for her to do but pack her few belongings and find a new place to start over.

That was how Gale had met Káta, still just a teenager himself when she stumbled into Baldursgata, looking for a permanent home. She had been welcomed with open arms, and was now one of their best defenders.

As Gale approached all of them, he realized they were all standing before his mother, who had Þara perched on her shoulder. Based on her gestures, it was evident to Gale that Møyfrid was delegating everyone’s tasks. 

It irritated Gale that his mother saw fit to send them on a whole journey when it would be a simple in-and-out if his plan worked. Their talents for battle, not necessarily diplomacy, would go to waste in meeting with the esteemed baron when they would be much more useful staying behind.

With a few more paces, Gale arrived, and three sets of eyes snapped onto him as his mother turned on her heel. Her face went from one of seriousness to what Gale could only describe as relief. It was obvious she had expected him not to show, considering their argument yesterday.

“Geir, I trust you slept well. I hope you understand the importance of all this. It is crucial to seal this deal, so that our people may all prosper,” Møyfrid said with a cordial but stern tone. Her eyes were searching, waiting for his response. On her shoulder, Þara shifted silently.

Gale resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the emphasis on the word importance. With a tight smile, he tersely replied, “Of course. You drilled it into me yesterday. Hard to forget.” At his mother's satisfied nod, he turned to examine his escort party. “Káta, Sigrid, Lækný. Are you all prepared for the journey?”

They all nodded wordlessly.

“Þara?” Gale asked his companion.

“Quite, Mr. Dagrsson. Should you need me as an aerial scout or a messenger I am ready as always,” Þara replied with a slight bow of her head.

“Right. I just need my axe, so—ah, speaking of!” Gale announced, as he spied Danr coming up the path behind them. Gale side-stepped the group to meet Danr halfway.

Danr was carrying his axe, the sharp edge glinting in the early morning light as evidence that the grindstone had transformed the dulled blade to one capable of splitting bone.

“Your axe, freshly sharpened as promised,” Danr told him, as he presented the weapon for Gale to behold. “The runes are re-inscribed and I reapplied a new leather tie to keep the blade secure to the shaft. Though I must ask, Geir, do you truly intend to keep this axe forever? There is a limit to how much it can handle and you have possessed it for many moons now. Years, even.”

Gale shook his head as he took his prized possession from Danr and tucked it into his belt loop. “Nonsense. Asking if I am to part with this axe is no different to questioning whether I wanted to remove my hand from my arm. This axe is a part of me as long as it is still able to be drawn out and thrown with efficiency.”

Danr barked out a laugh. “I see. Well, far be it from me to convince you otherwise.” He lowered his voice so that the others would not overhear. “I assume you are still going to try and get all this all reversed, then?”

Gale nodded the barest amount to avoid drawing more attention from the women standing about twenty feet behind them. “Yes. And no, you won’t convince me otherwise on this either.” A tiny grin formed on Gale’s face, knowing full well that Danr was already ahead of him in his answer.

“Safe travels then, my friend,” Danr told him, reaching out to clasp their forearms together before leaning to peek over Gale’s shoulder. “Same to you all as well. Keep Geir out of trouble!”

Káta chuckled at Danr’s statement, standing with her hands on her hips. “Don’t worry, Danr. As long as Geir sticks to Mama K, those Saxons won’t know what’s coming.” Karlach glanced Gale's way with her usual toying grin, which he knew she was doing to tease him about the fact that his mother had assigned her to guard duty.

Lækný scoffed. “I, for one, did not agree to being a babysitter. I am here strictly to ensure Geir’s safety from attacks, not dictate what he does outside of that.” She crossed her arms over her chest in displeasure and upturned her nose with her usual aura of superiority.

Sigrid stepped towards Gale as the corners of her lips twitched up. “Ignore her. She is more than happy to leave the settlement for once, even if it doesn't involve any sort of bloodshed. I for one, am curious to find what lies in Ipswich, for I have never been there.” Lækný let off a low growl of annoyance, but said nothing in response.

Gale stalked back towards his three-woman entourage, with Danr following close behind. “I have only been once as a child, and it was uneventful."

"What did you see?" Sigrid asked.

"Not much. By which I mean Saxons.” Gale huffed a chuckle. “Now, I believe it is time for us to head out.” As he watched the women check their belongings, his smile faded. The sooner we leave, the sooner we can get there to end this farce.

His mother moved towards him, and Þara hopped off her shoulder to glide onto his. She settled there comfortably as Gale faced Møyfrid. She halted directly before him, gazing up at his brawny form, before taking his face into both of her hands.

“Geir, my son. May Týr clear the skies and Meili level the path ahead. I look forward to meeting your new husband when you return. Small comfort though it may be, the baron has said he’s quite handsome.” She spoke so softly that it tugged at Gale’s heartstrings. He was about to venture to Ipswich with the intention of breaking the entire marriage contract, and the last thing he wanted to do was disappoint his mother. But surely there was a way to achieve peace without having to marry his way to it.

“Thank you, Mother. Should the need arise, I will send Þara to deliver any important news,” Gale told her, skirting around the mention of his betrothed.

Møyfrid nodded. She reached behind her and produced a large pouch that jingled as she handed it over to Gale. It sagged in his grip, weighed down by many handfuls of silver.

“The mundr ,” Møyfrid explained.

Gale tested its weight again. He grimaced. “I understand he’s a baron’s son, but this is excessive,” he said.

Møyfrid pressed her lips into a thin line. “The baron refused any offer less than thirty ounces.” She lifted her arm and pointed at the chest by Káta’s feet. “The morgen-gifu is over there,” she said. “Several new wool and linen kyrtills and coats. Bronze and silver arm rings, cloak pins, and clasps, as well as a few combs. The baron has said his son is a vain man. I hope, for your sake, that he exaggerates.”

Gale couldn’t help but grin. “Mother, you’ve seen how unkempt the saxar are. If anything, this is welcome news.”

Møyfrid returned the ghost of a smile. She spoke to Gale’s companions once more. “I trust you to keep him safe. Gods’ blessings, my dears.” Sigrid nodded silently. Káta and Lækný both bowed their heads and placed their right hands over their hearts.

When Møyfrid’s hands fell to her sides and she took a step backward, Gale straightened his back and looked over at the women. “Let us be off, then. We have half a day of riding ahead of us.”

Káta, Sigrid, and Lækný all reached down to grab their respective bags, and with their final waves goodbye, they all walked over to the stables where four stout ponies were waiting for them. The stable hands had cared for them well, and their coats almost sparkled as a result. Káta grinned as she tossed her belongings at Lækný, who scowled but dutifully attached both of their sacks to the rears of their horses. While Káta loaded the chest with the morgen-gifu onto her mount, Sigrid adjusted the cinches on their packsaddles to ensure they were secure.

Káta, with her height, had no trouble getting on her steed. She slotted her foot into the stirrup and swung her leg over with minimal effort. Lækný, with her agility, made short work of it as well with a simple strong-footed jump. Gale assisted Sigrid with getting on her horse, grabbing her by the waist and lifting her up. Once she was comfortably seated, Gale swivelled around to his own horse and hefted himself up with ease. Þara remained balanced on his shoulder, her claws digging into his tunic through his cloak.

With a snap of the reins, his horse began its march, and the others followed close behind. They left the outer boundary of Baldursgata and headed west. As they made their first turn, Þara spoke up against his ear.

“Mr. Dagrsson…I don’t mean to pry, but I have known you almost all your life,” Þara began, as if gauging Gale’s reaction.

Gale turned his head towards her slightly and quirked up an eyebrow. “Indeed you do, Þara. I assume you have a reason for bringing that up?”

Þara sighed. “You intend to find a way out of this, don’t you?”

Astute as ever , Gale mused. “No sense in hiding it from you. Does my mother feel the same way?”

Þara nodded hesitantly. “I had not been privy to any of this until she had announced it to you yesterday, and I was thoroughly shocked by the news as well. When you marched out of the longhouse, Mrs. Dagrsson suspected you would not take kindly to all this, and would search for a solution. I do not know what to tell you to sway you from your convictions. You’ve always been terribly headstrong.”

Gale held his head high. He didn't know why she made it sound like a bad thing. “One way or another, I will get out of this and return to Baldursgata. There is nothing one could say to change my mind," he replied. "For now, though, we have a journey ahead of us. Let’s not keep the baron waiting."

With a decisive snap of the reins, Gale's horse sped up its trot as his companions followed along.

-----

Astarion stared up at the wooden ceiling, his hands clasped behind his head. It was early in the afternoon and the sun was hovering at its highest position in the sky. With each passing hour, minute, and second, dread settled further into him.

Unless some disaster befell the brute, his soon-to-be betrothed was on his way, and would arrive by nightfall. Baldursgata was only half a day's ride away, and Astarion wished it were further, if only to mentally prepare himself for the anguish to come.

“I see you are deep in thought, Ӕlfstan. What is troubling you?”

The silence in the empty barn was broken. As Sӕbeorht sat up, the bed dipped under his weight.

Astarion groaned, turning to face his lover, freshly washed after their earlier activities. Astarion had hoped seeing him would have quelled his emotions, but it only amplified the disquiet. “Must you call me by that name? I have said many times how I despise it.”

Sӕbeorht’s long blond hair slipped off his bare shoulder as he hovered slightly above Astarion. “That may be true, but it is nonetheless your God-given name. When in the throes of passion, however, I will indulge in whatever name you choose for yourself.”

Astarion smirked. “Hmph, you’d better.” He rose up onto his elbows to give Sӕbeorht a kiss, one returned with equal desire, but quickly broken by Sӕbeorht.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Sӕbeorht stated point blank, adjusting himself to lay down on his side next to Astarion.

Astarion nervously shifted his gaze away, still propped up on his elbows. There was no point keeping everything secret like he wanted to. Soon enough, it would be out in the open that he was to be married, and he would have no choice but to separate himself from Sӕbeorht until he found a way out.

“My father has decreed that I am to be married within the week,” Astarion said quietly. He felt Sӕbeorht stiffen beside him.

“Married? To whom?” Sӕbeorht asked carefully.

Astarion sighed dejectedly, flopping back onto the bed. “Do you know that Dane settlement east of here? Baldursgata?”

Sӕbeorht shifted to snuggle in close to Astarion’s form. “I do. It’s rather large, from what I have been told.”

Astarion wrapped an arm around Sӕbeorht’s shoulder and tugged him closer, seeking his abundant heat as he planned his next words. “According to my father, securing peace for our people will require me sacrificing my freedom and free will, and he is marrying me off to the jarl’s son.”

Next to him, Sӕbeorht gasped loudly and scrambled to sit back up and stare down at Astarion. “He wouldn’t…what God-fearing man would send a son of his to marry a pagan?”

Astarion glanced up at Sӕbeorht with sad eyes. “The same man who was informed of our relationship and who threatened me with your execution if I do not follow through with the union.”

Sӕbeorht’s eyes widened as he rose out of the bed, naked, and began to pace back and forth with a look of anger and despair. He muttered to himself as Astarion scrambled to calm him down.

“My sweet, have no fear. I promise to find a way out of this mess. Once that blasted wicing shows up, I will do all I can to convince my father that this is a ludicrous proposition,” Astarion told him, clambering off the bed to reach for his lover. Sӕbeorht flinched.

"You said he was informed. Who did it?" he asked.

Astarion rolled his eyes. "Petras, obviously—I mean, Pehtwine." He felt like aiming a kick at the nearest bedpost.

“How?” Sӕbeorht demanded.

Astarion sighed. “I don’t know? He followed us, probably. Or got a tip from the cobbler. He took a lot of satisfaction in rubbing it in my face."

"And you sought me out right after." Sӕbeorht stopped pacing and Astarion understood the implication in his words.

"Deoran. I would never," Astarion pleaded.

"Your father used me. Dangled me over your head to push you around. And then." Sӕbeorht spread his hands. “I don’t know what else I expected.” He sat back down on the bed but refused to look at Astarion. “Well, my love? Did you find the relief you were looking for?”

The word love came out barbed, striking Astarion in the chest. “I went looking for you because in my darkest moments, all I want to think about is you,” he said quickly.

“Yes, we did a lot of thinking when you dragged me here and bent me over the nearest barrel,” Sӕbeorht replied flatly.

“Pardon me for being happy to see you,” Astarion snapped. He breathed in and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. Just…wait for me, alright? Give me a day to talk sense into my father. A week. No longer. I can put my tongue to work. I know it, you know it.” He tried to give Sӕbeorht a knowing smirk. Sӕbeorht didn’t react.

When he finally did, it was with a slow glance at the dirt floor. “If I wait, I’ll die,” Sӕbeorht said. “If you cannot refuse your father’s orders, what chance do I have? Do you want me to lay down my life for you, just like that? I can go into hiding. I could love you from afar. But I can’t do anything else.” He shook his head, mostly to himself. “I suppose our union was always fated thusly. You, a nobleman. Me, a farmer.”

Astarion’s throat tightened. “Don’t say that. Stranger things have happened. I’m due to marry a heathen, remember?”

Sӕbeorht reached over the side of the bed. He pulled on his underclothes and tunic as blood pounded in Astarion’s ears. This couldn’t be the end. He had nothing, nobody, left if not for Sӕbeorht. Wulf didn’t count and in any case, it wouldn’t be fair to him to have to bear all of Astarion’s troubles alone.

“Sӕbeorht?” Astarion shifted closer. His voice went quiet. “Sibbi?”

Sӕbeorht slipped his shoes on and pulled himself to his feet. He paused when he reached the doorway and turned around. Pain gripped his features.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I feel privileged to have you as my first.”

The wooden door swung open, then shut, leaving the room cold. Astarion lowered himself onto his back and buried his face in his hands, clamping down to avoid vocalizing his frustration. The sun blinded him through the gaps in his fingers as silent tears fell.

-----

Just before sunset, a messenger arrived at the burh to inform them that Geir Dagrsson and his entourage had arrived. 

Astarion was still reeling from the fallout with Sӕbeorht. He had contemplated faking illness to avoid going to greet his husband-to-be, but he could not find a sickness severe enough to keep him penned up so suddenly. He considered climbing out the window of his room and scurrying off to hide in the chapel, but his father was certain to set the guard upon him to drag him back kicking and screaming—and probably dole out a series of lashings afterwards.

Astarion’s stomach turned in on itself at the thought. He had no desire to find himself at the end of a whip ever again. He was still surprised his father had not ordered a whipping for arguing against his impending marriage, or for the discovery of his meetings with Sӕbeorht. Upon reasoning it out, it was clear his father saw more use in Sӕbeorht as a tool of manipulation instead of subjugating them both to physical torture. Cadwallon, the cruel man that he was, knew that the sting of emotional torment could hurt twice as much as the whip.

With deep resignation, Astarion trudged to the main hall to stand with his brothers and sisters in the anticipation of their guests. While still determined to find a way out of this, for now he had to play along.

The guards opened the doors for him, and he stepped into the hall. His father was already seated in his throne with his usual impassive glare boring into him. Astarion stepped over next to Deorwyn.

“Ӕlfstan, your eyes are still…,” Deorwyn noted anxiously, whispering under her breath as Astarion approached. Her voice wavered, and Astarion knew instantly it was out of fear of father overhearing.

Astarion stiffened, noticing out of his periphery how their father's eyes wandered their way, searching for any misstep, and from him in particular. Astarion acted quickly.

“I’m fine, Deorwyn. On my way here, a stray bug flew into my eye.”

“A bug.” Deorwyn sounded unconvinced.

“It was quite the ordeal. I nearly rubbed my eyes raw getting it out. But you needn’t worry.” Astarion fabricated his cover story flawlessly, used to having to lie his way out of punishments, uncomfortable situations, and almost everything else.

Deorwyn had been the first to spot his puffy eyes earlier, but her questions as to the cause remained unanswered when Astarion dismissed her concerns. She eyed him warily before playing along with his tall tale with a small nod.

Astarion caught how his father’s piercing gaze lingered for a beat, before returning to focus straight ahead. 

Just as Cadwallon faced forward, the doors to the main hall creaked open, alerting all the siblings into order. As they rushed to line themselves along the central corridor, Astarion breathed deep, steadying himself for what was to come.

Chapter Text

The hall was unlike anything Gale had ever seen.

He had been to burhs before; gated Saxon towns with fields of wheat and barley giving way to dirt paths and straw-thatched roofs. Ipswich had looked largely the same until he, Sigrid, Káta, and Lækný stood in front of the Baron’s estate. 

It was grand, opulent, and markedly different from the rest of the settlement enclosed within the enormous circular wall. Once they were escorted through the gatehouse, they found themselves in a large rectangular courtyard surrounded by four wings. Columns held up a pitched roof, which was the colour of rust.

As they approached the largest door, one of the guards halted him with an outstretched palm. He did not say a word, but his eyes did the talking, flicking up to look at Þara. Gale felt her bristle under the gaze, but she did not speak so as to not terrify the locals…yet.

Instead, Gale felt her poking at his mind, so he opened a telepathic channel between them. 

Mr. Dagrsson, it would seem I am not welcome inside. What would you have me do? Þara projected patiently.

Gale glanced at Þara briefly. See if you can find another way in. For now, we will go along as indicated.

With a flick of his chin, he made it seem like he had shooed away his raven as Þara flew off his shoulder. The guard nodded his head, and stepped back, before he and the one standing on the other side reached for the handles.

When the doors were flung open for his entourage, they took a moment to observe the inside of the hall. The ceiling towered above them, as tall as several men by Gale’s estimate. The brick walls were adorned with tapestries. Metalwork depicting intertwined serpents and long-snouted animals gleamed as they walked and Gale felt suddenly conscious of his shoes tracking mud over faded tiles. Then his gaze focused forward, meeting the eyes of the man he hoped to convince out of a pact.

The Baron sat at the end of the hall, his cloak gathered around his person. People flanked both sides of the aisle leading to his throne. Servants, Gale guessed. As he walked forward, Gale noted that they were split—three women on one side and four men on the other. Their heads were bowed, barely moving to make eye contact with their guests. 

What Gale assumed was a serving man stood by the Baron’s side. He was speaking as they approached.

“Eow het secgan þeoden min, þæt he eower æþelu can—”

Lækný cut in. “What is he saying?” she hissed.

“—ond ge him syndon hider wilcuman.”

“Formalities,” Gale whispered back. “Look lively.”

The serving man skulked away. Gale put on his calmest, most pleasant smile. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sigrid tuck her braid over her shoulder. Káta straightened up to her full height. Lækný glowered.

They passed by the men and women lined up on either side. Their clothes were too fine to be that of thralls or commoners. They were of noble birth, but the question remained—who were they and what purpose did they serve? 

While the women had their heads covered, Gale noted that only two of the men were golden-haired. One had a head of brown hair like his own. The other was startlingly white, as if Fenrir the great wolf himself were standing before them.

As they reached the end of the lineup, Gale turned his head towards the white-haired man. Although his head remained bowed, he glanced up enough and met Gale’s gaze. His eyes, an unusual shade of brown so rich they were almost red, were full of malice.

Nothing new, of course. The hatred between their peoples was well catalogued. In an effort to remain a gracious guest, Gale resisted sending his own disdainful glance back.

Cadwallon smiled and reclined on his throne. He had said nothing yet, but his expression put Gale on edge. He looked predatory, like a wolf closing in on freshly delivered sheep.

“Wesaþ hale,” he stated.

His voice was much higher in pitch than expected. Gale almost had to fight back a chuckle. His lip twitched just a hair but not enough to betray him.

“Wes þu hal, sigedrihten min,” Gale replied confidently. “Geir Dagrsson of Baldursgata.” He placed an arm against his chest before bowing slightly. 

Cadwallon raised an eyebrow. He leaned forward in his seat. “You speak our language,” he noted, clearly intrigued.

Gale lifted his chin. “I am a learned man, my lord,” he said. “My thirst for knowledge knows no bounds. And my mother saw to it that I was taught the Saxon tongue to be able to communicate with your people.”

Cadwallon folded his hands and smiled again, sending an uneasy shiver down Gale’s spine. “Good. She’s a shrewd woman, your mother. It was prudent of her to accept the terms of peace we brokered for our shared safety.”

Gale heard something that sounded like a snort. He ventured a quick look backwards. His companions were all stone faced. Behind them, in line, one of the bystanders struck the white-haired man.

-----

Astarion winced and rubbed his arm. He vowed to get back at Pehtwine later, perhaps with a kick to the back of his knees on the way out of the hall. From the other side of the aisle, Æbbe shot him a glare. Ymma was glaring too, but for a completely different reason. Astarion knew she envied the heathen women who just passed by, with their unbound hair, weapons, and leggings. He didn’t hold too much of a grudge to recognize that his sister would be a ferocious warrior, but denied the chance, she simply resorted to tormenting them all with frightening cruelty. Astarion took the brunt of it.

He returned his attention to his father and the audience gathered before him. For the barest moment, his father glared at him after his outburst, before refocusing on their guests. Astarion’s eyes strained to watch the scene with his head still bowed. 

There he was: the thug he had been ordered to marry. From his angle, Astarion could see that the Viking was taller than he was, but nowhere near as vast as the giantess standing guard beside him. He was bearded but well groomed. He had a scar running down the right side of his face from his forehead to his mid-cheek, indicating he had seen battle and come out victorious. Pleated braids framed the sides of his head, probably to keep his hair out of the way during battles. Practical…and pretty.

Disgust made Astarion recoil. This man (beast, hardly a man) was not pretty. To think that was positively preposterous. He might have worn braids and spoken Astarion’s language, but he was uncouth and blasphemous. A pagan. A heathen.

Geir. What an ugly name. 

The fact that he understood their language was a shocking revelation in itself. The heathens were the last he would ever peg as being willing to learn it. The fact that he spoke it with such clarity and propriety irked Astarion even more.

Their guest cleared his throat and Astarion went back to listening. 

“Fitting you should mention that,” said the Viking. “Although I am here by my mother’s command—and yours, of course—I would like to make a request if Your Lordship will allow it.”

Astarion wasn’t looking, but he knew storm clouds were starting to gather in his father’s eyes. “Speak, then,” Cadwallon said, with a concealed venom ready to strike, something Astarion was all too familiar with.

The hall was silent, save for the crackling of the coals. Thick fabric shuffled as the Viking shifted where he stood. “Baron Cadwallon, I am here to ask you to formally rescind your agreement to this marriage.”

-----

A hush fell over the room as Gale spoke the words. His comrades were obviously unable to understand him, but the people standing behind him had comprehended him without issue. No one dared to breathe along the aisle, but he could feel the energy coming from them. Fear. Astonishment.

Cadwallon’s lips were upturned, as if he was holding himself back from bellowing out in laughter. The amusement on his face masked the calculating fury in his eyes. They too, were a reddish hue, confirming Gale’s suspicions that those finely dressed people behind him were related to the Baron himself. More than likely his children, which meant one among them was his soon-to-be-husband unless he was able to end this agreement.

Cadwallon reclined back against his throne, crossing one leg over the other. “Now why, pray tell, would I want to do that?”

Gale mustered his courage. It was no small feat to do this, to attempt to negotiate with a Saxon nobleman, but try it he must. “This alliance was created without my knowledge, even as the heir to Baldursgata. I already have a betrothed back home and your son deserves to marry one who is better matched, perhaps one who is already practised in your faith and customs. I would like to renegotiate the terms of this treaty so that we may all benefit, barring the need for a political marriage.”

Cadwallon’s face morphed into an unreadable expression. “I do not care for whatever wench you are planning to marry. The terms have been accepted by the jarl, and they are set in stone.”

“But as the son of the jarl—” Gale began, irritated at Mýrún being labelled no more than a lowly maid, only to be cut off.

“That’s just it. You are the son , not the jarl himself. Therefore any and all agreements made between the jarl and myself are binding, forged in blood and ink. Not with you. Unless you or my son were to perish in untimely manners, there is nothing you can do to render this deal null and void. It is done, and you will abide by it,” Cadwallon boomed, his demeanor as tough as his throne. Like stone.

Gale could only stand there mute. His nose twitched and a sour taste filled his mouth, as he shifted to his contingency plan.

“Perhaps you would be amenable to an adjustment of terms, then? Perhaps instead of marriage, we can offer you a whole flock of sheep or goats, or even better, a set of study work horses?” Gale attempted.

Ahead of him, Cadwallon tapped the armrest of his throne, his anger visibly betrayed by his frown.

“If that is not to your liking, then perhaps some of the finest weapons our blacksmiths can craft?” Gale tossed out, trying to find yet another solution.

Once more, the baron sat there, stone-faced and impassive, save for the slow tapping of his finger. It somehow made him more intimidating and unnerving. Abruptly, the Baron halted and spoke.

“There will be no re-negotiations. It is set and done. While I admire your tenacity to try and weasel your way out of this, any attempt at doing so will be considered a breach of this contract. If you continue to push this matter, I will personally see to the demise of your people. This is the only way forward that will ensure peace, and you would be wise to take it. By the way,” he sneered, “if your plan is to be jarl someday, reneging on an agreement forged by your betters is a rather stupid move.”

-----

Astarion could scarcely believe his ears. The brute, Geir, was not only opposed to this marriage (unsurprising),  but had someone back home. Someone he desired to return to. Astarion burned with envy, having lost Sӕbeorht as a result of this debacle—the one soul he had felt a kindling of connection to.

It made Astarion hate the Viking even more. Especially when the bastard was essentially comparing his worth to that of a few goats or swords.

But perhaps there was a way out of this. Attempting the diplomatic approach was clearly getting nowhere, and arguing was pointless. Still, Astarion had clung to the last words uttered by his father.

If either of them were to die, then it would end the marriage contract. 

Astarion risked a glance towards the towering man once more. There was no way he could get close enough to land a single blow against him. While Astarion was smaller and probably more agile, what he lacked was the strength the Viking possessed. If the axe attached at his hip was any indication, he could slice Astarion’s head off with a single swipe.

Poison perhaps? It would be swift and simple, but would also lead to a full-blown investigation. If his father were to find out he was to blame…he shivered inwardly at the thought. It was too risky if he was caught.

He would have to plan it out, craft a plot exactly the way he needed it, to kill the brute and remain undiscovered. If that meant playing his part for one act, then so be it.

As he stewed, he nearly missed his father calling his name.

-----

Gale stood expressionless, working to come up with a reply as the Baron rambled on about how one's word must be honoured. Not that Gale paid much attention.

He was stuck, unsure of where to go with the information relayed to him. His status as the jarl’s son carried no sway, and the fact that he was already due to be married held no bearing. If there was no true way out of this legally speaking, then at least he could return home with the Saxon and put him to work. They had their uses as thralls. 

Dumping the man at a roadside brothel was another way to unburden himself at his earliest convenience. If his betrothed's father was so determined to marry him off, to a Dane no less, Gale suspected a strained relationship was afoot. There were plenty of his people who would lay with a beautiful Saxon, to use them for their own pleasure. It was all they were good for anyways.

There was one thing Gale knew for certain. Regardless of the outcome in Ipswich, there would be no ceremony to bind them in the ways of his people when he returned to Baldursgata. While the Saxons might view them as wed in the eyes of their god, he would not bring that stain back home with him and sully his good name . 

How would he explain it all to Mýrún? My love, this is Ӕlfstan, our new live-in servant, who I just so happened to be married to under Saxon custom and law. Knowing his lover, she would not take kindly to his presence, and Gale already had a feeling that the Saxon he was soon to marry would rebel against thralldom. What a mess.

“Before we continue, I will introduce you to my son, Ӕlfstan.” Cadwallon announced, angling his head. “Rise, and show yourself to your soon to be husband, Ӕlfstan.”

Gale noted a hint of what could only be labelled as disdain in the Baron’s voice as he said the name. He followed the Baron's line of sight, landing on the white-haired man once more.

Gale observed as the man, Ӕlfstan, heeded the command instantly. For the first time since his arrival, Gale got a good look at the Saxon as he straightened his head. The man was surely sent from Alfheim to torment him. 

Ӕlfstan’s beauty rivalled that of Baldr himself, with the gentle slope of his nose, sharp cheekbones and bow-shaped lips. But a faint scowl was etched on his face as he stared back. It was like gazing into Loki’s eyes and seeing the hatred for the natural order of the world in them. He stood at least half a head shorter than Gale, with a slender body that was sure to be fragile in so much as a breeze. 

Gale looked away quickly, searching for a response. He settled on, “You honour me, Your Lordship.” It came out slightly grated. He had no wish to be enthralled by a pretty face, not when it was attached to the body of a foul Saxon. Certainly not when he had Mýrún awaiting his return home. But for now, he went along with it all. No sense in causing a scene and sending Ipswich into an uproar.

Cadwallon waved his hand dismissively and Ӕlfstan returned to his original position, head bowed again.

“I am glad you approve.” The answer from the Baron was weighed down by the undertone of a sneer. “In order to receive him, however, you must be baptized. We cannot allow a pagan to wed a man of God.” 

The line caught Gale’s ear, especially when it caused a cacophony of whispers to break out behind him. Before he could react, the Baron shouted.

“SILENCE!”

In an instant, the quiet voices behind him ceased. Gale took the opportunity to speak, noting the way those behind him visibly shook at the barked order.

“Baptism, Your Lordship?” Gale asked with a slight tilt of his head. While Gale had heard the term, he was unfamiliar with its meaning or significance. He knew it was related to their strange god, but aside from that, it was a mystery to him.

Cadwallon smiled thinly, no doubt reassured by Gale’s ignorance. “To be wed, you must give yourself in service to our Lord,” he explained. “‘And I will sprinkle on you pure water, and you will be clean from all of your uncleanness, and I will cleanse you from all of your idols.’ ” He curled the finger he had been tapping not long ago. “In essence, you will accept the Lord of Heaven as your God. Your only God.”

Gale heard a sharp hiss next to him. It was Sigrid, her face twisted in contempt. She seemed to grip her staff harder and its charms swayed. However, Gale knew that if the news angered Sigrid, it would enrage Lækný, who was ever the traditionalist, once it had been translated for her.

Fortunately, Gale was unburdened by these loyalties. He acknowledged, enjoyed the existence of many gods. Óðinn, Þórr, Baldr, Bragi. What was one more? And how would the Baron know if he had really renounced them in his heart of hearts?

“Then I accept,” Gale said.

The flood of whispers started again but stopped as quickly as Cadwallon sat forward on his throne. “Curious,” he said. “Why would you—”

A sharp crack came from the ceiling, then another. They heard the rustle of feathers and claws scrabbling along the rafters. A pair of wings flapped, a strong gust blew, and a shadowy figure swooped down. The room flew into an uproar as Þara landed on Gale’s shoulder.

Cadwallon was too dumbstruck to silence his children, who ducked and ran or stumbled over each other to get away. His back was pressed up against his throne as he lifted a ringed finger, trembling with fear, rage, or both. “What…what,” he growled, “is that thing ?”

“It’s a bird, Your Lordship,” said the serving man, who was cowering in a corner. The Baron glared at him wrathfully and his mouth clacked shut.

“Technically, she’s a raven.” Gale held out his hand and Þara hopped forward to perch on his fingers. He couldn’t help but hold back a smile at the thought that these Saxons in their stone houses were terrified of one bird, much less his old friend. “Say hello, Þara.”

Þara bowed her feathered head. “Greetings, Your Lordship,” she croaked out. “My compliments to the builders of your longhouse. I’ve never encountered such impenetrable walls.”

If the throne room had been in an uproar before, the panic reached hysteria. One of Cadwallon’s children screamed before abruptly covering her mouth. Another shouted, “Why is it talking?”

The Baron’s voice rose to a roar. “It doesn't matter.” Everyone shrunk back. He waved his hand dismissively. “One can train a bird to talk. It’s some trick, nothing more.”

“I beg your pardon?” Þara’s neck feathers ruffled, starting to stand on edge. Gale shushed her and with her beak upturned, she stalked back up his shoulder. He gave the Baron an apologetic look, but one that betrayed a hint of amusement.

“It’s not a trick, I’m afraid,” Gale said. “I summoned her as a boy.” 

There were no whispers behind him this time, but Gale sensed it was because the Baron’s children were too afraid to speak. The Baron himself was frozen in his seat, seething in silence. Gale stepped forward. “Did my mother not tell you when she met with you? I am a seiðmaðr . In your language, that would be, ah,” he racked his brain for an appropriate translation, “a magician.”

The serving man made a gesture, bringing his right hand up to his forehead, down to his chest, then across his shoulders. Cadwallon’s lips curled downwards with irritation. “No, I was not aware,” he began. “But now that I am, you are to bar yourself from using your…talents. Certainly from now on. There is no need to scare the rabble.”

Gale frowned. Seiðr was his whole being, his purpose. It kept him tethered to Þara and the world around them. To ask him to stop his practice was like asking him to stop breathing. But then again, like his gods after the baptism, the Baron couldn’t possibly know if he had given it up for good. He conceded.

“Of course,” he said. “You will see nothing untowards as long as I am here.”

The Baron glared down at him. “Swear it,” he ordered.

Gale’s brow furrowed as he chose his words carefully. It was a good thing he wasn’t being asked to swear on any one particular relic or their god, or swear his fealty to the Baron himself. At least for now. He placed his hand on his chest. “I swear, by my birthright, that I will practise nothing, by word or by work, that is loathsome to Your Lordship so long as I remain in your care.”

Cadwallon smiled thinly, triumphant. “Then we have an accord,” he announced. His hand came down and the clank of iron sounded from the door. Two guards with helmets and spears approached and came to a stop just behind Gale’s entourage. “You will be escorted to your lodgings,” he continued. “Negotiations of the brýd-gifta — mundr for you—and morgen-gifu will begin tomorrow, so I suggest you rest.”

Gale eyed the guards briefly, noting the posture of Lae’zel behind him, whose hand was hovering over her blade, anticipating a fight. He whispered to her under his breath. “ Statt , Lækný. They are simply taking us somewhere we can rest our heads tonight.” 

Lækný's eyes shifted his way, before she nodded subtly and dropped her hand.

Gale turned back to Cadwallon. “The hospitality is appreciated, Your Lordship. Until the morrow.”

-----

As the guards led the heathens out of the hall, Astarion could only curse the God was supposed to serve fealty to.

The barbarian he was sworn to was also a magic wielder? His father, instead of searching for means to end the contract then and there, proved the utter contempt he held for Astarion by allowing it to go on. It was a cruel fate, one that he had no foreseeable recourse from.

If anyone in Ipswich was caught using magic, they would be handed the most severe punishments. Defiance of God’s will and the Baron would have earned anyone accused of practicing it the loss of a limb at least. But the Viking got a free pass?

Astarion was positive that the Viking, Geir, was full of shit and would not go along with a single thing he had sworn upon. There was no possible reason he would renounce his gods so readily, nor refrain from practicing his magic. 

The resentment towards the heathen was steadily rising within him, and once the chamber doors shut, the sound of his siblings' voices bombarded him. His ears could only handle so much noise all at once.

“Can you believe it? A talking raven?” Æbbe’s voice came from ahead of him, a mixture of shock and interest.

“That father didn’t have him arrested and tossed in the dungeon to await trial is fascinating to me,” Uhtred exclaimed, ever the pious one.

“He had an all-woman guard. Does he mean to mock us?” Pehtwine laughed.

“And did you see the way those women walked in here? To be dressed in such a way, with no decorum, while we have to wear this stuffy, tight garb,” Ymma complained to Deorwyn, who was not paying attention to her, but staring at Astarion.

Astarion could tell she wanted to say something to him, but her opportunity would have to wait. Their father’s voice swept through the hall, commanding order and silence.

“Cease your useless gabbing,” Cadwallon commanded, rendering all of them mute. The siblings quickly moved to stand in single file before their father.

Cadwallon’s eyes scanned the row. “While I understand the…shock of the events we were all witness to, all of you are to be on your best behaviour around our guests. Especially you, Ӕlfstan. That man, in spite of his crude and wicked ways, is to be your husband, and you are to serve him dutifully when the time comes. I hope I will not have to repeat myself.” 

Astarion clenched his teeth, restraining himself from both correcting his father about his name again, and from exploding in a tempest of fury. The thinly veiled threat in his father’s voice was present as always, staying his hand. “As you command, father.” 

Cadwallon did not remain much longer. He rose from his throne, and as he did so, Astarion and all his siblings cleared the way for him as he marched out of the hall, before they all silently followed in turn. 

Just as he was about to step in the direction of his chambers, a hand on his wrist halted him. Astarion craned his head behind him to see Deorwyn nervously fidgeting. “What is it, sister?”

“Ӕlfstan, I am sorry there is nothing we can do to spare you from this.” Deorwyn found her voice, speaking quietly as their other siblings discussed what had unfolded in the audience hall. “Father has always been cruel, and since mother’s death, he has unfairly burdened you with his ire. I can only hope that this Viking is a kind man, who will at least whisk you away from the torture you have been subjected to.” 

Astarion stood still, immobile as he took in Deowyn’s words, not even bothering to ask her to call him Astarion. “While I appreciate you wanting you to make me feel better, Deorwyn, those heathens would not know kindness if it hit them in the head with an axe. I am simply being transferred from one master to another, like a piece of property sold to the highest bidder. It would seem our benevolent God would have me suffer forever for misdeeds I committed from the womb.”

Deorwyn sighed, “Ӕlfstan, try not to view this as the end. Perhaps this Geir is a better man, one that will feed you, care for you, and tend to your needs. While we may be of different worlds, and faiths, I believe God placed you on this path for a reason. It may be trying, and painful, but sometimes a life of difficulty can evolve beyond that.” Deorwyn attempted to reassure him with a hand on his shoulder, but Astarion pulled out of her grip.

“I have heard enough, sister. I would ask that you drop this matter.” Astarion’s voice felt raw, the reality of the situation finally settling inside him. “Good night.”

Astarion walked away from his siblings, who, aside from Deorwyn, were too busy raving over what had transpired to notice him leaving. 

When he reached his chambers, he swiftly entered them and slammed the doors shut, loud enough for the sound to reach the hall where his brothers and sisters were likely still standing.

Astarion flopped onto the bed face first, and had no idea whether to scream into the void or cry. So he did both.

Chapter Text

Gale’s eyes opened to an unfamiliar room. The walls were constructed of stone and not wood. The smell was entirely different to what he was used to, lacking the distinct scent of freshly plowed fields or the smoke of a forge. He sank into the bed, which wasn’t a wooden bench for once. Þara was sleeping, perched on the bed post as was the norm for her, almost giving the illusion of being home. He blinked a few times to gather himself, only for a rush of memories to assault him. 

It was not some nightmare he was just waking up from, and he had not imagined everything. He was not home in Baldursgata, waking in Mýrún’s welcoming arms. He was in Ipswich, laying in a bed that was not his own, dealing with a dilemma that seemingly had no solution.

A marriage founded on the basis of conscription.

Gale turned over with a groan and buried his face into the pillow, unwilling to rise. Perhaps if he stayed in bed all day, the Baron would consider him to be a useless, slothful man unworthy of his son, and call off the engagement. 

But Gale knew that would never happen. Baron Cadwallon seemed the type to be stubbornly set in stone, unwavering in his decrees. There was only so much Gale could push before it backfired on them all. While he wanted nothing more than to raze Ipswich to the ground to free himself of this accursed marriage, doing so would just bring the ire of the nobles and lords of East Anglia upon every Dane.

As much as it pissed him off royally to be caught up in this against his will, he had no desire to disappoint his mother, especially if he was to take over the mantle of jarl someday soon. It was a position of power that also warranted a level head and disposition. Ensuring the safety of his home entailed that he remained calm and collected. It was the only reason he was going along with the charade. That, and the fact that the Baron refused any re-negotiations.

In the middle of his musings, a hard knock at the door jolted him. It also jarred Þara awake, who squawked and flapped her wings in surprise.

A man’s voice followed. “Sir Geir Dagrsson, I have been ordered by the Baron to escort you to the antechamber where you will discuss the wedding dowry.”

Gale huffed out an annoyed sound. He had just woken up and was hardly in the mood to deal with the Baron once more. The fact that he was being summoned without so much as a cup of water or any food was already grating enough. Tearing the covers off, he walked to the door and flung it open, much to the dismay of Þara.

“Mr. Dagrsson! Put on some clothes!” Þara chided, but it was already too late.

The scene before Gale was rather amusing. Standing outside the door of his bedchamber was not only the guard, but Káta, who was clearly struggling to keep a straight face. She had dressed down since the previous day, now clad in a lighter tunic and high breeches. Tiny giggles sneaked out as she resisted the snort of laughter ready to burst, which she hid by throwing her cloak over her shoulder, then looking down to fidget with her belt.

Gale’s attention focused directly on the guard. His eyes, initially looking up at Gale’s face, quickly flicked downwards before they became as large as a dinner plate, and he turned fuchsia. His hand snapped up to shield his vision from the veritable weapon Gale possessed—one Gale was not afraid to flaunt.

Gale couldn’t resist a grin, one matched by Káta as the man squirmed.

“T-The good baron is expecting you soon,” the guard stammered out, doing his best to avoid looking down.

Gale snorted. The Christians and their aversion to the naked body was something he could never fathom. “Give me a few moments to dress and I will be out. Káta, I will need assistance with the morgen-gifu once I am ready.” At Káta’s affirming nod, Gale slammed the door shut, facing Þara’s accusatory gaze.

“That was most improper, Mr. Dagrsson. You clearly scared the poor man out of his wits,” Þara scolded him with a huff once they regained a bit of privacy. 

Gale shrugged a shoulder as he sauntered over to the wash basin, knowing Þara did not care herself if he padded around unclothed. “Perhaps he needed the shock. These Saxons are too uptight for their own good if you ask me. I wonder if they even know where things go—if the lock fits the key, if you understand my meaning. At least Káta had a laugh over it.”

He dipped the washcloth into the cool water, and proceeded to clean himself of residual sweat. He was almost surprised to find a wash basin at all, considering the rumours that Saxons rarely bathed themselves. A shudder traveled up Gale’s spine at the thought of forgoing the ritual of finding a river to bathe in every Saturday. How did these Saxons tolerate being so unclean?

Gale’s mind briefly changed course towards Ӕlfstan, and he felt a wave of discontent hit him. Ӕlfstan had appeared well manicured compared to the others, with his hair perfectly coiffed and face free of blemish. It seemed his mother’s words about the man being vain were plausible. He didn’t know why his thoughts deviated to the puny man, and that irked him.

Finished with his wash, he quickly dressed, before glancing at Þara. “I would prefer to bring you along, but considering what happened yesterday, it might be wiser if you remain here for the moment, Þara.”

Þara sighed, clearly irritated. “Unfortunately, that appears to be the wisest course of action. You did vow not to use any seiðr while here, and technically speaking, I fall under that dominion.” Her beady eyes levelled him with a potent gaze. “Do try not to stir up any unnecessary drama more so than we already have, Mr. Dagrsson. Your mother was quite clear in her directive, even if you vehemently disagree with it and are still planning a way out of it.”

 Gale laughed as he pulled on his shoes. “If the baron’s son happens to fall into a bog, or trips and tumbles off a cliff, I certainly would not be to blame.” At Þara’s indignant caw, Gale relented. “Seeing how tense things were between father and son, I have a feeling if an accident were to befall the man, he would not be missed by those at home, as sad as that is to say.”

Þara shook her beaked head, hopping along the frame railing to get closer. “Mr. Dagrsson, I know the outcome of this journey has not been what you had hoped for, but there is no need to be so crass. It’s obvious the other man is no more thrilled about all this either.”

Gale straightened, and adjusted his belt around his tunic, before slipping his axe into the loop. “That may be, Þara. But he is nonetheless bound to this like I am. I will go along with it at face value for the time being. But once we are beyond the city walls, I will find a way to rid myself of the burden so that I am free to marry Mýrún upon our return.” 

His chest ached, missing his lover’s embrace. He wanted to send Þara back to Baldursgata, to let Mýrún know about the developments, but he could not bring himself to do so. Not until he uncovered every finite detail about his ‘husband’ and had a plan in place surrounding it all.

Þara sighed with resignation. “I just hope we will not find ourselves drawn into something that we cannot talk our way around, or fight our way out of. Good luck, Mr. Dagrsson.”

Gale grunted a reply, and proceeded to open the door, where the guard had remained patiently. It was rather hilarious the look of abject relief on the man's face, as if he had been anticipating Gale would return unclothed once more. Then his eyebrows furrowed as he glanced down at Gale’s hip.

“Sir, you must leave your weapon behind for this. The Baron has specified—”

Gale cut him off with a sharp glare. “The axe comes with me, and I will not be parted from it. Should your Lord have an issue with this, he can bring it up when we meet.”

The guard nervously chewed his lip, clearly concerned about disobeying the Baron. But he nodded his head and took a step back, acquiescing. “By your leave, then.”

Gale looked up to Káta, and with a tilt of his head, signalled for her to come inside. She sidestepped the guard and walked into his quarters.

“Gale, that was quite a good show you gave the man earlier.” Káta switched over to Norse as she followed Gale to the foot of the bed. “Was there a reason you decided to wave your wand around so early in the morning?” She snickered at her own joke.

Gale shook his head with a laugh. He ambled over to the side table, where he picked up the mundr pouch and tied it to his belt, the heavy weight causing his belt to sag on one side. “No, I woke up a few moments before you both showed up. I simply did not have the time to get dressed before answering the door,” Gale replied nonchalantly.

“Mr. Dagrsson, you did have a moment to at least throw on a tunic, but you simply did not care to do so,” Þara chimed in, as he and Káta squatted down to grab a handle at either end of the chest.

Káta bellowed a laugh as they hefted up the weighty chest. “Well, whatever happened, thank you for starting my day off right. Besides, I’ve seen bigger things.” A lopsided grin formed on her face as they marched towards the open door, where the guard waited for them.

Gale scoffed but did not respond, knowing full well how Káta enjoyed pushing his buttons regarding how well he was endowed. “We must be off, Káta. Otherwise, the Baron is sure to have words with us. Hopefully it will not take too long, Þara,” Gale addressed his piebald companion affectionately.

“I hope it all goes well, Mr. Dagrsson.” Þara folded her wings behind her back as they exited the chambers into the hall.

“Shall we proceed…?” Gale ended on a question, eyeing the guard curiously as he and Káta halted before him with the chest.

“Oh, uh, Dunnstan. I am the head guard of the Baron’s forces,” the man replied, gesturing at them to follow along.

Dunnstan led Gale and Káta through the burh before they turned a corner, where Gale saw him. 

Ӕlfstan. Standing there, practically glaring daggers at him. 

Oh, this should be good.

----

“You’re late.” Astarion bit out, irritated that he had been standing outside the door for nearly half an hour, waiting for the oaf Geir to arrive. With that hulking beast of a woman, no less. “My father will not tolerate your disrespect of his time. You would do well to remember that.” Astarion knew damn well that being even a moment late could lead to severe consequences, and the heathen should be grateful that he was even warning him in advance.

As the Dane approached with the large, swaying chest between him and the woman, Astarion noted the bored look on his face, followed by an even more disinterested eye roll. When Geir came to a halt before him, ignoring his presence, Astarion was already beginning to boil over. As Dunnstan reached out to open the door to the antechamber, Astarion lost it.

“How dare you ignore me, you wretched ingrate! I am the son of a nobleman, and you will treat me with the respect I am due,” Astarion gritted out, shoving a hand against Geir’s chest in an effort to push him away from the door. A failed effort, considering the towering man was like an immovable statue.

Gale closed his eyes, inhaling a breath. “ Ýmirs frosteistna…, ” he muttered under his breath, not interested in dealing with the mood of the hardship he was being forced to marry. Next to him, he saw Káta’s eyes sharply glance his way, as if to tell him not to react to the little Saxon’s outburst.

Astarion snapped, “What did you just say to me in that pagan tongue?”

Gale dropped his composure. “I said nothing to you . But you seem intent on provoking me, and I will return it in kind. I will speak my language if I see fit, and you are the last person who has any say over me,” he growled.

Their eyes locked in silent fury, veritable sparks flying. Dunnstan stood silently, observing both of them, but wisely not stepping in. Gale heard Káta mutter something behind him.

Astarion raised his voice. “You godless bastard. I will not tie myself to someone who so blatantly disregards my status. I knew you heathens lacked class, but I thought with some form of functioning society, you would know your place under your betters.”

Gale took a menacing step forward, pulling the chest and Káta along, forcing the shorter man’s neck to strain upwards. “Don’t you worry, little man. Once we are out of this disgusting city, you will swiftly learn your place. You Saxons love to talk, but what you lack is action. I will find a use for you in Baldursgata, and you will learn to do as you are told.”

That last sentence cut Astarion deep, and had him recoiling with a flinch. It was barely perceivable, but there. He heard his father’s words overlaid on top of Geir’s, deflating his initial bark.

“My father will not stand for his blood’s status being lowered to that of a thrall,” Astarion protested, then cursed himself for speaking so timidly.

“From what I have witnessed, it would seem your father has no regard for your well-being or treatment. So if you think to sway me with threats, know that I can see right through the attempt. Now, dear betrothed , I have an audience with the Baron.”

Gale ignored the indignant sputter from Ӕlfstan, and swiftly turned to enter through the door Dunnstan had opened for them.

Astarion sucked in an almost tortured breath, the barb from Geir hitting and landing where it hurt. Well then. The Viking could exchange jabs with both weapons and words. If Astarion was graced with the chance to drive him out—or get rid of him altogether—he would need something else altogether on his side.

He watched Geir and his hellish companion advance with the chest. They were hulking figures; powerful but slow. He had always been the quickest and slyest of his siblings, outrunning them in foot races as a boy and taking the longest to be found during games of hide and seek. Nothing about that had changed. Hiding in the granary and pilfering bread from the kitchens turned into sneaking off with Sӕbeorht and stealing his favourite horse, a white beauty named Winter, from the stables to ride through the rolling hills and taste freedom, if only for a few hours.

And if this marriage would not grant him freedom, then he would take it for himself with everything he had, any way he could. Astarion bowed his head to conceal a grin. Yes. Yes, he could do that.

Without a word, Astarion followed Geir inside.

----

The Baron’s hall looked exactly the same as it did yesterday, which sent a weight sinking through Gale’s stomach. His meeting had been very real after all, and this was not a dream. He really was going to negotiate the handsal now and be wed in a few days’ time. 

The Baron smiled at them from his throne and Gale’s knee hit the side of the chest as he and Káta carried it in. He winced from the blow. Despite the illusion of friendliness, Gale sensed that the Baron was, in fact, pissed. His grin was too wide, his teeth bared too aggressively. Ӕlfstan had been right, his foresight accurate. For a split second, the Baron’s eyes shifted, and his brow creased slightly, likely spying the axe hanging on his belt.

However, the Baron’s discontent seemed to die down when he spied the chest between Gale and Káta. As Gale approached, he knew the Baron could hear the hearty jingle of the silver in his pouch, which rang out with each heavy-footed step forward. The Baron clasped his hands. His rings produced a clear chime, which capped off the clinking and creaking that announced their arrival.

“Good morning,” Cadwallon said. “I trust you all slept well. I cannot say I’m surprised that you, Dagrsson, perhaps slept too well. Straw beds. Are they not marvellous?”

Next to Gale, Dunnstan laughed out loud. Ӕlfstan seemed to manage a chuckle, though one that was completely fake. Gale held back another eye roll. They were making a joke at his expense, but as far as backhanded insults went, this one stung about as much as a flea bite. Gale opened his mouth to fire back, but remembered that Þara had urged for diplomacy, and after yesterday’s events, decided to keep it shut.

Cadwallon smiled again. He was pleased by Gale’s subservience. “Come now. This way.”

The Baron rose from his seat and Gale realized it was the first time he had seen the man at his full height. He was taller than Gale, and even Káta. Clearly, his youngest had not been given the gift of his father’s stature, but even from a distance, Gale could see that they were both pale and slender. They shared similar pointed features that exuded arrogance. With a swish of his long cloak, Cadwallon proceeded to the right. He lifted one of his tapestries, a cloth banner decorated with heralds, to reveal a door. He unlocked it, then commanded everyone to follow with a curl of his finger.

“A clever device, Your Lordship,” Gale ventured, half flattering and half genuine. He and Káta picked up the chest again and started to walk, with Dunnstan and Ӕlfstan behind. “I have a mind to construct such a room in our hall when I return to Baldursgata.”

Cadwallon sniffed. “I doubt you have the resources,” he said, “and even if you did, I doubt you have the intellect.”

Astarion trailed behind the group, disgust rising with each step. He had no desire to be present, to witness how he was going to be bartered away for some meager coin. His thoughts drifted to Sӕbeorht. It had hurt to be tossed aside, treated like nothing, only to be sold like a possession by his own father. But he had no choice in the matter, silently making his way past the door.

Gale and Káta crossed the threshold and paused a short distance within the room. It was small, only furnished with a long table and a single candle. The Baron seated himself at its head while Dunnstan shut the door and stood guard. Ӕlfstan shuffled his way around and sat next to his father, looking like he would rather be anywhere else. Gale faltered, then decided it would make the most sense to sit across from them. He and Káta set the chest down on the stone floor and took their places, Káta next to Dunnstan and he at the table.

The Baron glanced sharply at Ӕlfstan, who had been gradually shifting away but stopped when his father’s piercing gaze struck him. He moved a little closer and Gale marvelled at what must have been a litany of silent exchanges between them in a matter of seconds. Then the Baron’s eyes were on him.

They were Ӕlfstan’s exact eyes, coloured that same shade of brown so deep they were almost red. But where Ӕlfstan’s eyes were haughty and constantly shifting, Cadwallon’s were fixed and hardened to a cutting edge. Gale saw fires in them; fires set to the roofs of dozens of Danish houses, people set on fire for rattling his chains of command or simply because he felt like it that day. He had seen no such evil in Ӕlfstan, but in just their first exchange, he detected little buds of cruelty. Ӕlfstan was already beyond help. The man was going to grow into a monster.

Gale gritted his teeth and prepared to listen to all of Cadwallon’s reasons to take him in.

“It is no easy feat parting with one’s child, much less one’s youngest.” Cadwallon placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. Ӕlfstan looked like he was going to be sick. “Ӕlfstan is the last reminder I have of my departed wife, the Lord keep her. He looks just like her.” Cadwallon paused to admire his son, but Gale picked up on the sense that he was searching Ӕlfstan’s face for vestiges of someone else. “In addition to being comely, he is humorous. His mind is quick and he has wit in great measure.” Cadwallon didn’t seem entirely convinced as he spoke the words.

Astarion’s gut roiled with nausea. The lies falling from his father’s lips were hypocritical, considering all the cruelties he had faced. To sit there, smiling at him, pretending to be sincere when his hatred knew no bounds threatened Astarion’s fortitude. He felt himself slipping into despair with each honeyed word, fully aware that he was nothing more than a commodity now. His father would do whatever he could to convince the barbarian that he was getting a good sale. A rising tide of anger began to churn within, all concealed behind an impassive mask.

“When it comes to matters of the mind, I can ask for no better match,” Gale lied, noting the way Ӕlfstan appeared to slouch with each word of praise before his face turned unreadable. Beautiful though Ӕlfstan was, he would hardly describe the little Saxon as brilliant. Ill-tempered and uncurious, perhaps, lashing out at whatever peoples, customs, and languages he did not understand. Thus far, he had not shown a whiff of emotional intelligence, but Gale had no gauge by which to measure his other skills.

Gale longed for Mýrún. She was a world apart in her brilliance and open mind, and now, it felt to Gale like she was a world away. He thought about sending a silent prayer to Freyja for news of her, and, if he had pleased her enough, divine inspiration or intervention so he and Mýrún could be reunited again and return to simpler times. Frosty nights spent by the fire. Warmer ones spent outside on the grass, watching as Þór waged war in the sky and drenched them both in rain.

“Good. Then you understand why I have set the price for him as high as I have,” Cadwallon said, interrupting Gale from his thoughts. He placed his upturned palm on the table. “The silver first. At least twenty-five ounces, as I asked?”

Twenty-five ounces of silver? Is that all I am worth? Astarion silently simmered with fury. He was worth at least a hundred, if not more. At this point, Astarion didn’t know what to feel. How poor were these mongrels from Baldursgata? It was almost a pity, honestly.

Gale reached for his belt and untied the pouch that had been weighing almost unbearably heavy on his hip until that point. He placed it carefully on the table in front of the Baron. “See for yourself.”

The Baron gathered the pouch hungrily. He emptied its contents onto the table and held one piece of hacksilver to the room’s only source of light, the single candle. He then called for Dunnstan to fetch a scale.

The entire time, Gale watched Ӕlfstan. He was making a pointed effort not to look at Gale, instead staring at the pieces of silver spilled out on the table. His chin rested in his palm while his elbow rested on the table. He looked bored .

Anger flared in Gale’s chest. They had taken no small pains to acquire the amount of silver the Baron had asked for. Baldursgata was by no means squalid, but they had seen better days prior to his father’s passing and here the brat sat, unaware or uncaring of how much he was objectively worth. Maybe he would understand gratitude when he was deprived of a warm home made of stone walls, or barely fed enough food and water each day.

When Dunnstan arrived with the scale, Cadwallon scooped up the pieces of silver, handful by handful, and emptied his balled fists into a basket. The side of the scale closest to Gale went further down with each jingle-jangle of silver.

“Exactly as promised,” the Baron noted. He smiled again. “Well done,” he said, as if he had given Gale a choice of whether or not to pay up.

Gale bristled as Cadwallon gathered the silver and poured it back into the leather pouch. Ӕlfstan had continued to remain expressionless throughout the exchange, despite the initial hesitancies Gale spotted. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if the indifference continued through the next stage.

The Baron folded his hands. “Now, the morgen-gifu,” he demanded. “I made no specifications, but I will determine whether your contributions are suitable enough to support my son throughout your union.”

Gale glanced at Ӕlfstan once more, sporting the same bland look. “I have heard that your son takes pride in his appearance. I believe what we have inside will be more than suitable for his tastes.” Gale shot Ӕlfstan a look following his intentionally snide remark. Ӕlfstan’s face minutely betrayed his annoyance, but the mask returned into place swiftly.

“Indeed,” Cadwallon muttered under his breath, before gesturing at them to proceed.

Gale exchanged glances with Káta. She gave him a quick nod and Gale rose from his seat to help her bring the chest forward. Possibilities swirled through Gale’s head. He threw out a quick prayer to each god, hoping to bless them with the failure to meet this portion of the arrangement. Gods willing, the Baron would turn him away on the spot. They heaved the chest onto the table in front of the Baron and his son. Káta drew back and Gale unclasped the lock, lifting the lid to reveal the offerings inside.

The lid of the chest creaked, then fell back with a thud. The first thing that caught Astarion’s eye was a glimmer of bronze that winked out at him between folded cloth. It should have delighted him, but a bitter taste filled his mouth.

Here sat two men—whom he hated more at the moment, he couldn’t tell—bartering him like he was a goat at the market. He was the son of a lord. He deserved to have a say in what the brute was paying for him, and if he had a say, no amount of silver would be enough. Certainly not a chest full of baubles and trinkets. Maybe his father’s head on a platter, if anything, but there was no chance of that happening any time soon.

Astarion shaped his expression into one of blank neutrality once more. He was still pissed at being labelled vain by the uncouth man, but would not let onto it, knowing full well the intent was to rile him up needlessly. Astarion observed with a scrutinizing eye as the objects were taken out one by one and described by his betrothed.

Five kyrtills, dyed red and purple. Garbage.

Five woollen and linen breeches. Garbage.

Three linen coats. Garbage.

Two woollen cloaks. Garbage.

Two wolfskins, one white, one grey. Garbage.

One pair of turnshoes and another pair of boots. Garbage.

Two combs, one wood, one antler. Garbage.

A grooming kit with hand-forged tweezers and an ear scoop. Garbage.

Astarion felt his eyebrows shift involuntarily when the jewelry was revealed. Bronze belt studs and fittings, glass and amber beads in at least seven colours, a handful of rings, and woven arm rings made of twisted filigree wires. Geir laid out the pendants, the last items in the chest, and Astarion was relieved to see that there were no idolatrous sigils engraved into them, or at least as far as he could tell.

His father peered at the hoard and pursed his lips. “Is that all?” he asked.

Astarion knew the tone well. It was a harmless question laced with venom, the kind he asked when he had already made up his mind that he had been wronged by the person he was speaking to. Retribution would be swift if the other party did not recognize their misstep and correct it.

As he looked across the table, Astarion could practically see the wheels turning in Geir’s head. God’s thumbs, he was slow.  

Gale gripped the edge of the table. “It is all we can afford,” he said testily. This chest was full of the usual offerings made as part of a typical dowry, and was already packed with extra garments and jewelry. It was rather aggravating how greedy the Baron seemed to be. Was he not already wealthy as is? What more could he possibly want?

The Baron put on a confused look. “No thralls or land?” he asked again. 

Astarion shut his eyes so he could roll them behind closed lids. No doubt his father had been hoping for several acres of land to be gifted to him so he could tack them on to the hundreds he already owned.

Gale sighed, low and heavy. Of course the Baron would demand slaves and property. “We do not have a parcel of land large enough to not be an insult to your son. He has never worked the land in his life and since we have stopped raiding, we have no new thralls to look after it for him.”

“Your father’s estate. From what I understand, he passed not long ago. What happened to it after he died?” Cadwallon inquired tersely.

“It went to my mother,” Gale replied simply, not elaborating.

“All of it?”

“All of it.”

Astarion glanced away as his father leaned back in his seat. The man was quickly plotting a way to improve his gains, conniving as ever. And of course, Astarion was the bargaining chip in it all, fuelling his father's insatiable greed.

Cadwallon brought his hands together, clasping his fingers in thought. “As the son of the jarl, as you are so fond of reminding us, will you not be given this land upon your mother’s passing?”

Astarion saw Geir flinch. Unlikely because of the inheritance itself, but because of the mention of his mother’s eventual demise. The passing of his father sounded like a recent event as well. Astarion scoffed to himself. He thought Vikings didn’t fear death, for themselves or others.

Gale felt wary. “Yes,” he confirmed, not liking the direction of the conversation.

Astarion’s train of thought also took a quick turn. Was his father planning to do away with his future mother-in-law? It wouldn’t be unlike him. His father had tortured and killed for much less.

Cadwallon looked down at Gale smugly. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m asking for a little more. A lord’s son is no lord without land to his name. Therefore, I request half of your mother’s estate when she passes. Half of it will be yours, the other half your husband’s. I think it’s quite fair.”

Gale was going to refuse. He had to refuse. The Baron would grow angry and cast him out, but injured pride was a small price to pay for his family’s legacy and freedom from this contract.

“I cannot,” he burst out.

As expected, the Baron’s strange eyes narrowed. He drummed his fingers along the table. “I will do anything to secure my son’s future,” he said. His other hand reached for Ӕlfstan’s, who snatched it away. The glare intensified. “If you cannot give it, then I will take it.”

Gale swallowed. His throat had gone dry. Whether the Baron really had his son’s best interests in mind was debatable. The fact that he was completely unwilling to renege on the marriage, for whatever reason, was not. It was abundantly clear that refusal was not an option. Gale could storm out of the hall, gather his entourage and horses, and leave right now. Cadwallon would find him one day out of the blue and seize Baldursgata. His friends, like his father, would fall. His mother would go down first. He would have no one and nothing left.

This is what his mother had meant by responsibility. Keeping the dragon at bay by walking into its lair with open arms.

Gale’s long silence irritated the Baron even more. He turned sharply towards his son. “Ӕlfstan,” he hissed.

Astarion rose to his feet. Cadwallon relaxed until Astarion lifted his chin and said, “I don’t care.”

Cadwallon’s voice rose. “Make him see reason.”

Astarion shook his head. “I don’t care. You take as much land as you want. A hundred acres, two strips of leather wide. You take every goddamn country in the world and slaughter hundreds of thousands to get it. I don’t care.”

Cadwallon seethed, gaze burning with fury. “You—”

“You,” Astarion continued, shuffling around the table and leaning in towards Geir, “I couldn’t care less about your silver and gifts.” He spat the last word, hoping some of his spittle landed on the Viking’s face. “I will not be bought and sold to a beast. Get out of my sight before I hunt you down like the dog you are.”

Gale chuckled. It was all he could do to conceal his thinly veiled anger. “You may try, but you won’t get far,” he retorted, a bit too smugly.

The first fist swung and the room exploded.

In an instant, Káta was pinning Ӕlfstan down onto the table. Dunnstan was barring the door. Cadwallon was shouting too quickly to be understood. Gale sat in the middle of all of it, resisting the urge to bury his head in his hands. He could hear Káta trying to speak to Ӕlfstan.

“Stay calm, soldier. It’s all over soon,” Káta advised Ӕlfstan, pulling him upwards while keeping a strong grip.

Astarion raged in her grasp, but struggling was about as effective as a sapling holding its ground against a storm. “Is that a threat, you wretch?” he snarled, teeth clenched.

Cadwallon rose from his seat and marched up to the two of them, with Astarion still wriggling. He raised his hand and brought it across Astarion’s face. The harsh sound echoed throughout the room.

Astarion made no sound apart from a pained gasp. Káta released him and Geir gripped the hilt of his axe, ready to strike, but Astarion simply stood where he was. Then he slinked back to the table and sat back down. The welt on his jaw spread, trailing red up his cheek with a tingling sensation.

Everyone returned to their places. Káta and Dunnstan went back to the door. The Baron lowered himself slowly onto his seat. He clasped his hands once again. “My deepest apologies, I have no idea what came over him. Pre-wedding jitters, perhaps,” he postulated.

“I understand completely,” Gale said quickly, hoping to diffuse the tension.

“Good. Now, do we have an agreement? Or shall we waste more time?”

Gale looked at Cadwallon, then to his son. Ӕlfstan’s head was bowed, the way it was when he first walked into the Baron’s hall. The scarlet mark on his cheek grew more prominent, and his eyes were downcast while he remained stiff in his seat. Gale felt a morsel of empathy for the man, but it was short-lived.

Time was running out and the walls were closing in, but Gale wasn’t married. Yet. His mother wasn’t dead. Yet. As he always did, he would think his way out.

“We do. I agree to give Ӕlfstan half of my lands upon my mother’s passing.” Gale shut the chest containing all the finery he brought with him. “Then I believe, Your Lordship, it is your turn to hold up your end of the bargain. The heiman-fylgja, if you please.”

The Baron’s tight expression soured even more. However, he summoned Dunnstan forward again with a light clap. Dunnstan stepped forward and produced a small, ornate box. When he opened it, Gale balked.

Inside were no more than ten coins. One was gold, the other silver. Gale took the gold coin between his index finger and thumb. It was minted with the head of a man and the words “Dominus Deux Rex”. Gale placed it between his teeth as Cadwallon made a disgusted sound, and when Gale took it out of his mouth, there were slight dents in the surface of the coin. It was real gold.

He added up the sum in his head. He had no idea how much the gold coin was worth, but the others were pennies. Together, they were barely enough to buy a horse. If he needed any more evidence that the Baron truly didn’t care for his son, this was it. 

Gale watched Ӕlfstan again. He was seeing the same offering, too, and he didn’t seem angry anymore. Just resigned. That morsel of pity wormed its way through his head again. Maybe marrying the Saxon was meant to be a small mercy in the long run.

Gale held out his hands and Dunnstan passed him the box. His fingers closed around its filigreed edges. “I accept,” he said.

A sigh came from behind him, probably Káta. The Baron stood and Gale followed. Ӕlfstan rose as well, his gaze fixed on the ground. All eyes were on Gale, waiting for him to recite the words. He inhaled, then spoke.

“We declare ourselves witnesses that you, Ӕlfstan, son of Cadwallon, are bound to me in lawful betrothal, and with taking hold of hands, you have promised me the dowry and will fulfill and observe the whole of the compact between us, which has been notified in the hearing of witnesses without duplicity or cunning, as a real and authorized compact.”

With the words, Gale held out his hand. Cadwallon took it and shook it firmly. His grip was ice cold and his many rings dug into Gale’s fingers with their sharp edges. Gale turned to Ӕlfstan, his hand still outstretched.

Astarion stared at the hand presented to him. He had no wish to touch the heathen, but if he didn’t accept the handshake, his father would retaliate swiftly the next time they were alone. His face still stung from the earlier backhand slapping him, humiliating him before the Danes, and he could not risk more embarrassment than was already doled out. He had to keep the mask up for his own sake, so he reached out and laid his palm into Geir’s.

It was as if an electric current swept through both of them at the same time, charging through every nerve ending. Their eyes met, wide and surprised, as the rest of the world dissolved around them.

Gale’s hand practically enveloped Ӕlfstan’s smaller one, and he marvelled at the silken skin that had never seen a day of war or hard labour. His thumb subconsciously moved along the spot where Ӕlfstan’s forefinger met his thumb, rubbing a subtle but gentle circle. Gale’s eyes bore down into the rust coloured ones, softening for a moment as he took in what he now recognized to be rather delicate features, not arrogant ones like he had originally surmised. 

Astarion could feel the rough calluses born of a life of hard work and toil on his palm, and the light caress of Geir’s thumb had a cascade of conflicting emotions barrage him. His heart raced in his chest, as if the touch of a lover was soothing him, not the hand of a pagan. Astarion finally took a proper look at the Viking, noting his eyes were a rich shade of blue. Astarion had never cared to take in the colour before, but now, standing so close, he felt he could get lost in their depths if he did not look away.

Astarion lightly wrenched his hand away, looking away from Geir as the Dane mimicked his actions. Neither of them spoke or gestured to each other in any way until his father’s voice broke the blanketing silence.

“With that done, note that the baptism will be held tomorrow in the afternoon. Do not be late.” Cadwallon paused for a moment before continuing. “As for that axe of yours, normally, I would not allow for anyone but my guard to carry so freely in my home. However, I will give you the leeway to remain armed. You and you alone. Think of it as…my gratitude for the peace we have achieved this day.”

Cadwallon’s tone had an edge to it that Gale did not miss, indicating the man was still thoroughly displeased at his earlier tardiness. Still, not having to worry about leaving his axe behind was a reassuring notion.

Gale bowed slightly. “As you decree, Your Lordship.”

With that, they all swiftly filtered out of the room. 

The lingering sensation of Ӕlfstan’s skin remained as Gale left the antechamber, flexing the hand in question which rested at his side. It was strange, as if Mýrún’s hand had graced his own in that moment, but…different. Gale decided to ignore it, not needing the little Saxon on his mind any more than necessary, and certainly not interested in associating favourable feelings with the grating man. The fact that a single handshake had evoked such sensations was already vexing enough. He exited the throne room with Káta to meet with Sigrid and Lækný, before going to search for some food to fill his empty stomach.

Astarion was the last to leave, almost dragging his feet. When he stepped out he was tugged by the arm in a painful grip and halted in place.

“Boy, you made a mockery of yourself. Be grateful I have not thrown you in the dungeon for your outburst. I trust that you will know better over the course of the next few days than to behave like an impudent child,” Cadwallon hissed into his ear, admonishing him, before that unrelenting grasp released him. Astarion nodded mutely while trembling.

When his father stalked off, leaving him completely alone in the throne room, Astarion’s mind dipped into how Geir’s hand had felt on his own. It was nothing like his father’s harsh hand, open or closed into a fist to slap or batter him at any moment.

Why his mind focused on it he did not know, but it somehow brought him a tiny measure of comfort. Revulsion quickly replaced it before he shoved the thought aside and left the room. Geir held no place within his mind and heart, and Astarion planned to keep it that way.

Chapter Text

“Geir, you are not going through with this. I will not permit you to do this,” Lækný seethed, marching in the footsteps Gale left along the dirt path. “You deigned only now to inform me that you intend to forgo our gods in favour of theirs? I will not stand for this mockery they make of us!”

Gale tried to ignore Lækný but she was practically shrieking in his ear. Perhaps holding off on telling her until moments ahead of the baptism had not been the wisest move on his part. Freyja knew he had to convince Sigrid not to inform the shieldmaiden, despite her mirrored disapproval. “Lækný, I am not forgoing anything. I’m merely adding another god into the mix of many. I have no will or true intention to practice the faith of the Saxons.”

“Yet here you walk to willingly take the burden of their faith upon yourself,” Sigrid muttered next to him. Sigrid had made her displeasure known fairly early. As soon as their initial meeting with the Baron had concluded, she had pulled him off to the side and more or less berated him for going along with it, telling him the gods would not welcome an interloper into their domains—much less a false god. She had calmed down when he explained his reasons, but was nonetheless incensed.

“For once, Sigrid and I are in accord. This is utter madness. Huginn and Muninn are surely observing us and relaying everything to the Allfather as we speak, and he is certain to send someone to smite us for this transgression. How foolish are you to play with the power of the gods?” Lækný shouted at him.

Gale rolled his eyes as they made their way through the unusually quiet streets. It was an odd sight seeing Sigrid and Lækný sharing a common view, considering how often they butted heads when discussing their beliefs. In fact, they were all odd sights today. Villagers and farmers watched them from their fields and doorways as they passed. No doubt half of the burh was awaiting his arrival. It was not every day that a Dane was baptized as a Christian. 

“Lækný, I have explained my reasons for this. I do not do this because I desire it, but because I have to keep appearances and avoid needless bloodshed. I could just as easily summon a fireball in the sky and plummet it into Ipswich if I wished to, but the whole point of this was to ensure the safety of Baldursgata, among the other villages,” Gale relayed, hoping it would calm her fury.

Lækný grumbled next to him, comprehending his meaning, but she was clearly malcontent. 

After a few more steps he tacked on, “And I do believe Þara is the only raven in these parts. I doubt Óðin’s faithful are among us for such a tiny misdeed—if one could even call it thus.” 

Gale felt odd without Þara accompanying him, but he would keep his word with the Baron for now. He had left the shutters of his windows open so she could come and go as she pleased, to stretch her wings and hunt while he was otherwise occupied. Should they need to speak, their mental commune was always linked and ready. She was probably sitting on a tree branch nearby, ready to observe their procession and subsequent events.

Sigrid’s voice shook him from his thoughts. “This whole thing is one massive show. You should have just remained firm in your desire to end this marriage if it was what you wanted. If I had known you would be forced into this…”

“If you recall, the Baron would not take no for an answer when we first arrived. I knew that if I pressed, it would have ended disastrously from that point. My hope had been to convince him not to go along with this or to at the very least adjust the terms to a more appropriate exchange, thinking him a reasonable man. I was mistaken and discovered I had no sway. The contract was between Baron Cadwallon and my mother. If I had continued to push, I suspect Baldursgata would already be in cinders at this point.” 

Gale finished with a hint of sorrow. His plans had gone up in smoke from day one, and now he was walking a fine line, playing pretend. 

With yesterday's nuptials, the exchange of the mundr and the paltry one he got in return, there was no way out once he had stated his acceptance of the heiman-fylgja . This baptism was another nail in the coffin. Unless Gale made the executive decision to torch the city and make off with any spoils, he was on a path he could only hope the gods intended for him to follow. 

Sigrid sighed. Her charms rattled against her wooden staff as it hit the ground with each step. “While this whole display makes me ill, I know arguing with you will yield no results. You made your decision in the end, and we are simply here as escorts. But I hope that, as your friends, you will heed our counsel going forward.”

Gale gave a half-laugh. “I will keep that in mind. Make no mistake, Sigrid, I am grateful that you were the ones to accompany me. Having my own people, my friends, nearby has kept me stay sane next to these ridiculous Saxons.” 

“Of course, Gale,” Káta chimed in. He noted that she’d been the sole one to use his nickname, the others having been too upset with him to afford him that gesture. “Honestly, if Jarl Møyfrid had chosen someone else, I would have challenged them for their place.” 

Káta’s mention of his mother sent a sharp sting through Gale. In some ways, it felt rather callous what she had charged him with, to give up his freedom and desire to wed the woman he was in love with. Yes, Gale loved his home, but why should he have to sacrifice so much, including his happiness, for it to remain a peaceful place? Perhaps the feeling was more pronounced solely due to his inability to change the situation. But it suddenly brought on a new set of thoughts.

Ӕlfstan. The beautiful man with rust-coloured eyes who had a viper's tongue and personality to match. Some would think those attributes were what made Danish warriors strong, capable, and fierce—it was quite the opposite. 

Gale recalled many a man who carried Ӕlfstan’s air of arrogance, who would charge into battle like a berserker without seiðr , only to find themselves impaled on glaives or sliced open with a sword. He could recount every instance he had witnessed when raiding forts and fighting Saxons for land; the many countless comrades who had fallen due to being rash. At least they were in Valhalla feasting for the remainder of their days.

Ӕlfstan had no qualms about getting into his face, nor would Gale forget the attempted attack that Káta had swiftly interrupted and consequently subdued. Neither would Gale forget the way Ӕlfstan’s father treated him like a coin to spend at a market, or how heavy-handed he was with discipline. Gale was beginning to truly pity Ӕlfstan, but it was not his place to meddle in family affairs.

Even if he was soon to join those ranks.

Then, out of nowhere and unprompted, images were implanted into his mind. Gale remembered the brief handshake they had shared. His wrist instantly twitched in recollection of how small Ӕlfstan’s hand was in comparison to his. How smooth and delicate it was compared to his brawny and axe-worn one.

Gale’s nose wrinkled and his brow creased. By the Nine Realms. Why was he thinking so fondly of that moment? It was a handshake, nothing more and nothing less. It was anything but special, so why did it prompt such a tender thought?

The cacophony of a crowd roused Gale from his stupor, and brought the bickering women behind him to a silent halt. They had reached the top of a hill just beyond the border of the town, and below them was practically every man, woman, and child from Ipswich huddled together. 

Lækný growled behind him, but was scolded by Káta into silence. Sigrid sighed loudly, and Gale could tell it was one of resignation. There was no turning back now.

Despite the roiling feeling in his gut, he had no choice but to press on. He just hoped Mýrún could forgive him upon his return home.

Gale gripped the hilt of his axe, hoping it would help ground him as he descended the hill. It was time to see what else the Norns had in store for him.

----

Astarion stared down into the depths of the river with disdain, arms crossed over his chest. His lips were pressed into a thin frown.

The river had done nothing bad to him, per se. It quenched his thirst. Cleansed his body. Allowed for swift travel across the land via boat.

But today, it was the source of his impending doom, and escalating nightmare. 

His father was standing next to the priest by the rivers edge, no doubt discussing every stage of this absurd farce. Not far from them were his siblings. His sisters were wound up in long dresses that dragged through the mud on the riverbank, and he could already hear Ymma complaining about wanting to let her hair down. Not that Astarion could blame her. If he had to have his glorious locks stashed away like that all day, he would probably suffer a fainting spell.

Somehow, Astarion felt like the sole sane individual surrounded by a pack of buffoons, recognizing the absurdity of what he was thrown into.

Geir would not truly renounce his beliefs, of that he was sure. Normally, when one underwent conversion but did not honestly practice their new faith, the marriage would be annulled. Astarion knew damn well that his father would not actually care in the end. He was being pawned off so his father never had to look at him again, and he didn’t give a rat's ass if the damned Dane’s word meant a thing. 

Once more, his father’s hatred for him was like a barbed lash to the back.

Then there was the pain of seeing Sӕbeorht again. Astarion had made it a point to avoid any form of contact since he had been unceremoniously left behind in that barn. Astarion rationally understood why Sӕbeorht had retreated from his embrace. But seeing the man, here, amongst the ever-growing crowd, was another crack of the whip. Their eyes had briefly met and held, with Sӕbeorht breaking contact first. 

Astarion knew exactly why Sӕbeorht had come. To witness for himself the rumoured Viking and his cohort of female warriors. The man that had torn them from each other's arms by sheer word alone.

“I can see there is still much on your mind. I believe we have a few moments, if you wish to talk about it,” came Wulf’s voice from behind him.

Astarion startled before turning around. The breath he had been holding relaxed out of him slightly, before he nodded in acquiescence. Seeing his friend calmed his nerves and managed to reduce his level of anger by a few notches. “I don’t know what to say, if I am being honest,” he admitted. “Aside from the fact that my life is not my own, and never has been. Does God truly hate me so much that He would throw me to such ravenous wolves?”

Wulf stepped over next to Astarion, and looked out into the early morning’s radiance. “Try not to view it as such. His will is something we will never truly understand, and speculation gets us nowhere.”

Astarion looked alongside him. The sun glittered on the water. It would have been beautiful on any other day. “Alright then, no speculating. What do you suggest?”

“I suggest we watch.” Wulf pointed overhead and Astarion’s eyes followed.

Geir and his entourage crested over the hill. They were alone, unaccompanied by any of his father’s men. They had come willingly and on their own accord. Astarion had hoped perhaps they would have either forgotten or not bothered to show, prayed for it even. But once again, the prayers went unanswered.

Murmurs travelled through the crowd. Astarion heard snatches of remarks about the band of women, the witch’s staff, and the manner of Geir’s dress. This morning, Geir seemed to be dressed simply, as if out for a morning stroll. His tunic was plain and fit his form well—Astarion shook the second thought from his head.

Good. This was good. The oaf would do well to humble himself.

“Hmm, that woman…,” Wulf mumbled next to him. Astarion’s eyes shot towards his friend with an incredulous look of indignation. 

“Which one?” Realization hit. “Wulf, you’re not actually—” Astarion hissed.

Wulf chuckled and looked his way as the procession slowly made its way towards the riverbank. “What? I can appreciate beauty, even if it comes in the form of a tall Dane.” Wulf shifted his gaze back, a look of what could only be called longing etched on his visage. “She is rather fetching.”

Astarion nearly groaned out loud. First, Wulf found him on his knees in the chapel and tried to convince him to be optimistic, going so far as to propose love could be on the horizon. And now here he was, smitten with the mountain of a Viking woman, whose name neither of them even knew.

“Wulf, you may be my friend, but sometimes I truly question where your loyalties lie, as well as your sanity,” Astarion groused quietly, exasperated.

With a hearty chuckle, Wulf slapped a palm down onto Astarion’s shoulder. “My loyalties are first and foremost to Ipswich and its citizens. But I will still properly welcome our Danish neighbours, perhaps with a feast in your honour at my father’s home.” When he dropped his arm, Wulf added, “And of course, that lovely woman is invited.”

Before Astarion could contest him, Wulf marched away with a pep in his step to stand next to his father, leaving Astarion no choice but to move and fall in line with his siblings once more. When he reached his appointed spot, next to Leodmar and not Pehtwine, thank God, he squared his shoulders and waited. 

The group reached the bottom of the hill quickly and Cadwallon strode towards them. Astarion couldn’t hear his father from where he stood, but he saw a sickly sweet smile on his face and his arms open in welcome as he ushered them towards the priest. Geir remained stoic. Two of his companions, the smallest women, looked furious as they stood back and he proceeded.

So there was discord. Interesting. On one hand, Astarion understood that Danes were no different from Saxons in that they were people. They fought, they drank, they agreed, they disagreed. But his betrothed’s party was small. If there was infighting, they might disband. One man would be no good alone in a stranger’s burh , and as Astarion gazed out at the river again, he felt oddly pious. He prayed Geir would have enough sense to decide to go home.

Cadwallon stepped back. He raised his hands and the crowd gathered around him fell silent. He began, “My dear brothers and sisters. Today, we stand witness to this heathen’s request to renounce his idols. In doing so, he has accepted the responsibility of learning the practice of the faith and keeping God’s commandments as Christ taught us, by loving God and our neighbours. Let us ask our Lord Jesus Christ to look lovingly on this man who is to be baptized.”

It took Astarion clenching his jaw to keep himself from spitting into the dirt. His father didn’t know the first thing about love, neighbours or otherwise. Around him, the crowd chorused.

“Lord, hear our prayer.”

The priest stepped forward and the crowd parted like a field of reeds.

----

A few paces away, Gale was sending out a silent prayer of his own. He felt guilty in a way. This wasn’t just a matter of faith. He had done nothing but spout lies up until this point, something his mother had raised him better than to do. And even though he had agreed to be baptized for his safety and the safety of all of Baldursgata, Sigrid’s and Lækný’s disapproval added another weight to his already oversized burden.

Gale felt alone. Well and truly alone, even with his friends in the distance and Þara one thought away. The Christian priest was his closest company now, and he was approaching Gale with a small flask in hand.

The priest started to speak. “We anoint you with the oil of salvation in the name of Christ our Saviour; may He strengthen you with His power, who lives and reigns for ever and ever.”

“Amen,” said the crowd. Gale turned his gaze from the bottle. As he heard the soft ‘pop’ of the cork releasing, his eyes rested on the Baron’s children. They were lined up along the riverbank, divided into groups of men and women again. Ӕlfstan stood at the furthest end of the line, staring at him blankly. It was oddly unnerving.

The priest motioned for Gale to kneel. Gale did. The priest tipped the bottle and oil trickled through his hair and down the sides of his face and the bridge of his nose. Gale shut his eyes. Though the oil was of good quality, smooth and scented with herbs and spices, he certainly didn’t feel strengthened by any power, higher or otherwise. He wiped it from his face with the back of his hand and rose to his feet. Ӕlfstan hadn’t moved from his spot. In fact, he was completely still.

If Ӕlfstan was striking inside his father’s dark, suffocating hall, then in the light, he was beyond words. Around him, the crowd repeated the priest’s cries for some figures named Saints Peter and Paul and Holy Mary, Mother of God, to pray for everyone present. Ӕlfstan’s palms were upturned in what Gale first assumed was supplication, until he noticed that his lips were barely moving. He was steady on his feet in the morning glow, gold and silver wreathing his curls as the clouds shifted above. Ӕlfstan wasn’t praying. He was basking in the sun.

The Christians had a word that sat on the tip of Gale’s tongue. Angel. Gale had never seen an angel before, nor did he know if they really existed, but he imagined that Ӕlfstan came close. A luminous winged creature meant to take flight. And yet the Baron had his children penned up like animals.

Something touched Gale’s shoulder and he spun around, startled out of his reverie. The priest drew his hand back.

“Come now,” he said. “To the river.”

----

Astarion tilted his wrists, luxuriating as the sun’s warmth spread over the backs of his hands. He watched his veins cast shadows under his skin while he made a concerted effort not to observe the spectacle. Geir was heading down to the water, which meant the baptism and all its homilies, pomp, and circumstance would be over soon and they would both be one formality closer to their now holy but unhappy union.

He tried to meditate on the sun and places where there might be more of it. The long road to Rome. The warm, windswept seaside cliffs of Greece. He might even be able to stand the heat of Jerusalem if he made it that far. Anywhere but here. 

Astarion had no pity for Geir and especially the priest, who approached the water’s edge and shivered in anticipation of wading in. He watched Geir follow, visibly hesitate, then take a step back. Several whispers rippled behind him. A hint of joy flitted through Astarion and he forced a neutral expression. For the first time in his life, his prayers had been answered.

And then the Viking reached for his belt.

Cloth rustled and Astarion heard the shout of his father’s voice. 

“What is he doing?” Cadwallon demanded, boring his eyes into the helpless priest whose mouth was gaping open in surprise.

The priest looked back, and his jaw snapped shut. He shrank at the sudden anger in Cadwallon’s tone, but replied, “I think he’s taking off his tunic, Your Lordship. So long as it gets him in the water…”

His father was clearly displeased at the turn of events, but relented and gestured for the priest to proceed. But the whole time Astarion had observed, Geir had paid the exchange no mind.

The crowd watched with bated breath as Geir kicked off his shoes and pulled his tunic over his head. This time, Astarion couldn’t look away.

As each inch of flawless, toned skin was unearthed, Astarion’s mouth grew drier. Ropes of muscle as far as the eye could see flexed with each shift and twist of Geir’s body, and Astarion found himself entranced. Along Geir’s lower back, just above the tie of his trousers, was a set of distinct dimples on display. The tunic slipped higher, revealing the set of broad shoulders, honed from years of battle-readiness, as well as dark tattoos across his back with indiscernible text and symbols.

When the tunic crested over Geir’s head, the loose brown tresses tumbled back down his nape like a waterfall. Astarion’s eyes tracked as those brawny arms were revealed when Geir fully stripped himself of the fabric, landing on a circular tattoo on the centre of his chest with the same symbols. Geir dropped the tunic into a heap upon the gravelly sand, and the deep ‘V’ of his hips snagged Astarion’s attention.

Astarion’s hand twitched, as if it was signalling its will to rest upon that striking body. To trace every ridge and hollow and feel it contract under his caress, before replacing it with—

Abrupt, burning fury replaced the vision in his head, disintegrating it instantly. Astarion mentally slapped and berated himself. What was he doing, ogling the damned heathen like he was a beckoning feast? Worse, imagining touching him and…No. Absolutely not. He tossed the thought right out of his head. Geir was a vile man, crude and wicked. Geir was the temptation the Bible warned about, sin to be avoided if he wanted to live a life in honour of the Lord. So why was Astarion still struggling to look away?

Murmurs rose in the crowd around him, a mixture of approving hums and scandalized hisses. Astarion wanted to shrink back amongst them, to cease to exist in this moment for his transgression. But he had to remain present, especially when his father’s stern and penetrating gaze landed on him.

Seemingly content after having shed some of his clothing, Geir followed as the priest gestured for him to go out into the river. The water ebbed around him as he walked in, soaking through his breeches, which clung to the outline of his calves and hips. He stopped when he was waist deep. The priest waded in after him, the hems of his robes billowing out before sinking below the surface. He turned to face the crowd.

“My dear brothers and sisters, we now ask God to give this man new life in abundance through water and the Holy Spirit.” He laid a hand on Geir, reaching up to clasp his broad shoulder. “​​If your faith makes you ready to accept this responsibility, recite now the vows of your own baptism. Reject sin; profess your faith in Christ Jesus. This is the faith of the Church. This is the faith in which you are about to be baptized.”

Geir lowered his head in a nod. His brown hair brushed his collarbones.

“Do you reject sin, so as to live in the freedom of God's children?”

Geir raised his voice to match the priest’s. “I do.”

“Do you reject Satan, father of sin and prince of darkness?”

“I do.”

“Do you reject the worship of false gods and heathen vices?”

“I do.”

Their voices were swept away by the wind as the priest continued to drone on. Astarion laced his fingers together to hide the fact that they were clenched. There had been no hesitation in that last statement. Was this an honest conversion? Did Geir just really not care?

Before Astarion could ruminate any further, Geir went under.

----

The river was freezing. Gale squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath. The priest’s hand was firm on his back, holding him down. Panic slowly began to rise, but Gale knew that he had to remain calm. But how long was he supposed to stay put?

He wouldn’t lie—he was fascinated by the intricacy of these Christian rituals. He didn’t know why undressing before submerging himself caused such a stir among the onlookers. The only thing worse than a wedding he didn’t want was catching a cold just days before it. It was only practical to keep his tunic dry. Baptism felt like his weekly bath, and no more transformative.

Above him, the priest’s words gurgled in his stopped-up ears. A chill went down Gale’s spine. He felt unsettled, as if the world around him wouldn’t be the same once he broke the surface. That might be by design, or the gods’ wrath descending onto him.

Lækný and Sigrid had reason to be fearful. The gods demanded worship and recompense. It was to them that Gale owed all his power and command of seiðr . Gale called to them. Hail, Óðinn, Allfather. Hail, Frigg. Þór. Heimdall. Týr. Freyja.

Nothing. A trail of bubbles exited Gale’s nose. He should find a priest or priestess who could divine their opinions. He should reach out to Mýrún, and soon. Not just for advice, either. The looming conversation that Gale was reluctant to bring up was still hovering over him, and he could only continue to put it off for so long—

A hand reached under and guided Gale up into fresh air. With a gasp, he blinked the water out of his eyes and shielded them from the sun. He was ordered to repeat after the priest and he did, replicating the sounds of words he didn’t fully understand in a language that wasn’t his own.

“Ic gelyfe on ænne God ælmihtigne þe ealle þing gesceop and geworhte.”

“And ic gelyfe and georne witon þæt Crist Godes sunu to mannum com for ealles mancynnes ðearfe.”

“And ic gelyfe þæt ða godan and wel Cristenan þe her on worulde Gode wel gecwemdon þonne on an sculon into heofonum faran and ðær siððanwununge habban mid Gode selfum and mid his englum a on ecnesse."

Another “amen” went through the crowd. Gale locked eyes with Lækný, who was standing apart from the other onlookers. She glared back at him, barely containing her rage. Sigrid refused to look at him. Even Káta had averted her gaze. Deep shame seared through Gale, but there was no going back now.

Gale trudged back to the shore behind the priest. Cadwallon strode towards him. He seemed to be looking at him with a little less disdain, though his lip still curled as he evaded Gale’s discarded shoes and tunic.

“By God's gift, through water and the Holy Spirit, we are reborn to everlasting life. In His goodness, may He continue to pour out his blessings upon these sons and daughters of His,” Cadwallon recited. He turned back to the throng of people surrounding him. “May almighty God, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, bless you all.”

The final “amen” sounded. Slowly, the crowd began to trickle away, climbing up the hill back to the burh to continue on with the rest of their day. The priest wrung out his wet robes. Sigrid, Káta, and Lækný rejoined Gale while he put his tunic back on, redid his belt with axe in tow, and slipped on his shoes. The Baron and his children remained behind.

“Though you may no longer be a pagan, you are still a Dane and a guest in our halls,” Cadwallon said with a sharp edge. “I received an urgent missive this morning and will thus be gone for a day. Should you need anything, you will speak to my men.”

The Baron’s children glanced away, either at their shoes or at the river behind Gale. The message was loud and clear that speaking to them was not an option. “Your consideration is appreciated, Your Lordship.” Gale said.

“Then I will see you in a day’s time. Make note that the wedding ceremony is to take place in three days time,” the Baron replied. “Might I suggest you visit the church in the meantime? It’s a quaint place, perfect for respite.” 

With that, he ascended the hill and his children filed behind. The women went first, then the men, with Ӕlfstan at the back. Gale craned his neck, trying to glimpse the look on Ӕlfstan’s face. It was unreadable, but his cheeks were dusted with pink. No wonder. Someone so pale would have started burning under the sun the second it came up.

When the Baron and his children disappeared, Káta, Sigrid, and Lækný drew near. “Well, soldier, you’re a Christian now. How does it feel?” Káta asked.

“Exactly the same,” Gale replied with a shrug of his shoulders.

“I, for one, feel perturbed,” Lækný muttered. “An extravagant, wholly unnecessary display.”

“And an unwise one, too, at that.” Sigrid was looking out at the water. She clutched her staff close, the charms swaying lightly in the breeze. “I’m going to take a walk to clear my head of this nonsense.”

“I see.” Gale felt a lump grow in his throat. He swallowed it down. “I trust we’ll find you back at Ipswich later today?”

“Tonight, perhaps.” Sigrid started walking, but turned around. “Tell me what the church looks like, won’t you? I’ve no desire to be in one anytime soon.”

She planted her staff against the ground and pushed herself forward, leaving Gale and the others by the river.

----

Cadwallon slowed his steed to a halt. Behind him, Dunnstan mirrored his actions. His loyal servant and head of his guard was always ready when duty called. He was also not a gossip and knew when to keep his mouth sealed.

Ahead of them was the mouth of a cave. It was not a large opening, but rather tall and slender, partly concealed by an overgrowth of weeds. Unless one knew where to search with precise instructions, it was a difficult locale to find. It was the perfect spot for clandestine meetings.

Cadwallon slid down off his horse, cloak trailing behind him, and presented the reins to Dunnstan, who in turn mimicked his lord’s actions. Dunnstan stepped down from his stirrups, and took hold of the leather cords.

“Remain here, Dunnstan, and tie the horses off to the tree over yonder. I will continue alone like last time,” Cadwallon instructed, tilting his head towards a large oak in indication.

“As you command, my Lord.” Dunnstan dutifully obeyed, leading their horses away. 

Cadwallon in turn, marched towards the mouth of the cavern. He brushed the leaves and roots aside, dusting off his cloak of any straggling flora, before continuing down the dark path. The mildewy musk of the cave was rather unpleasant, but at least it warded off any curious visitors or wretched creatures. He slowly voyaged further in until the light from outside was replaced by fire lit sconces.

Torches marked the way through the maze of corridors, until faint humming and chanting could be heard. As Cadwallon approached his final destination, the sounds increased in volume, and he could make out the language of the heathens echoing through the cave. While he did not understand a word of that vile tongue, it was easy enough to identify. 

He descended the last few steps, and entered the main cavity that boasted a high ceiling and various outcroppings. At the very centre was a congregation of worshippers, kneeling before a large ritual circle etched into the rock. They were gesticulating and their bodies writhed while they performed their ceremony, as if possessed. In the centre of the dais was someone Cadwallon knew all too well.

Goda, or Godey as he was known, his former head torturer and executioner. The man had simply died of old age one afternoon, keeling over while eating lunch. He had nearly sixty winters to his name and had passed a short few weeks ago. And now his half-rotten corpse was to be reanimated into that of a draugr , as the Danes called it. A revenant. 

The mere thought of cheating death in such a way, defying fate, was almost absurd. Almost. If the pagans possessed the ability to circumvent death itself, it would be foolish to ignore. Cadwallon may be a man of pious belief, but to date, God had never answered his prayers to return his wife to him. She had been callously ripped from him when Ӕlfstan was born. No, not just ripped, but murdered by her own flesh and blood while still in the womb.

The thoughts and memories of holding her hand as she died in front of him, begging him to care for the creature that bled her dry, made his fists clench.

While Cadwallon viewed the Danes plaguing their lands as nothing more than insects to be squashed, he was not beside using them and their powers for his own gain. All he had desired was ridding himself of both his useless brat of a son (whose only redeeming quality was his beauty), and the Danes stealing their lands— his lands.

“Ah, welcome back. I see the message reached you accordingly. You are just in time to witness a spectacular occasion.”

The haughty voice of Godric rang out off to the side, just as Cadwallon reached the edge of the ritual circle. He came to a stop and met the shrewd man’s calculating gaze as Godric approached. The hem of Godric’s embroidered tunic swished around his knees and his long cloak was fastened in place with a golden pin. His fingers were similarly adorned with stacks of golden rings. Rumours abounded of how King Godric was a power-hungry conqueror, constantly vying for new territory. A man after his own heart, really, but one that was sure to be a headache for him.                                                                                                                                                                

“I was promised a miracle by that pagan, Vígdís. Unless it comes to pass, I have no plans to join this merry little alliance,” Cadwallon announced, the name already sour on his tongue.

Vígdís . Cadwallon carried a particular distaste for her. Not only was she a pagan, she was in league with the equivalent of the devil. As a man of God, it was a quarrel with his faith to be here, engaging in such satanic magics…but if his own God would not heed his calls to remove the Danes, then perhaps the Danes’ own disgruntled peoples and false idols would. To sweeten the deal, Vígdís told him that they could bring back someone from the dead, someone recent, to show him just how powerful and useful their goddess Hel truly was. Hence why Goda’s maggot-strewn corpse was here, dug up and transported discreetly from the burh a few days prior.

“My, how boring. You are sure to miss out on all the planned fun if this ceremony doesn’t work.” The shrill voice of Queen of Northumbria had Cadwallon gritting his teeth as she stepped out from behind a rock. Her red dress trailed across the floor and she seemed uncaring of whether it snagged. Her shoulder brooches and beads—rumoured to be made of human bone—clattered as she moved. “But I have a feeling you will be pleasantly surprised.”

Osgyth unsettled Cadwallon, and rightly so. The woman had a demented air that seemed to surround her. She was constantly giggling, always grinning with her teeth on display and her face sported a look of murderous glee. It was rather unseemly for a queen. It certainly pointed truth towards the rumours of her husband's death being exacted by her own hand. Supposedly, her husband was also her brother, a strange and foul practice.

“My Queen, I was promised a revival. Without that, you will not have my participation in this plot.” Cadwallon waited a moment, recognizing a notable absence. “I do not spy King Cyneric amongst us. Nor Vígdís.”

“He sent word that he would be busy with his witan and thus unavailable. He appointed his right hand man Baldred in his stead. Before you ask, the stout man is the one keeping the source of this power tethered. You have yet to meet him, but he is down below,” Godric replied, coming to stand next to Cadwallon as they observed the swirling tendrils of magic in the air.

Cadwallon had only caught a brief glimpse. The ethereal being chained deeper underground, energy siphoned and used as fuel. While Cadwallon had yet to witness it in action, Godric, Cyneric and Osgyth had all supposedly been here the last time a body was brought back to life. If it was successful, then perhaps his late wife, cruelly stolen from him, could also be returned to him one day. While a selfish desire, it was also a driving force in his final decision regarding joining the alliance.

The others were tight-lipped about their reasons for conspiring with a reviled sect of Danes, but they all had a common goal in the end. Their personal reasons for being involved mattered little to Cadwallon. All of them had gotten the strange whisper in their minds, with the promise of immense power to smite their foes, and none of them had passed up the opportunity to make use of it. While he had initially hesitated, thinking he was possessed by a demon, the call to power had won him over, and here he was, in league with heathens.

The enemy of an enemy is a friend, as the saying goes.

“Vígdís is also tending to matters elsewhere, but did not elaborate on what they were. She did, however, delegate everything to her underlings, to proceed with the ritual,” Godric continued. “Soon, your compatriot shall walk the earth once more.”

Cadwallon grunted, pleased to not be in at least one vile Dane’s presence longer than necessary—the ones back home were already plenty. The Hel worshippers and their leader were merely tools at the end of the day. Vígdís’ motivations to invite all of them here were not entirely clear, but one thing was certain. She carried a disdain for her own people, who by her words had cast out those who sought out Hel and sent them fleeing. She was out for revenge. As per the accord struck between Cyneric and Vígdís, the Hel worshippers would leave the people of Saxony alone once all was said and done. Cadwallon was not yet sure if was one to trust to keep her word.

Then, the chanting abruptly halted. A gust of wind from seemingly out of nowhere rampaged through the cave, billowing cloaks and kicking up dust. Cadwallon covered his face and squinted his eyes through his spread fingers, watching with fascination, awe and wonder, as Goda’s body began to float in mid-air. Green strobes of light flew into him at blinding speed, and his body glowed with the brightness of an inferno.

Then, a sharp inhale, a gasp, came from what was once lifeless.

Cadwallon’s eyes widened, and his jaw parted, stunned. Goda, half desiccated, was standing before him, blinking and alert. And when those once soulless eyes met his, the man bowed. “I am at your beck and call, Lord Cadwallon. Does someone need a flaying? Or perhaps an ear removed?”

The impossible was now seemingly possible. Death subverted, life restored. Something God never seemed willing to bestow no matter how faithful he was, or how piously he prayed and prostrated himself before Him. And yet this false goddess, Hel, doled out her powers to her followers, allowing them the ability to conjure illusions, as well as bring the dead back to life.

Cadwallon swiftly spun to meet Godric and Osgyth’s satisfied grins. “You can count the Baron of Ipswich amongst your ranks going forward. You have proven that this is not simply a fantasy, but a reality. And that dismantling the Danish settlements will truly be possible with this sort of power behind it.”

Godric smiled, a cruel twisting of his lips. “Marvellous. Then let us discuss exactly how your new revenant features into this grand design. I would also like to hear news regarding your son's upcoming nuptials. All is going to plan, yes?” He swept his hand in a half circle, gesturing for Cadwallon to follow.

Cadwallon looked towards Goda. It was almost surreal to see the man again, even partially rotted and with bone sticking out of various parts. But if everything he was told about draugr could be believed, then Goda was going to be a rather useful weapon in his arsenal.

He looked back at Osgyth and Godric. “Indeed it is. Lead the way, Your Highness.”

----

“Good, you are here.” 

Sigrid came to a halt directly in front of Vígdís, bowing her head slightly in front of her superior. “You called for me.”

Vígdís stepped closer to Sigrid and her overpowering aura still managed to rattle Sigrid to this day. While Vígdís had been the one to save her all those years ago, raised her like a daughter and brought her to the new world at a young age, the woman was still an imposing gyðja of Hel.

“Tell me child, what news do you have to share?” Vígdís inquired calmly.

“The jarl's son underwent a baptism not long ago. Those foul Saxons and their imposter of a god,” Sigrid spat. “I had tried to talk him out of it, but there was nothing I could do to sway him. The Baron had also been incredibly insistent on this marriage despite Geir’s attempts to end it.”

Vígdís nodded. “I see. You have become rather close with Geir, then. More than I initially surmised since we last spoke. It comes as no surprise that you were able to fool him into trusting you so easily. From what you told me, the man is the easily besotted sort.”

Sigrid did not react to the barb towards Geir. She had spent a few years now in Baldursgata, being given the mission to spy on the city and its inhabitants. But she still did not know the purpose of it, and Vígdís never deigned to share it in any great detail when asked. 

Sigrid was plagued with visions of all sorts, but they never seemed to show her anything regarding her own future, meaning her path was constantly dark while knowing the outcome of other people’s lives. If that was not irksome enough, posing as a mere völva with healing abilities when she was a powerful wielder of Hel’s dark seiðr was something that sat oddly within her. 

But who was she to question both her mother, and superior? Over the last few years they rarely spoke in person unless it was of great importance, mostly communicating over brief mind links or through discreet letters. Asking to meet outside of Ipswich was a bit surprising to say the least. 

“I have no other news to share, unless you want to hear any details regarding the Baron, or the son being offered up in marriage as well?” Sigrid inquired.

Vígdís shook her head. “No, I have all I need for now. You can return to your duties. I shall call upon you again when the time comes.”

Before Sigrid could respond, a dark shimmer appeared behind Vígdís, black and inky, which swiftly swallowed her whole and vanished without a trace. 

Sigrid huffed at their meeting being cut short after the long trek out this way. Annoyingly enough, she had not yet mastered the full potential of her powers to be able to port herself through Hel’s realm and back. But soon that day was on the horizon, as per Vígdís’ words. If she remained true to her teachings, it would come naturally with time.

She turned around and began the journey back towards Ipswich as ordered, making sure to avoid any places of Christian worship along the way.

Chapter Text

Gale stared up at the ceiling of his lodgings, staring at a knot of wood that was not particularly more interesting than the rest. He had barely slept a wink all night, tossing and turning beneath the covers. Whatever sleep he managed to get was spoiled by stray thoughts about events past and upcoming.

There was the obvious fact that he had taken on the Saxon God as one of his own, gone through that strange procedure of baptism, and come out relatively unscathed but feeling no more or less powerful. Sigrid and Lækný’s harsh words echoed through his mind for the past several days. They had told him how the gods would not be pleased with what he had done and would likely rescind their aid when he called upon them. Gale had been wracked with worry that they would no longer fuel his seiðr , terminating his abilities in full.

Yet, Gale could still conjure fireballs, ice spikes, and lightning bolts, and his ability to telepathically communicate with Þara was as strong as ever. It would appear the gods decided not to forsake him, perhaps recognizing the delicate nature of the situation he was tossed into without any say of his own. It was just a question of how merciful they would be in the long run while he pretended to worship the Christian God.

Unfortunately for Gale, it would seem the völva and the shieldmaiden were less inclined to give him some leeway, still referring to him by his given name only and only talking to him when required. It would take time for them to temper their displeasure over his actions. At least Káta was less rigid about all these affairs, her past employment under the King of Mercia likely playing a role in her tolerance.

Then there was the fact that Gale had yet to tell Mýrún about anything. He felt like an absolute coward for it. He could march into battle and cleave foes in two with an axe, or burn them to ash without batting an eye. But when it came to expressing the direness of what he was now deeply embroiled in, to the one he loved the most, he found himself faltering. Gale knew he could not keep this marriage hidden from her forever, and that if he did not send Þara back home soon with the news, Mýrún would be irate the moment he stepped foot in Baldursgata with Ӕlfstan in tow.

Gale frowned. Whenever that little Saxon came into his mind, all he could think of was his short stature, soft hands, and ethereal beauty before reminding himself of how abrasive, haughty, and annoying the man was. By the gods, it vexed Gale to no end that the little pest was constantly in his thoughts, despite their avid attempts to steer clear of each other. If they happened to run into each other in the burh they would give each other a wide berth, not acknowledging the other’s presence aside from that.

But they would no longer be offered such a luxury. By the end of the day, they would be sequestered away in their new shared chambers, with the full expectation of consummating their marriage.

Gale felt like he was drowning, a myriad of things compounding and flooding over him. Yet he had to remain strong, not just in body, but in mind if he wanted to make it through this sham unscathed. He sighed, reaching up to rub his bleary eyes as the sunlight broke through a few cracks in the panels with the sunrise.

“Mr. Dagrsson…”

Gale lifted his head off his pillow to face Þara, who was perched at the end of the bed. He didn’t know how long she had been awake and watching him stew in his own head, but she was eying him with a curious gaze, one that carried a question she clearly wanted to ask. 

“Yes, Þara. What is it?” Gale asked gruffly, voice dry and hoarse.

Þara nervously shifted, adjusting the fold of her wings. “Why have you not sent me to tell her?” Þara finally asked him quietly, causing Gaze to close his eyes as frustration began to mount.

“How am I supposed to tell Mýrún, Þara? You know how she can get sometimes. Easy to set off, especially about me and my affairs. How do you expect me to tell her that I was unable to change the course of things, that I failed in my promise to her, and am returning with a new husband in tow? It does not matter what use Ӕlfstan is put to back home. I know she will never forgive me for this,” Gale replied, tossing his head back on the pillow.

Þara fluttered her wings slightly. “To my understanding, you shall be in Ipswich for a while longer, so there is still time to inform her. But you need to tell her. While it may not be an easy endeavour, keeping her in the dark won’t do you any good. Need I remind you how your recent decision to leave it to the last moment with Lækný played out?”

Gale grimaced, recalling all too well the shieldmaiden’s stern scolding. “No, you don’t need to remind me. But I don’t even know where to begin with this.”

Þara leapt down from her perch and hopped up towards his chest, promptly planting herself directly on top of him. “Mr. Dagrsson, I may be just a simple raven, but I know how difficult things such as this can be. Sometimes the wound will sting regardless of what you do to close it, so it’s better to remove the bandages and affix new ones instead.”

Gale gazed at Þara fondly. “For a ‘simple raven’ you are rather wise, Þara,” he joked, before his face turned serious once more. “After the wedding. Once reality sinks in, once it’s said and done, I will send you to deliver the sordid news to Mýrún through mindlink. We can discuss details later, but for now, I just want to lay here and wallow in my last few hours as a free man, if you don’t mind. I likely don’t have much longer before I am summoned anyways.”

Þara expelled a sigh. “I understand, Mr. Dagrsson. Do try to keep your head up. Pessimism can only get one so far, and I know it doesn’t suit you.” 

Gale looked at Þara lovingly, his longtime friend and companion, before petting her on the head with a few gentle pats. “Where would I be without you, my friend?”

“Well, I would argue in an even more sorry state than you are at present. Now, while I love to share in your company, it is time for me to hunt for some breakfast. I would implore you to get out of bed in the meantime and try to make yourself look somewhat presentable. Your hair is a veritable rat’s nest from all your late night jostling,” Þara reprimanded, never one to pull her punches. 

Before Gale could reply, Þara flapped her wings and flew to hover in front the window, pull open the panel, before leaving his room to soar the skies in search of a meal.

Gale begrudgingly rose up if only to appease Þara, and went to the wash basin, working on detangling his hair and scrubbing the sweat and grime from his overnight restlessness. Once he was done, he dressed haphazardly, too caught up in his own thoughts to the point he bound up his leg wraps prior to pulling on his trousers and had to start again.

Perhaps he needed some air, to go for a walk before he would be summoned to prepare for the upcoming ceremony. It could do him some good, even if he would rather lay in bed and rot until the last possible moment. 

Gale left his room, slipping his axe into his belt loop, and began to mindlessly wander the burh. It was not his first time going around, taking in the Roman architecture, and their engineering marvels. Perhaps one day they could unlock the secrets of the Romans that led to their structures still standing despite the passage of time.

As he meandered his way through the streets of the burh , it was hard for Gale to ignore how the denizens of Ipswich would follow his every move.

Some stared at him with awe, some with desire, others with disdain. He paid them no heed, too focused on his own troubles as he passed by their curious gazes. Then, in his absentminded trek, Gale picked up on an odd noise, which jolted him back into the present moment. He realized he had reached the church—the one Baron Cadwallon bade him visit.

Gale had never stepped foot inside the imposing structure, content to leave it in his periphery for as long as possible. From his understanding, however, the ceremony was going to take place in this very building. Unease began to rise up inside of him, being so close to a Saxon place of worship. Yet he entered anyway.

Gale had heard about the first churches found in Lindisfarne, decked out in gold icons and housing crosses studded with gems. This church had nothing of the sort inside, but what did catch his eye were the rows and rows of seats leading to the front of the room he had just walked into. The building, made of little else except timber, could house half of the burh at once by his estimate.

A figure stood at the front of the room, just before a wooden railing surrounding a rectangular shape covered in fine cloth. His back was bare, and faint mumbling could be heard coming from that direction. Gale stepped to the side to get a better view and noticed a painted image on the wall above the object covered in cloth: a cloaked woman holding a child. He squinted, wondering whether he had just committed to worshipping an infant god when the noise startled him.

It was a short, sharp crack. Gale’s attention whipped back to the—well, whip. The figure shuddered and lowered the whip in his hand. Angry red lines burst onto his back, oozing beads of blood.

Gale’s mouth fell open. He was well-acquainted with fóstbræðralag and the ritual that accompanied it, in which men who had sworn to be brothers opened their veins and let their blood run together, but there was no one else in sight. The figure turned, as if alerted by his distress.

“The new Christian! Welcome, my child,” he said. He placed a hand on his chest. “I am Atheric. Father Atheric to you. Geir, is it?”

Gale could only blink. “Father” Atheric was still bleeding. “What are you doing?” he asked.

Atheric smiled wide and Gale’s unease returned tenfold. “The mortification of the flesh.” Atheric sounded positively giddy. “Spirituality should manifest itself in physical discipline. After all, only those who have shared in Christ’s suffering can be saved.”

Gale nodded tensely. “I…see,” he muttered. “Why flagellation?”

Atheric held up his whip. The whole object was no longer than Gale’s forearm, and that included the length of the knotted cords. “It doesn’t have to be flagellation,” he explained. “You could fast or wear chains or a hairshirt. I simply prefer the whip.” He must have noticed the grimace on Gale’s face as he tacked on soothingly, “It doesn’t take long. Only the time it takes one to recite forty psalms, though I like to increase the number of flagellations on holy days.”

Gale looked away, wishing he hadn’t struck up this conversation. “I mean, why do you do it? What was your crime?”

“Crime?” The priest was puzzled. “We are all sinners, depraved and vile, but I haven’t committed any crimes in the eyes of the law. As Christ was flogged before the crucifixion, I do the same. It makes me feel closer to Him.” Atheric paused, looking coy. “The act itself is also divine in other ways. There is the solid, comforting feel of the instrument.” He felt—no, caressed—the handle of his whip. “The anticipation of the next strike. Then, the release.”

Gale nodded again. “You find pleasure in pain,” he stated. It was clear that the fulfilment the priest received from self-torment wasn’t fully righteous, but he was in no place to judge.

Atheric’s smile was wolfish. “Then you understand me, dear one,” he said. He rested his whip on his shoulder and the cords trailed down his back. “I’m always available to hear your confessions and provide penance. Embrace discomfort. You might surprise yourself.”

Loud footsteps rapidly approached, followed by a voice calling out. “Sir Geir! There you are!” 

It was Dunnstan, flushed and out of breath. Atheric turned away, the knots swaying with his movement. The lashes were still there on his back, angry and red. “It has been edifying to speak to you. I look forward to seeing you worship. And,” he bowed slightly, “my best wishes for your upcoming union.”

Gale followed Dunnstan out of the chapel, but not without sparing one more glance back towards the priest. When they reached the threshold, the whip cracked again, followed by a gasp through clenched teeth. These Christians really were obsessed with suffering.

As if he read his mind, Dunnstan said, “I’m glad I managed to find you. It’s time to prepare for the ceremony.”

----

A knock at the door roused Astarion, who had buried himself under the covers all night. In his mind, his blanket was supposed to act as some sort of makeshift shield and protect him, perhaps even warding away the upcoming ceremony he was dreading if he wished it hard enough. 

Astarion already knew that God was in a lacklustre mood regardless of any of his recent prayers, so he didn’t bother reaching out. There was no point.

Another knock sounded at the door, and Astarion just grunted, spooning himself deeper into his cocoon. He lacked the will or desire to entertain any company on such a morbid day, and would not rise to the occasion unless he was dragged out of bed kicking and screaming obscenities—something that would usually land him in the dungeon. But he was through with caring about his father’s decrees when his life was officially in shambles.

His mind was faring even worse.

Somehow, the days since the baptism had passed by like a blur, and of all the confounding memories that had stuck with him, the blasted Dane disrobing was chief among them.

To Astarion’s dismay, he was unable to purge himself of the particular moment when that hair, freshly soaked in the river current, had plastered against the Viking’s skin. The way those rivulets had sluiced down his bare body, those muscles flexing with each inhale when he was wrenched out the water.

The last few days, that scene had replay over in his mind, as if some hex had befallen him to suffer such torment. Whatever misdeed he had committed, this punishment was not worthy of the crime. 

A third knock came, and Astarion’s patience was well and truly worn at this point. “Who is it?” he bellowed, partly muffled under the layers of bedding.

“Ӕlfstan, it’s Deorwyn,” came his sister’s voice.

“And Æbbe,” his other sister echoed, “May we come in?”

“No. Leave,” Astarion demanded, but it fell on deaf ears, for the doors to his chambers opened anyways. “Did you not hear me?”

“We heard you fine, brother. But there comes a time where following a request becomes infeasible. As in your case,” Deorwyn explained as she and Æbbe entered his room. The doors creaked shut a short while later, indicating they were alone.

Astarion grumbled. “What do you want? Did you come to goad me like Pehtwine?”

He heard some shuffling and ruffling of dresses against the ground, before one side of his bed dipped. 

“We wanted to check on you. See how you were doing.” Æbbe stated calmly next to him, indicating she was the one who had sat down.

“Oh? How I am doing? I thought it would be rather obvious by now, Æbbe. I have been cursed to a life of dismal treatment since I was born and now I am about to wed a boorish man who will treat me as lowly as a slave. If you think I am excited at that prospect, you have either been living under a rock all your life or exist in some fantasy world where you think I am radiating with joy,” Astarion groused sourly, buried under the covers.

A loud sigh bounced off the walls.

“Ӕlfstan… Astarion,” Deorwyn softly whispered, as if saying his preferred name would somehow soothe his temper, before continuing, “I know this has not been the easiest of paths, but I do think you are catastrophizing.”

Whatever fuse was holding Astarion back from exploding ruptured. He flung the covers off his body to glare at Deorwyn, who was standing at the foot of the bed.

“Catastrophizing? Me? I’m sorry, but are you the one being forced to marry a man you despise with all your being for political purposes, while your feelings on the matter are relegated to nothing? No! Who the hell do you think you are to lecture me?” Astarion yelled, tears of pure frustration beginning to pool in his vision.

Deowryn shook her head. “I am not lecturing you, Astarion. I’m trying to get you to not view this as the end of your life as you know it.”

“How is it not the end of my god forsaken life!” Astarion shouted, just as Æbbe drew in a stunned breath.

“Ӕlfstan, don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” she chided him, only inflaming his outburst of rage.

Astarion turned to face his sister with a snarl. “The Lord, who has not seen fit to spare me of our fathers concentrated cruelty aimed at me? Our Saviour, who felt it just to allow our father to tear me away from the one man I felt any connection to in this miserable life through threat of execution? God, who allowed a heathen into his holy realm, who I know for a fact would never renounce his pagan beliefs?”

Æbbe shrunk back and her mouth shut. Clearly the mention of the truth of the matter rendered her mute.

Astarion abruptly felt the blustering wind leave his sail and his shoulders slumped in defeat. “I have worshipped. I have prayed. I have done communion. So why am I being treated like the most prolific sinner by the one who is supposed to protect me from such evil?”

Then, he felt Æbbe’s hand on top of his. Despite all his fury, the kind gesture calmed him somewhat.

“I apologize…Astarion,” Æbbe said in a hushed tone, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “Our father has been unfair with you. You were so young, and tiny as a babe. Deorwyn and I practically raised you alongside the nursemaid because father had no interest in you. The fact that he still blames you for mother’s passing…”

The room fell silent as the words hung heavy in the air until Deorwyn spoke.

“Astarion, do you remember what I told you on the day the Dane showed up?” Deowyn asked as she came to the side of the bed to stand next to Æbbe.

Astarion searched his memory, recalling the precise moment she was referring to. He simply nodded in affirmation.

“I still stand by those words. I believe God placed you on this path, and I believe it will lead to your salvation from the life you have lived here,” Deowyn insisted.

Astarion’s head dropped further. “While I appreciate both of your attempts, they are futile. There is no hope or happiness for me. I am meant to lead a life of suffering, and that’s the end of it.” In an attempt to lighten the mood, he tried his hand at a joke. “Honestly, the priests should canonize me as a saint for everything I’ve been made to endure.”

A few giggles broke out between the three of them before the solemn quiet returned.

Æbbe’s hand tightened around his once more. “Astarion, while neither of us are informed enough about marriage to give you insight on this, we say everything with the best intentions. Try to give this Geir a chance. He may be a magic wielder, a Dane by blood, and now a man under God, supposedly at least, but I can tell he is a good man.”

Astarion raised his head and shot her a sceptical look. “And how, pray tell, can you say that when practically none of you have interacted with him?”

“His eyes.” Æbbe countered. “His eyes exude this…kindness. I cannot explain it, but I do not believe him to be a cruel or inhumane person. I don’t believe he will stoop as low as father does, nor that he is the type to enjoy torturing innocents.”

Astarion shook his head, realizing his normally perfect hair was a tangled mess. “I am not about to go off of your word, Æbbe. But I can only hope you and Deorwyn are right about everything. It’s not easy to see a light at the end of this particular tunnel.” 

While the despair had lessened, Astarion knew that nothing they said would ever truly change the heaviness in his heart. In a few short hours he would be wed, and his life forfeited to the hands of Dane. Astarion could only hope he could liberate himself at some point soon, by his own hand if necessary.

A new knock rapped loudly at the door, startling all of them.

Astarion knew what time it was, and exactly who was at the door based on that knock alone. It was Wiglaf, who came to collect him. He swivelled his gaze back to his sisters. “I believe that is your cue to exit, dear sisters. Your…your presence here has helped, if only a little.”

Æbbe rose from the bed and let go of his hand, following Deorwyn to the door. “That's all we could ever hope to achieve at the end of the day.”

“Please consider, and possibly heed our words, brother. We wish you luck and will see you at the chapel later.” Deowyn relayed, as they made their way towards the door and out of the room.

After their departure, Wiglaf entered as rigidly as ever. “Master Ӕlfstan, it is time to prepare you for the ceremony.”

Astarion inhaled, held his breath, and slowly exhaled, before swinging his legs off the bed and discreetly wiping his eyes to cover any evidence of sorrow. He got up, and with stiff legs came to stand directly in front of his father's manservant. It was time to put on a brave face.

“Let’s get this over with.”

----

Gale sat in the bathhouse. The pool of water around him was as wide and long as a longhouse back in Baldursgata. It was also lukewarm, leaning cold, and beginning to cause a chill.

If he had been at home, he would have been surrounded by friends, basking in laughter and the steam produced by ladling water over hot rocks. They would have been sweating profusely and ribbing each other over who grew red from the heat the fastest. There would have been races and games and the whole village would come out to spectate.

Instead, he was alone.

Gale reached for the bar of soap he brought with him and absently scrubbed at his arms. His fingertips were grotesquely pruney and he would have stayed longer if Dunnstan wasn’t watching.

“You take great pains, sir,” Dunnstan called out behind him. “I hear cleanliness is next to godliness.”

Despite the praise, Gale knew it was the serving man’s way of telling him to get a move on. For good measure, Gale splashed his face with soapy water one more time before lifting himself out of the bath. He sloshed water over the tiles and stone edges. Dunnstan emerged from behind a pillar with a cloth and seemed scandalized when Gale snatched it from him instead of letting the man dry him off.

Dressing himself back in his chamber was an equally sombre affair. Gale put on the tunic he had packed for the occasion when he left home, the purple one with leather trim and rivets. It wasn’t his favourite, one which was embroidered with fine scrolls and subtly stitched runes. He had left that one behind, afraid to taint it with the memory of one of the most unpleasant days of his life.

As Gale was fastening his belt, a sharp knock came from his chamber door. Dunnstan nearly dropped the comb he was holding and rushed to answer it. Lækný, Káta, and Sigrid stood in the entryway.

“A moment with the groom?” Káta asked.

Dunnstan’s gaze darted back and forth between Gale and the women who had just shown up at his door. 

Lækný stepped forward. “Now,” she hissed, surprising Gale with the fact that she had used a Saxon word. No doubt she picked up a few terms to afford her the opportunity to order people around.

Dunnstan set his comb down on the nearest table and rushed out of the room. Sigrid shut the door behind him. The three of them stood, taking in Gale and his finery.

“You clean up well,” Lækný said, finally breaking the silence.

Gale spread his arms, showing off. He felt the humour return to him now that he was hearing familiar voices and Norse words. “Only because the Baron’s serving man hasn’t gotten to me yet,” he quipped. “I’d say you arrived just in time.”

The women dispersed around him. They sat him down on a stool and got to work. Gale let Sigrid braid the hair by his face into plaits while Káta helped him drape and pin his cloak. Lækný leaned back against the door.

“You’re looking at me rather curiously,” Gale began. He shut his eyes as Sigrid drizzled oil into her palms and worked it into his scalp. The honey-like smell of meadowsweet filled his nostrils. 

Sigrid began looping strands of his hair into glass beads, then slipped him a feather. “From Þara,” she whispered. “For luck.”

“These are curious circumstances,” Lækný rebutted. “More curious still that you forgot the most important part of the wedding.”

“And tell me, what might that be?” Gale tilted his head to give Káta better access to the side of his neck. “My sense of resolve? A fake smile?”

“Ouch,” Káta added.

Lækný sniffed. “No,” she replied, “a sword.”

Because her back had been pressed to the door, Gale had failed to notice a long shape strapped to her shoulders, wrapped in simple cloth. When Lækný unwound and presented it to him, Gale’s breath hitched.

The sheath was unadorned, but the pommel was carved to mimic Mjölnir. It was worn, a little rusted, and well used.

It was his father’s sword.

Gale went still as Lækný presented it to him. He held his hands out to accept it and it settled with a comforting weight. The sword, Tempest, had been forged with iron and cleaved many an enemy in two. Gale had never been drawn to the sword. He had held it once or twice as a boy before deciding that he preferred seiðr, and an axe of course. Now, though, it may as well have been the most precious thing in the world.

“Where did you get this?” he asked.

Lækný lifted her chin. “Jarl Møyfrid gave it to me for safekeeping,” she said. “She knew how you felt about the whole arrangement.”

Gale’s eyes narrowed. “She didn’t trust me?”

“She thought you could use a source of comfort.” Lækný folded her arms, disguising concern with poise.

“But we’re here, too.” Káta brushed down Gale’s clothes and stepped back. Sigrid nodded in agreement, pinning Gale’s hair in place before she assumed position along the wall.

Gale stood and turned around slowly. The clothing was heavier than he was used to and the ornaments Sigrid wove into his hair clinked gently. He took the feather from his hair and murmured a word, transfiguring it into an earring that he fixed to his earlobe. His friends looked on solemnly.

“Be honest,” he said. “Do you hold what I am about to do against me?”

None of them responded, but Káta was the first to shake her head. Sigrid and Lækný followed. Gale breathed a sigh of relief, not caring if they heard it.

“I have many reasons to be opposed,” Lækný admitted. “But we are all well acquainted with sacrifice. Your outward renunciation of the gods and your marriage to a Saxon,” she sneered the word, “is a small price to pay if it guarantees the security of all of Baldursgata. It is a noble deed in the end.”

“You’ve seen it through by whatever means necessary,” Sigrid added.

Káta smiled. “Couldn’t have said it better myself,” she said. “And I couldn’t have been as brave as you. I think I would’ve run away, to be honest.”

Gale wanted to retort. None of them, even in service to an army or the gods, could understand the kind of responsibility thrust upon him. To be the one and only person who could keep his clan and kin safe was exhausting. It was lonely. It was what his father had done.

Gale retrieved the sword, unsheathed the blade, and examined himself. He looked as ready as he would ever be. He grabbed his axe and stabbed it through its loop in his belt, before marching out the doors with the shieldmaidens and völva close behind.

----

Astarion stood like a statue staring blankly at a wall. In spite of his best efforts to ‘get it over with’, it was with a stunning amount of difficulty that he found himself in full regalia for his…wedding ceremony.

The words tasted acrid upon his tongue even if he did not speak them. While the earlier bath had helped soothe his nerves, and gave him a sense of cleanliness he was in dire need of, none of it could prepare him for his father’s looming scrutiny.

Cadwallon circled Astarion, inspecting every tiny detail, including the length of his tunic, and confirmed the exact shade of red and the position of the pins holding his cape in place. He was forbidden to be adorned in bronze or gold and only outfitted with silver rings and a swirled pendant with garnets to bring out his eyes and cool complexion. Loathe Astarion was to admit it, he had inherited his father’s artistic taste. At least he looked good enough to marry, if that was any consolation.

“The tailor did a magnificent job on your outfit. Exactly to the letter. You would be wise to care for it during the ceremony and resulting celebrations,” his father said, before dropping his voice into his usual threatening tone. “Should any misfortune befall this garb, I make sure you suffer that sting of ten lashes. While I am handing you off to that Dane, you are still in my abode. We don’t want to send you off covered in new welts, now do we?”

Astarion shuddered at the mention of the whip. Thank God for the miniscule mercy of Him sending Goda to his grave at least. That old bag had enjoyed attaching a small barb at the end of the lash, just to dig deeper into the skin and flay the flesh further. Without saying a word, Astarion simply nodded.

“Now, the ceremonial objects.” Cadwallon put his hands together and Wiglaf stepped forward, presenting a plain circlet. It was dull, without any ornaments or carvings. He motioned for Astarion to bow his head and he felt it settle on top of his ears. It was a perfect fit.

“Thank you, father.” Astarion didn’t dare look back up. He reached up to touch the completely smooth surface. “It’s beautiful,” he lied. “It is well-worn. Was it…was it my mother’s?”

The laugh that pierced the air speared into Astarion’s chest like an arrow to the heart Wiglaf joined in with a snicker. Cadwallon sighed. “Ah, that’s a good one.” His grin instantly faded. “No, wretch. I would never have let her wear something so drab. Even if she had, you wouldn’t deserve it. Not after what you did.”

Astarion let his hand fall to his side. He couldn’t escape the reason for his maltreatment even on his wedding day. The sting of unshed tears at the corner of his eyes caused a slight tremble in his hands, but Astarion reeled them in. He would not show weakness in front of his father, not if he wanted to make it through this unscathed.

Satisfied with his reaction, Cadwallon waited for Wiglaf, who produced a sheathed sword. Terror gripped Astarion until he remembered that the exchanging of swords was part of the ceremony. Cadwallon drew the sword from its scabbard, admired it, then sheathed it again.

Cadwallon had possessed Woe for as long as Astarion could remember. However, he had never seen him use it apart from pointing it at him and his siblings while snarling abuse. His demeanor remained the same when he passed the blade to Astarion.

“You will present the sword to the groom when the time comes,” he instructed. “After the ceremony, you will ask for it back and return it to me or my men within the day. Do not think about keeping this or I will run you through with it myself.”

Astarion nodded wordlessly. He was afraid to hold the sword for a second longer lest he cut himself on it. 

Cadwallon snapped, “Do you understand? Speak up.”

Astarion’s hand closed around the hilt. “I understand.”

His father stepped away and out of his space. “Then it is time for me to be rid of you, once and for all. Once you are married, you are no longer my burden, but Geir’s. Hopefully he will treat you as you deserve. Like the insolent little whelp you are and always have been.” 

With a swish of his cloak, Cadwallon left the room, leaving Astarion alone, holding back the sadness piling onto him. 

Another dig from the bastard of a father, who found the perfect excuse to expel him from the only place he had called home for so long. The only place he knew. 

No matter. Astarion was strong. He had survived worse than this. And once he concocted a solution to escape his marital chains, he would run to the farthest reaches of East Anglia, or perhaps even leave all together. He would rather go into hiding a free man than live like this any longer.

With a steadying breath, Astarion left the room, on his way to face his fate.

Chapter Text

Grey and white clouds gathered above the church, a portent from the Æsir. Gale admitted to himself that he should be grateful that they hadn’t sent a storm on the morning of his wedding. As apt as it would be, the only thing worse than marrying his foul-mouthed, ill-mannered husband-to-be would be rain soaking them to the bone during the ceremony.

His father’s sword weighed heavy on his hip, the sheath brushing against his leg as he walked, flanked by Lækný and Sigrid with Káta right behind. Þara glided overhead with the occasional flap of her wings.

They came to a stop right before the church. A warm hand, whom he recognized as Sigrid’s, rested on his shoulder and Gale leaned into the touch. He wished it was Mýrún. It should have been Mýrún waiting for him at the end of the hall in her finest dress and a knowing look in her intelligent eyes, one that told him just what they would get up to after all the pleasantries and posturing.

But it was not her. She was in Baldursgata while he was here, meeting his fate head on.

“Remember, whatever happens, this doesn’t change anything about you,” Káta reassured him.

Lækný tsk’ed. “A naïve thought,” she argued. “Once the wedding is done, he will be bound to a Saxon and a Christian, and as a consequence, their laws.”

Sigrid rolled her eyes. “You always know what to say.” She turned to Gale. “The gods’ blessings on you, Gale.”

Gale simply nodded in response. The platitude was hollow, but it was only natural to be at a loss for words in the face of the unthinkable. They heard a clattering from above and Gale glanced up at Þara, who was now perched on the roof.

“You don’t have to be here if you’d rather not be,” he called. “You shouldn’t have to see me miserable on the so-called happiest day of my life.”

Þara turned her beak up. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she admonished him. “You’re getting married. I’ve waited for this day for years and I wouldn’t miss it for the world. If nothing else, at least try to enjoy the celebration afterwards. The hardest part will be over by then.”

She hopped up onto the roof ridge, then disappeared from view.

The wooden church door suddenly creaked open and snagged the group’s attention. A familiar figure emerged. Father Atheric was now clothed in a long habit and looked much more put together than he was the last time Gale saw him. His smile was demure as he gave Gale and his entourage a nod in acknowledgement of their arrival and—if Gale guessed correctly—the state Gale had found him inside the church, a delicious secret just for the two of them.

“Gather the people, consecrate the assembly; bring together the elders, gather the children, those nursing at the breast. Let the bridegroom leave his room and the bride her chamber.” Atheric descended the steps and clasped Gale on the arm. “Welcome back, dear one,” he said. “It is my honour to unite you and your beloved.”

Gale wanted to open his mouth to protest that his bridegroom wasn’t his beloved; quite the opposite, in fact, but it was too late for such displays of outrage. Instead, he said, “It’s a pleasure to see you again. What are the rites?”

Atheric adjusted a garland draped over the doorframe. “Ah, I forgot you haven’t been given the chance to rehearse your vows. You weren’t given your rings either. The Baron was in such a hurry, but fear not.” He smiled again, though it was more of a smirk. “The service will begin on the steps of this church. You and your beloved will acknowledge your consent, confirm the dowry, and recite your vows. For the latter, simply repeat after me.”

Gale watched Káta, Lækný, and Sigrid retreat several paces away. More guests from the burh were starting to approach, but hung back when they saw the women encircling Gale and the priest. “And then?” Gale asked, turning his attention squarely on Atheric.

“Mass, inside the church. Then blessing the marital home, feasting, and merriment at the Baron’s. Oh, I do love weddings.” Atheric reached into his robes and presented a small pouch. “The guests are arriving. Stay put, look lively, and cherish your new bond.”

As Atheric returned inside, a flock of brothers in brown habits streamed out. Gale reached into the pouch and pulled out the ring inside. The wedding band was plain and unadorned, made and given without personal significance. It was meaningless at the end of the day, and Gale returned it to the pouch.

The entire burh began to assemble around the outside of the church. Father Atheric came out again, standing in his spot next to Gale on the church steps. The men in their habits began to sing in a language Gale couldn’t understand. Under the swelling harmonies, the sound of hooves on the ground snapped Gale’s attention towards the horizon.

----

Astarion’s breath left his body as his feet hit the ground. He wasn’t used to the weight of full regalia, much less a sword on his person. One of his father’s guardsmen led his horse away, leaving him alone on the path, heart restless.

His siblings assumed their positions, flanking him on either side; his sisters on the left, his brothers on the right. Another set of hooves signalled his father’s approach from behind, and Astarion tensed.

All the eyes in the burh were on him. It would hardly have been the first time, since Astarion was used to being paraded out with his siblings when his father appeared for public business or celebration. It was all for show of course, considering their treatment at home. What was different this time were the circumstances.

Astarion had always been somewhat fanciful. He picked his name from a book of tales. He had dreamed of marrying a fair and gentle prince since he was a boy. Not whoever—whatever—this was.

And yet. And yet.

The man on the church steps was arguably the most handsome one he’d ever seen.

Geir looked every part the noble and stately groom. His tunic was a rich purple, a colour Astarion wasn’t used to seeing in clothing. The leather trim framed his collarbones and his belt cinched his waist, accentuating his broad shoulders and the tattoo that peeked out from his chest. The rivets along his neckline and his cloak pin gleamed. His hair was braided and tucked behind his ears to reveal a feather dangling from his right lobe, probably a memento from his wretched talking bird. It was a sweet thought. It was infuriating .

Someone cleared their throat behind him and Astarion recognized the noise. His father was signalling him to move . He began walking forward. The wind blew, carrying the sound of the choir far away. Even though his father had melted into the crowd, Astarion still felt the man’s overbearing breath down his neck.

Dozens of familiar faces passed. The blacksmith, the butcher, the cobbler, the farmer who grew rye. Eventually, Astarion passed Wulf and his father. Wulf offered a reassuring smile and a small wave. Astarion wanted to sneer back at him but refrained. The glances he received included looks of pity, curiosity, and longing. He used to joke that the day he was married would be the day men and maidens wept. Instead, he was the one who felt tears of shame and rage threatening to spill over.

When Astarion arrived at the steps, Geir refused to look at him; a small mercy. Father Atheric thanked the congregation for coming, and began to read from the gospel of Matthew. Astarion took a cue from his husband-to-be and stared out at the crowd as he shut out the start of the homilies.

The sea of faces watched him back. Astarion searched for an anchor to focus on and to tether him to his physical body, which was arrayed in the finest clothes his father’s silver could buy. Yet it still felt so foreign. His brothers’ expressions were blank. His sisters were just as solemn. Astarion didn’t dare look for Sӕbeorht in the crowd but as the choir started a new tune, he couldn’t deny himself. The search turned up empty, and his broken heart didn’t know what to make of it.

Meanwhile, Gale was fixated on the distant fields. All the furtive looks and words he could have swapped with his friends in attendance were already exchanged. There was nothing left. As the singing continued, he tuned it out, instead mentally conjuring the image of a skald telling a tale in the longhouse in his tongue to pass the time before the inevitable.

There was a light kick at the toe of his boot and Gale nearly yelped, but no sound escaped as he was roused from his brief reverie. He looked down with wide eyes at Ӕlfstan, who motioned towards the priest with his chin and a huff. Gale only managed to hold himself back from launching at the Saxon by clasping his hands over the pommel of his father’s sword.

Atheric stepped between them. If he sensed the tension that quickly descended over the couple, he hid it with a debonair grin. “My dear friends, you have come together so that the Lord may seal your union. Christ abundantly blesses this love. He has already consecrated you both in baptism and now, He strengthens you so you may assume your duties in mutual and lasting fidelity.” He exchanged glances with both Ӕlfstan and Gale. “And so, in the presence of the church, I ask you to state your intentions.”

The priest turned to Ӕlfstan first. Gale listened intently, prepared to follow the priest’s instructions and repeat whatever the other said.

“Ӕlfstan, son of Cadwallon, and Geir Dagrsson, have you come here freely and without reservation to give yourselves to one another in marriage?”

For the first time since their last meeting, they looked at each other, and Gale’s breath caught in his throat. From the moment he dismounted his white horse, Ӕlfstan resembled a spectre. He was dressed almost completely in red—of course, he was a nobleman. Everything that wasn’t scarlet was deep grey and black. A simple circlet was wreathed around his curls, drawing even more attention to his features, and the soft sheen of daylight on them brought to mind the ljósálfar , fairer than the sun to look at. Up close, however, Ӕlfstan looked completely defeated.

“I do,” he said, resignation layered in his tone.

So all the fire in the little Saxon had been extinguished. With all the fight in him gone as well, Gale echoed, “I do.”

“Will you love and honour one another for the rest of your lives?”

“I will.”

“I will.”

“Since it is your intention to enter into marriage, join your hands and declare your consent before God and His church.”

Gale, albeit reluctantly, thrust his hand out, and Ӕlfstan took it. The contact was reminiscent of the last time their palms had met—electrifying. Gale momentarily found himself slipping back into the memory as the dainty softness of Ӕlfstan’s hand met his tougher, calloused ones. Gale’s grip was loose, as if he were touching the edge of a blade. Even then, the touch of soft fingertips ghosting his palm sunk straight into his bones, and generated an undeniable sensation of yearning inside of him.

As long as Gale ignored who that hand belonged to, he could get used to this, at least for now. He imagined it was Mýrún by his side, and it helped quell the turmoil within somewhat, despite the voice next to him being someone else entirely.

Ӕlfstan spoke first, nearly monotonous. "I take you to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward for better for worse; for richer for poorer; in sicknesses and in health till death do us part if the holy church will ordain it. Thus I pledge my truth."

Gale committed the statement to memory as best as he could. Ӕlfstan had clearly been schooled to recite it perfectly. “I take you to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold…,” he began. The rest of the words evaporated and Gale stifled a frustrated sigh. He was a learned man. He could read and write, which was more than most. He wasn’t about to bolster the misconception that Danes like him were dull in front of all of Ipswich.

Thankfully, Atheric guided him forward. “For better, for worse.”

“For better, for worse.”

“For richer, for poorer.”

“For richer, for poorer.”

“In sickness and in health till death do us part.”

“In sickness and in health till death do us part.”

“If the holy church will ordain it. Thus I pledge my truth.”

“If the holy church will ordain it. Thus I pledge my truth.”

“Excellent.” Atheric beamed as if Gale had just finished a lesson. He returned his attention to the assembled guests. “You have declared your consent before the church. May the Lord in His goodness strengthen your consent and fill you both with His blessings. What God has joined, we must not divide. Amen.”

The crowd chorused the “amen” back and all Gale felt was dread.

Astarion felt numb.

He moved mechanically as he proceeded to the next step of the ceremony. The hand encompassing his was warm and soothing like once before, and shockingly grounding in spite of everything, not that he would admit to it out loud. Astarion’s pride would not let him accept that it was a Dane of all people easing the way through this farce, and he was not willing to acknowledge the thought any further than necessary. 

Atheric motioned for him to present the sword in his hand. When dropping his hold on Geir’s hand, somehow the touch still lingered on his fingers and palm, irritatingly so. He took hold of the sword, stating that Geir was now welcomed into his family and entrusted with the duty to uphold the alliance between their lineages. He barely heard Geir mimic him by presenting his sword in turn and vowing to provide his protection, respect, and trust.

Astarion didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or spit in Geir’s face. His only mantra was to trust no one, least of all a brute who had done less than nothing to deserve it. He decided to banish the thought and busy himself by placing the ring his father had shoved his way onto the hilt of his new sword. Geir did the same.

Once the rings were exchanged, a fevered, elated pitch entered Father Atheric’s voice. “On behalf of God and His church, I now pronounce you wed. You may kiss,” he cried.

They both tensed. Before all these people they had spoken vows, promised the equivalent of half-truths before the Christian God, and now it was time to truly seal things with the aforementioned kiss.

Astarion’s nose briefly twitched, and dismay sat low in the pit of his stomach regardless of his wish to quell the ache. But he steeled himself for what was about to occur. He shifted his weight from one foot the other, not daring to make the initial move.

Gale inhaled through his nose before expelling the breath the same way it entered. He was doing this for Baldursgata. It was an honour, a duty, a responsibility he was carrying on his shoulders, and he would complete this task for the safety of his people.

He prayed to Frejya for Mýrún’s forgiveness.

Neither desired to touch the other during what should be a tender and fond moment between lovers united, but they briskly stepped closer together to keep up the ruse they had no choice but to maintain.

Gale leaned down and placed, what was in essence, a short lived peck upon Ӕlfstan’s lips. Yet his blood ignited into a ferocious torrent the moment he made contact with the velvety plushness of the Saxon’s mouth. Gale immediately suppressed a moan rising in his throat when he lingered a fraction of a second longer than he had intended.

Astarion’s eyes shut automatically, and it only amplified the sensation of the Viking’s malleable lips brushing his. Despite trying to resist, Astarion found himself falling into the kiss, their surroundings becoming nothing more than a buzzing ambience. Until it was shattered when Geir pulled away, ending the kiss as brusquely as it had started.

Neither had a chance to process what exactly had passed between them, because the raucous cheers of the burh immediately swarmed them.

“And now, Mass, then to the Baron’s!”

Father Atheric let out a sigh of relief before he threw open the church doors. The wedding party began to file inside, led by the priest. Geir followed them and after touching his fingers to his lips, stunned, so did Astarion.

----

Gale stared into the bottom of his cup of ale. Normally, he would be the first to partake in the merriment, but there was aught to be merry about. He was married and felt worse than he ever did when he was a lonely bachelor.

The Baron’s hall was completely transformed from the dim, foreboding place it was on his first day in Ipswich. Tonight, the room was furnished with candles and oil lamps. A brazier was lit. New tapestries cascaded down the walls. Gale understood but still didn’t really see the point of pewter dishes and the napkin covering his knees.

It was abundantly clear that the feast wasn’t about him or Ӕlfstan or the two of them as a wedded pair. Gale observed how Cadwallon went from table to table, laughing and shaking the hands of opulently dressed guests as if he had accomplished some astounding feat. Gale’s only consolation was the food, which was arguably the best he had ever eaten. For this, at least, the Baron spared no expense.

There were eight courses in total, including a roasted pig with a fennel and juniper glaze. The salmon was buttered and peppered to perfection. Onion soup was served with sculpted breads and boiled eggs stuffed with whipped yolks. Thinly sliced apples arrived on top of baked cheese, finished with a drizzle of honey and a dusting of cinnamon. Red and white wine from the kingdom of the Franks flowed freely. At least Gale had never seen Káta this thrilled.

Music trickled down the hall, plucked from six-stringed hearpes . Skalds —or scops , as the Saxons called them—recited poetry and sang about histories and battles won against the Northmen, a choice Gale thought was rather distasteful. As one of the scops began challenging the diners to a series of riddles, Gale hid a piece of salmon in his napkin to feed to Þara later.

Astarion barely touched his food either. He pushed the walnuts and dried cherries off a small honey cake and stabbed them with the tines of his fork. Seated at his table were himself, his new husband, and all his siblings, but an awkward, sullen silence had fallen over most of them.

“I know you’re anxious, but please try to eat something.”

Astarion glared at Deorwyn and went back to spearing crumbs onto his fork. 

Ymma reached over and grabbed a piece of cake off his plate. “Or say something, at least. You’re being boring,” she laughed.

“I think now’s his chance,” Uhtred said through a mouthful of bread. He pointed at the direction of the door, where Wulf was approaching them. Wulf stopped at their table and bowed low. Astarion returned the gesture with a nod.

“My congratulations to the both of you and your new bond,” Wulf said. He lowered his voice and met Astarion’s gaze. “Ӕlfstan, may we speak for a moment?”

Astarion was all too glad to escape the discomfort of his table and its members. He got out of his seat, slid his plate towards Ӕbbe down the table to Ymma’s complaints, and followed Wulf to a less crowded corner of the hall. Markedly, his new husband had nothing to say about his disappearance. 

Thralls skirted around them, carrying platters of glazed sweet breads and pitchers of apple mead. Wulf leaned against the wall and Astarion followed suit.

“Wulf, I swear, if you’re going to start waxing poetic—”

Wulf held up a hand to shush him. “Believe me, I’m tempted,” he admitted. “But I’ll spare you the theatrics, at least for tonight.” He folded his arms and for a moment, they watched the flames from the brazier crackle, sending embers flying up to float around them. Then he said, “This means you’ll be leaving soon, won’t you?”

Astarion sighed. “I suppose so, but,” he gestured broadly, “you know what it would mean for me. I’ll finally be free from my father. I’ve been delivered into the hands of another captor, but at least I have a fighting chance. Or a running chance.”

Wulf chuckled. “As long as you don’t come running back here. Your father would have your hide. That’s why I’m planning a feast at my estate for you and Geir. A going away party, if you will.”

Astarion stopped a thrall for a cup of red wine. “One just as lavish, I hope?”

“I’m sure my father would be eager to provide entertainment by reciting our family history.” Wulf grinned as Astarion snorted, pleased that his spirits were starting to lift. “If you choose to attend, I have a favour to ask of you."

“Asking something of me? On my wedding day? I’ve never known you to be so demanding.” Astarion raised his cup to his lips with a smirk. “Alright. Go on.”

Wulf pointed at a small table discreetly. Astarion followed his line of sight and noticed that Geir’s strange band of women were seated there. “These women follow Geir everywhere. As his new husband, I have a feeling you’re going to spend a lot of time with them.” Wulf looked suddenly bashful. “Could you, maybe, introduce me to that one?”

At the table, the two smaller women, the witch and the lanky one who looked like a toad, were bickering. The large warrior who had accompanied Geir to the handsal was downing her cup with impressive speed and had a forkful of roast ready to go in her right hand. Astarion knew instinctively who Wulf was talking about: the tall "fetching" one Wulf had been smitten with during the baptism.

“You dragged me all this way to ask me to introduce you to that beast?” Astarion whispered.

“She’s not a beast!” Wulf insisted. “I just hope it’s not too much to ask.”

Astarion finished his wine and rolled his shoulders back. He would never understand what Wulf saw in the heathens as a godly man himself, and he was truly starting to think Wulf’s mind was possessed. 

“I’ll do you one better.” He started marching towards the table, ignoring Wulf’s protests. The black-haired witch was the first one to notice them and she acknowledged their arrival by retreating into her cup of wine. The one Wulf had his eye on greeted them with a grin.

“Þór's hammer, it’s you! Ӕlfstan, I am Káta.” She placed a hand on her chest. “Tell your dad thanks for the feast. He really knows how to throw a party. And congratulations on the wedding, of course.”

Astarion turned to Wulf and gestured to Káta. “Have at it,” he muttered.

While Wulf introduced himself to the warrior woman, Astarion made his way back to his seat. By now, Pehtwine was clearly drunk on ale since he had challenged the entire hall to a boast.

“I am Pehtwine, son of Cadwallon. Many a honeyed word I have exchanged with the most winsome of women and magnificent men, rewarding them lavishly for their interest with a night of fond remembrance.”

The guests around him whistled and laughed. Astarion noticed Geir roll his eyes and for once, he shared the same sentiment. When Pehtwine was done, he pointed at Astarion. “Your turn,” he slurred.

Astarion cocked an eyebrow. “And what? Embarrass myself with bad poetry and boldfaced lies?”

Louder laughter rippled around them as Pehtwine spluttered. When he sat back down sheepishly, Geir rose. “I’ll try my hand,” he announced.

Gale was used to boasts, bēot , whatever name the tradition shared by Danes and Saxons went by. In fact, he considered himself exceptional at them since he had plenty to talk about, and with more finesse than this last oaf. 

Pehtwine gave him a mock bow.  “Go on then,” he said, tipsy. “At least my new brother-in-law is a good sport.”

The guests closest to them leaned in, eager to hear him perform. Gale’s mind hurtled as he quickly reworked a previous piece to fit his new audience. When he was ready, he set his cup down.

“Hail! Lord Cadwallon, esteemed guests. I am Geir, the only son of Dagr, builder of Baldursgata, and Møyfrid, who sits on its throne.” The utterance of his name did not draw the Baron’s attention or interest, but Gale continued anyway. “When I was but a babe, seiðr spoke to me, granting wit and wisdom. Five dozen foes I have felled with fire and lightning, called upon by my will. I taunted them in several tongues and they choked on their confusion.” 

Murmurs of interest rose around him. By now, Káta, Sigrid, and Lækný were watching, as well as that noble from before, Wulf, if he heard correctly. Gale couldn’t help but smile as he remembered how good it felt to put on a show. “Kith and kin, honourable and brave, have seen me come safe from conflict, bloody from battle, into the great hall, where my friends followed and my mother’s heart was gladdened. There, she spoke words of praise, my return to her more dear than golden rings. Often, she reminded me of my father’s pride in me and love, candle-bright in death and fierce in flame.”

Rapturous applause thundered and Gale heard a loud whistle from Káta. Even Lækný looked pleased, a boast-worthy feat in its own right. When Gale lowered himself back onto his seat, however, Ӕlfstan was frozen in place.

In the short time he had known him, Gale learned that the Saxon was terrible at hiding his feelings. They were now written all over his face. Shock, disdain, and…pain.

“Excuse me,” Ӕlfstan said.

Ӕlfstan stood, dropping his wadded-up napkin onto the bench. He rounded the table, picking up speed as he exited the hall. Gale saw the Baron open his mouth but, surrounded by nobles, clench his teeth rather than yell after him. The Baron’s accusatory glare struck Gale and suddenly, he wondered if he was feeling the same fear that all his children knew well.

“Right away, Your Lordship,” he agreed.

Leaving the feast and his guests behind, Gale gave chase to the only place he knew his husband would be.

It would seem their night of celebration was over.

----

The moment the chamber doors shut behind Geir, Astarion’s lividity and pent up rage burst forth. He tore the circlet off his head and threw it against the wall, bending it out of shape. The scars on his back felt like a dozen hot pokers were digging into his skin as he clawed at his stifling getup.

“Ӕlfstan!” Gale called out, approaching Ӕlfstan, who spun to face him with a look of malice instead of the earlier pain. What was once a hint of concern morphed into disgruntlement within Gale, knowing an outburst was heading his way. 

“You so much as breathe in my direction and I will gut you!” Astarion hissed the words, jabbing a finger towards Geir, catching the Viking’s unimpressed eye roll. 

“With what weapon, I wonder? To my knowledge, I am the one in possession of an axe and a sword, one that any pathetic blade of yours would pale in comparison to. I have no intention of laying with you, and shall kindly take my spot by the hearth if that's what you are worried about,” Gale returned, moving as far from the infuriating Saxon as possible. He had followed the Saxon back to their chamber at the Baron’s silent behest and was already regretting it. He was trying to remain civil, but even just a short time in Ӕlfstan’s presence was already grating his nerves. It seemed he had been wrong about the Saxon’s fire being extinguished entirely.

“How dare you turn your back on me, you animal ,” Astarion gritted out harshly, stomping over to grab the towering Dane by the bicep, attempting to turn him back around, to no avail. The man was as sturdy as a stone wall. Then, a foreboding energy encompassed Astarion as he looked up, meeting what he could only consider a near murderous gaze emanating from those rich blue eyes.

“An animal, you say? Tell me, Ӕlfstan, why I should not wring your neck for what your people have done?” Gale responded with narrowed eyes, working to remain calm in spite of the whirlwind of anger brewing in him.

Astarion took a step back, but did not back down. “What my people have done? Surely you jest, otherwise you are out of your mind. My people allowed you filthy heathens on our lands, where you terrorize—”

Gale was on him like a flash of lightning. “And your people are the reason a third of my village has been slaughtered, why my father was slain defending our home despite years of peace.”

Astarion furrowed his brows. He opened his mouth to protest but was swiftly silenced by the oncoming rampage. 

“Baldursgata has done nothing to earn the ire of your people. While a few of us participated in raids on forts along the coast, the majority of the people in my village were farmers , innocent of any wrongdoing. I was looking forward to spending the rest of my days as one with my future wife by my side, and at least a few children, tilling the fields until my dying breath.” Gale honed his gaze to stare directly into those rust-coloured eyes.

Astarion stiffened, that battle-hardened look from Geir boring into him and anchoring him in place as the Dane continued.

“Instead, I find myself here, married under Christian ceremony to a man who has done nothing but go out of his way to make things harder than they should be with his contempt. I felt a sliver of compassion towards you when your father struck you that day. But now, upon witnessing just how unruly you are, I regret ever feeling any empathy. For such a beautiful man, you are rather fetid inside, full of rot. We may be married in name, but I will never claim you as my husband,” Gale stated, the finality of the word ringing clear.

He thinks I’m beautiful? No. Astarion punted that alarming thought to the side, shaking with rage. Geir finding him beautiful should not make a giddy feeling bloom in him. “Fine by me! My life has been nothing but shit since the day I was born, and being forced into this marriage has just proven that God truly has forsaken me. You know it, too. You threw out that line to rub it in. If my putrid personality keeps you at bay, then I will be sure to put it out whenever we share a space… Gale. ”

Upon hearing his nickname fall from the plump—no, the aggravating lips of the little Saxon, Gale swore he could feel steam coming from his ears. “Where did you hear that?” he grumbled, low and dangerous.

Astarion shrugged and inspected his fingernails, but not without a sense of apprehension chilling up his spine at the Viking’s tone. “I overheard those…warrior women of yours talking. While I couldn’t understand a word they were saying, they kept repeating the term ‘Gale’. I thought I was simply mishearing until I heard ‘Geir’ mixed in. It was rather easy to put two and two together.” 

Astarion had actually inferred it. There was enough similarity between ‘Geir’ and ‘Gale’ to make the jump to it being reference to one and the same man. Luckily for him, his guess bore fruit in the form of an aggrieved Dane, whose hands formed fists. Just to goad him further, Astarion added, “ Honestly, it's rather fitting. You’re like a gust of wind that ruins a good hair day.” 

Gale snarled and pointed a finger directly into Ӕlfstan’s face. “You do not have the privilege of using that name with me. You will refer to me as Geir Dagrsson, and nothing more.” Then, with unrestrained pettiness he tacked on, “ Astarion. ”

The hitch in Ӕlf— Gale quickly corrected himself, Astarion’s —breath told Gale he had struck a chord, one he planned to strum just to annoy the man whenever he could in retaliation.

“How did you learn that name?” Astarion growled through his teeth, jaw clenching. Which of my siblings told him? Was it Petras, that snivelling bastard?

“It would seem I also have a tendency to eavesdrop on conversations not meant for my ears.” Gale grinned savagely, pleased at how easily he was able to rile up Astarion with just mention of the name. “Your brothers were discussing something in the halls and I merely happened to walk by. They went silent rather quickly when I inquired who they were referring to, and it was simple to deduce they meant you in their whispers.” Straightening to his full height, Gale taunted, “Sounds like they were doing it to ridicule you.”

Astarion scowled and stood firm. Pehtwine was sure to have been involved if what Geir—Gale, Astarion caught himself—said was true. The only two siblings who made fun of his chosen name were Ymma and Pehtwine, at least to his face. Astarion squared his shoulders, and met Gale’s stance, showing no fear.

“Well, the same goes for you, Gale. You do not have the right to call me Astarion, because that is reserved for those I deem family.” Not that most of them used it anyways. Damn my brothers for letting it slip for Gale’s ears to pick up on. Astarion tilted his head up. He glared into the deep sapphire eyes of the person who had displaced Pehtwine as the top rank of his ‘most hated’ list.

The sound of his nickname in such a whiny voice was truly beginning to piss Gale off. “Fascinating, because according to your laws and customs, we are now considered family, are we not? That means I am obligated to use it, Astarion. ” Gale had no intention of backing down, and clearly, neither did Astarion. “You should mentally prepare yourself to hear it from me.”

Astarion had no response to the statement initially, and while it angered him to admit it, Gale was not entirely wrong. His eyebrows furrowed as the tempest brewed inside him, while his face twisted into a deep frown. The words formed upon his tongue. “By that logic,  I will call you Gale , and no amount of shouting, yelling or otherwise will change my mind. If you think you are stubborn, then you have another thing coming, Viking.”

They stared at each other, unwaveringly, until Gale broke the deadlock and returned to his original plan to get as far away from Astarion as the room permitted. 

How he wished Þara could be in here with him, but she was relegated to staying with Sigrid until they left for home. Judging by Astarion’s behaviour he would likely fuss and make a scene about it until his beloved raven was removed from the room. Gale certainly had no intent to share his telepathic link ability with the little Saxon, and hoped the need for it to come to light would never arise.

Astarion huffed indignantly and went towards the bed. He practically ripped off his clothing, uncaring of any damage that would draw his father’s fury. Listening to Gale boast about his loving family, which was a stark contrast to his own by leagues, had been too much to bear, and even in his retreat, he could not escape the man’s presence while confined to the same quarters.

Once left in nothing but his undershirt and trousers, Astarion promptly scrambled up under the covers, pointedly turning his back towards Gale. The stupid oaf would be out of his hair as soon as he came up with a solid plan to get rid of him. Thus far, nothing he had thought of would be successful. It was rather frustrating and had further deflated him as the day and celebrations had dragged on. Astarion had considered staging an assassination, but doing something so brazen while still within the walls of Ipswich was borderline lunacy. And his chances of finding someone close by willing to shoulder the brunt of the Baron’s well-known wrath was a difficult sell. But he was not one to give up so easily. 

Suddenly, Gale’s earlier words returned to his mind. Did the Dane truly think him pretty? Astarion knew he was blessed in the looks department, and his meticulous care of his appearance was one thing he prided himself on. It should not surprise him that even Gale found him attractive, loathsome as the heathen was.

Amidst the clattering of metal behind Astarion was a rustling of clothing, and when he peeked over his shoulder, he was once again offered a view he had seen just days prior. Gale was undressing, and against his better judgement, Astarion kept watching.

In the flickering firelight, every sinewy back muscle rippled as the tunic crested past the Viking’s long braided hair. Those tattoos once more caught Astarion’s attention, lingering longer than he should have. When Gale began to turn his way, Astarion rapidly went about pretending he was already asleep. He didn’t want the bastard catching him ogling.

Despite his hatred for Gale, Astarion knew he could only go so long denying that he found the man rather…good looking. Not just good looking if he was being honest. Gale was the  most handsome man he had come across by a long shot, and his earlier reaction to the Viking as he stood before the doors of the church attested to that. 

He had always thought Danes were foul, ugly creatures, and had heard stories tell much the same. If there was any silver lining in his sorrowful story, at least his father had the sense of not shackling him to some old sod with a foot already in a grave. Not that his current fate was any better. If there was any consolation to be found, Astarion begrudgingly had to admit that in spite of being a boorish man, Gale had surprisingly soft lips.

The unbidden thought planted itself firmly in place, much to Astarion’s chagrin. He should be disgusted, repulsed, yet instead his mind seemed intent on reminiscing about that loveless kiss instead.

Shifting under the covers to a more comfortable position, Astarion let himself drift off, hoping to stave off any more thoughts about the man standing just a short distance away

Across the room, Gale finished preparing himself for slumber. Folding his tunic into a makeshift pillow, he put it down on the fur rug, and placed his axe close to the fire, but within reach. His father’s blade also rested nearby. Normally he would sleep in the nude, but he would not even consider that an option now that he was sharing sleeping quarters with Astarion.

Gale spared a glance towards the direction of the bed, where the man in question was quietly breathing as he slept. The Saxon was facing away from him, only his shaggy white curls poking above the luxurious duvet.

Gale found himself perplexed by Astarion. The look of pain as he had fled from the hall, paired with their shouting match, was still fresh in Gale’s mind—about his life being shit from the moment he was born. Gale struggled to believe it. For a man as beautiful as Astarion, who was a noble’s son no less, surely it had to be spoiled hyperbole. While Gale’s own station could be considered on par with Danish royalty, and while he certainly was in this mess rather begrudgingly, he never once felt his own life since birth was so miserable.

Then Gale thought back to the harsh treatment Astarion had received from the Baron. Gale could not recall the last time his mother or late father had disciplined him like that. Yet the Baron had no qualms about striking Astarion as a grown man. Astarion’s outburst in the antechamber during the exchange of dowries had been excessive, yet Gale still felt the Baron had been rather heavy-handed, even if Gale’s sympathy was starting to run dry.

At the mention in his mind of the word ‘hand’, the recollection of Astarion’s hand in his own flooded his senses. Along with it came the memory of how at peace the man had seemed under the morning sun during the baptism. The way his serene expression had caught the streaming rays of the sun while basking in its glow was seared into Gale’s brain, regardless of his attempts to purge himself of it. What would those soft, dainty hands feel like on his skin? Caressing his beard, trailing down his chest, until ending up between his—

Gale knitted his brows as he forced that insane thought to come to a halt.  He was devoted to one person and would never betray her, so he needed to nip these ridiculous fantasies constantly assailing him in the bud. Astarion was his husband in name only and that was that, regardless of how often his thoughts deviated towards those soft palms. Or those plump lips…

Gale violently shook his head in a vain attempt to dislodge another alarming image creeping its way in there. The kiss had been a means to an end, a performance. He had not done it willingly, and he had not committed it as an act of infidelity. So why did guilt hover over him? Why had he seemingly enjoyed it?

Now another slew of thoughts barraged him, and they were centred on Mýrún. He had promised himself, and Þara, that once all was said and done, he would send Þara back to Baldursgata. He could only hold off for so long.

So he reached out.

Þara, tomorrow morning when you are able, please return to Baldursgata in my stead, Gale communicated telepathically. The reply was immediate.

Of course, Mr. Dagrsson. I would assume my first stop would be your mother, prior to visiting Mýrún? Þara asked him.

Yes. Let me know when you reach the village, and we will go from there. My mother needs to be made aware of the news above all. And then… Gale trailed off.

As if sensing his reason for hesitation, Þara picked up where he left off. I will travel to Mýrún’s home so that you may relay the message of the situation to her. I will try my best to reassure her for you Mr. Dagrsson, but be prepared that she may come charging through the gates of Ipswich once she learns of what happened.

That was what Gale was afraid of. Mýrún had nearly marched to the longhouse to argue with his mother about everything, and would certainly show no fear of the Baron. With a resigned sigh and the dreadful sensation of defeat cloaking him, Gale laid down on the fur and rested his head on the makeshift pillow, looking over at Astarion one final time.

We will just have to deal with it should it come to pass. For now, we should rest. It’s been a rather trying time and I’d prefer not to be deprived of much needed rest any further, Gale replied. Following a quick affirmative from Þara, Gale pulled his discarded cloak over his body and let himself doze off, hoping tomorrow would be a better day.

----

Cadwallon rode towards the outskirts of Ipswich without his usual escort of Dunnstan behind him. Where he was going was within reach of the burh, so he was not concerned about his relative safety. The festivities had died down and the grooms had retired to the designated marital chamber, albeit due to an outburst from his youngest brat of a son. At least the theatrics gave him a moment to slip away unfettered.

He entered the boundary of the cemetery, and made his way towards the central mausoleum where his forefathers were entombed, as well as his late wife. Standing next to the entrance, as she said she would be, was Vígdís. Beside her was Goda, idly swaying until he spotted his arrival.

Cadwallon tried to suppress a scowl. Goda was still a revolting sight to witness, one that churned the stomach. While he was glad to have the man back among the living, so to speak, it was taking time to get used to being so near the equivalent of a shambling corpse. At least the newly raised revenant made his home guarding the cemetery, hiding from anyone who ventured to visit loved ones long since passed.

“Vígdís,” he stated as he arrived, turning his head to look at Goda who bowed his way. “Goda.”

“Sire, it is good to see you again,” Goda replied, reverence in his tone.

Vígdís took a step forward to meet Cadwallon. “I am glad to see you got my message. I take it that the wedding proceeded as planned?”

“It’s hard to miss a message when it’s rattled into one’s brain in a sinister whisper,” Cadwallon sneered out. While he was working with Vígdís and the other Hel worshippers, he still did not appreciate such menacing magics poking into his mind. “And yes, aside from a few minor occurrences, everything has happened as devised thus far. Now to the question at hand. Why did you request me to come here?”

Vígdís slowly turned and looked at the mausoleum structure, silently inspecting it, before steering her gaze towards him again. “Your wife is buried here.”

Cadwallon lifted an eyebrow. What a strange statement. He had never mentioned his wife to her. While it was common knowledge she had long since passed, unease welled into the pit of his stomach. “Yes, she is. Why?”

“I promised you a miracle, and that was achieved via raising your fallen executioner. Now that you have joined our cause, I wanted to extend the offer of having your wife returned to you as well,” Vígdís declared.

Cadwallon didn’t dare breathe. Did Vígdís know of his deeper motivations? He had never let them slip. While he was temporarily on the same side as the heathen, there was little trust to be had. “Why do you offer it?” he asked, measured and calm.

“Do you not want her returned to you once again, but whole and in one piece?” Vígdís replied, staring at him with no hint of emotion.

Cadwallon considered his words carefully. “Yes. I would. But I’m not naïve enough to take your word just because we are part of a temporary alliance. You are here for a reason, and my wife is just an excuse.”

Vígdís laughed in a quiet, menacing way, one that caused Cadwallon to bristle in discomfort. “There is indeed a catch to the offer. I’m sure the others informed you of your role, and the finer points of the plan?”

Cadwallon could remember it, clear as crystal, when Osgyth and Godric had explained his purpose—using Goda to systematically kidnap Saxons, bring them back to the cave, and convert them into an army or draugr. His fellow noble conspirators were already doing so with their risen vassals. “I do. Are you here to give me the all-clear to round people up?”

Vígdís shook her head. “Not quite. Once the time is right, I will send you the command. Obviously that will occur once the Danes that are staying here, and by extension, your son, vacate Ipswich and return to Baldursgata. We need to give the people of East Anglia the impression that peace has been achieved between all the inhabitants. I am keeping an eye on things, so don’t concern yourself with trying to contact me.” Vígdís shot him a smile, one that lacked any warmth. “Should you wish it once those plaguing your lands have been eradicated, I will have my disciples revive your wife, make her whole, soft flesh and sturdy bone once more. But to accomplish that would require a large sacrifice…and your word that my people may settle East Anglia unfettered.”

Cadwallon gazed at the mausoleum, contemplating the prospect presented to him. He knew that what he was about to do, sending Goda to abduct random innocent Saxons throughout East Anglia, was a terrible sin. God would never forgive him for it. Yet God had never sought to offer him anything like what was being presented to him. 

Cadwallon met Vígdís’ eyes. The barter of allowing Hel Worshippers to settle in East Anglian lands, so that his wife could walk alongside him once more was more than just a tempting offer. It was one he would not pass up. “I will have Goda collect as many souls as required to build up your army, and we can discuss the details about you and your people living in East Anglia once everything is set to right. But only if you keep your word—that you will revive my wife.”

Vígdís’ face morphed from an overall expressionless visage to a sinister glimmer. “Then we have an accord.”

Before Cadwallon could say anything more, a dark, shimmering shadow, darker than dark, enveloped her, and she vanished into the night. Just Goda remained, patiently waiting for instruction.

Cadwallon spared the mausoleum one last look, before training his attention onto Goda. “Once the time is upon us, I will summon you. Be ready for the task.”

When Goda merely bowed, Cadwallon turned on his heel and headed back towards Ipswich.

Chapter Text

Gale woke up to the smell of burnt embers still fizzling in the fireplace, and the sound of birds cooing just beyond the perimeter of the walls. At first, he thought he had woken up from a nightmare—hoped it had all been a nightmare, in fact. Hoped that he had dreamed everything from the moment his mother had decreed he was to marry a Saxon, and that it had all simply been vivid and jarring enough to appear real.

But the sleeping form of Astarion on the bed and the new ring encircling Gale’s finger blew that out of the water immediately. 

Gale sighed in resignation, staring up at the ceiling as the events of the previous day settled themselves in his mind. The marriage ceremony where they spoke the vows to remain true and loyal to each other, when in reality, they were hollow murmurs. The exchange of swords that was symbolic, yet meant nothing. Their rings were little more than trinkets. Then there was the chaste kiss….

Even now, Gale’s mind troublingly circled back to Astarion’s mouth. A mouth that hurled insults and condescension when they had verbally sparred in this very room, yet one that was so softly pliant when kissed.

Gale frowned, not liking the trajectory of his mind as of late. He needed to clear out all the disturbing thoughts that seemed to centre on Astarion, and remove the vexing degree of temptation surrounding the little Saxon who he was now joined to in ‘holy matrimony’—whatever that meant. 

But first, he needed to check in with his dear friend now that he was awake.

Þara? Gale sent telepathically, hoping to catch the raven before she departed.

Mr. Dagrsson? What is it?

Gale sighed in relief upon hearing her voice through the connection. He rose out of his makeshift bed and collected his things as quietly as he could so as to not alert Astarion that he was up. Gale required time to process everything properly, to break apart every piece of their ridiculous yet necessary quarrel, if only to know how to better handle similar situations. He had a suspicion petty squabbles would be frequent between them.

Þara, are you still in Ipswich?

Yes. I was about to leave. I can sense the urgency in your voice, Mr. Dagrsson. Was there a change of plans?

Meet me in my previous room. I have something for you, and I want to see you off. Gale quietly tiptoed his way out of the bedroom following the message. He gingerly opened the door, wincing when a tiny creaking noise came from the hinges. By the grace of the All-Father, Astarion did not rouse, and Gale released the breath he was holding.  

Gale did a sweep of the hallway beyond the bedroom and found it empty. Quietly closing the door behind him, he marched himself down to his prior lodgings to change out of his formal wear into something more suitable for clearing his mind. A set of light trousers and a linen shirt would do.

Upon entry into his original bedroom, he found Þara already sitting at the edge of bed pensively, before shifting her beaked head to face him.

“Oh Þara, you are truly a sight for sore eyes,” Gale expressed, the weight of a boulder tumbling off his shoulders. He tossed his weapons and discarded clothing onto the bed as she peered up at him.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Dagrsson?" Þara inquired, drifting closer towards him before hopping onto his arm which he extended in invitation.

Much was wrong in Gale’s viewpoint, but nothing Þara could change or affect. However, being near her again brought some much needed comfort. “Truthfully, I think we all know the answer to that question. Finding myself married, waking up and thinking it was all some restless dream only for it to be proved reality. I didn’t imbibe in any of the ale last eve, Þara, and you know I like a good drink.”

Þara gave a theatrically scandalized gasp. “Well, that is certainly not the Mr. Dagrsson I know! I had hoped you would at least find some enjoyment in the feasting, if nothing else.”

Gale shrugged. “I did participate in a boast, only for Astarion to leave the hall in a flurry of anger when I was done. The Baron was certainly displeased about that so I gave chase, only for us to break out into a shouting match. Some choice words were used.” A pang of guilt hit Gale over his role in the argument, but he brushed it off, not intending to dwell on it. Both he and Astarion were tossed into things against their will in the end, and dealing with such a nettlesome man was sure to try his patience on a good day.

Þara tilted her head inquisitively. “Is Astarion a nickname of sorts for Ӕlfstan? I didn’t expect you to make nice with him if you had such a heated debate last night.”

Gale pursed his lips, internally cursing his slip-up. Revealing the true circumstance leading to him calling Ӕlfstan ‘Astarion’ would likely result in a motherly scolding from Þara. Thinking back on their debacle last night, both of them had descended into rather childish tendencies. But it was too late to back out of things, now that they both impulsively promised to goad each other with their respective monikers. “It is. We…mutually decided to refer to each other by our nicknames going forward, considering we are now technically family.”

Þara, ever an astute and intelligent raven, gave him a sceptical look at his boldfaced lie. He could tell she was battling between wanting him to expand on this information, or tucking it under her wing for a rainy day to exercise her interrogation skills. “I see. Well, out of respect I shall continue to refer to him as Ӕlfstan, if that’s all the same with you. Was there anything else you wished to discuss?”

“There is. But first, I saved you a little something from last night.” Gale reached into his pocket and pulled out the wrapped piece of salmon and presented it to her. “A small breakfast to fill your stomach before the journey ahead.”

Þara briefly inspected the seasoned meat, before grabbing hold of it with a talon. “That was very thoughtful of you Mr. Dagrsson.” She began to peck at the cooked fish, tearing chunks off with ease and gobbling them down.

Gale gave her a fond smile. “It’s the least I could do. You have a journey ahead of you, and there is no need to rush yourself. Let me know as soon as you arrive in Baldursgata, and I will seclude myself as we commune if required.”

Þara inclined her head in agreement, finishing the last morsels of the impromptu meal. “As long as the skies are clear, I should arrive by nightfall. If that is all, then I shall take my leave, Mr. Dagrsson. Try to keep out of trouble while I am away.” 

Gale chuckled, reaching up to pet Þara on the head lovingly, before walking her to the window. With one final shared look between them, she took off into the early morning skies towards home. 

He watched her soar off along the tendrils of the crisp breeze, wishing he could join her. Alas, he was to remain for a spell longer in Ipswich to tie up any final loose ends. But likely, by the end of the week, they would be on the road to Baldursgata.

Returning to his bedside, Gale stripped himself of his trousers and smalls, neatly folding the pants and his shirt from last night on top of his bed, tossing his undergarments into a wicker basket to wash later. Normally, he would clean himself in the morning, but his planned outing to let off some built up steam took precedence, for it would lead to heavy perspiration. Better to wash after such expenditure instead of prior.

After dressing himself in more comfortable garments, Gale turned his attention to his father’s sword that lay atop the bed. He grasped the hilt and inspected the sharpened, cutting edges, feeling its weight balancing out in his hand. Now that his mind wasn’t swirling with a million thoughts, he could fully admire the craftsmanship. The blade was double-edged and the grip was solid thanks to a leather-wrapped tang. It was smaller than he remembered, only measuring as long as his arm from shoulder to fingertips. Gale recalled how his father would wield it, bashing fast and true into the links of mailshirts, bleeding out those who dared to attack Baldursgata.

Gale arm dropped to his side uselessly, the wide part of the blade resting against his outer thigh as he concentrated on the more recent memory. The one where he was fighting alongside his father, valiantly defending their home together while battling a wave of Saxon invaders, only for a poison-tipped arrow to land in his father’s shoulder.

The metal of the hilt dug into Gale’s palm when his fist tightened around it. He had been right there, in the middle of the skirmish as the Saxons retreated, ready to claim victory once more, before glimpsing his father collapsing to the muddy and bloodied ground, foaming at the mouth and gasping for air. No amount of seiðr could have negated the potency of the poison, and he had watched his father die in his arms through a coward’s weapon instead of the sword of an honourable foe. While his father found death in the glory of the battlefield, and he was in Valhalla amongst warriors, Gale always felt his chest seize knowing that a spineless Saxon was the reason for it.

Gale snapped himself out of his stupor, finding his vision slightly blurred and out of focus. He placed the sword to the side. It was not his weapon to wield in the end, and it would return to the safety of the longhouse when they made it back to Baldursgata. For now, he turned his attention to his rune-inscribed axe.

His nose wrinkled in annoyance. Promising to abstain from seiðr while in Ipswich still bothered Gale. It was his lifeblood, something he both revered and depended on. Yet he was a man of his word to a fault, if marrying a Saxon was not proof enough despite his attempts to reverse the unfortunate outcome. However, nowhere had the Baron specified in their little deal that he could not use seiðr while out of sight, or in private abodes.

An oversight perhaps, but Gale had briefly tested his powers following the baptism to see if he still had the gods' favour, so there was no harm in using some seiðr now, especially with no one around to witness it.

Quiet as a mouse, Gale whispered an incantation. His eyes glowed, hands emitted a bright light of a similar hue, and he aimed the spell towards his axe. The ashwood handle doubled in length, and the blade widened its cutting edge. His axe was now larger than a wood cutter’s in size, but would still be a breeze to handle thanks to the leather grip. Danr’s maker’s mark was stamped into the steel and the edge was still honed to perfection.

As the hum of energy enveloping him dissipated, Gale took the weighty axe into both hands and tested its balance. Usually he was fine with his axe in its regular form, but he needed a proper outlet, something to work his body laboriously and sharpen his mind prior to even contemplating breakfast.

Leaving the room, he rested the axe against his shoulder, and headed directly for the sparring and training yard, where he was intercepted by none other than Dunnstan.

“Oh, Sir Geir!” Dunnstan greeted him formally, but also stood directly in his path, blocking the entrance to the training quarry.

Gale inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Dunnstan. I am looking to swing my axe for a little while, to ensure my skills are sharp.”

Dunnstan fidgeted in place. “I promise you’re safe within these walls, Sir,” he said. “Besides, wouldn’t you prefer to train in private? Where the common rabble aren’t?”

Gale tossed his head sideways. His braids felt a little loose today and were likely not going to serve their intended purpose. “What makes you think I won’t go up against the common rabble in a fight? You know what they say. Practice makes perfect, and my life happens to depend on it.”

Dunnstan eyed him warily before shuffling to the side. Gale marched past him, paying the man no further heed as he passed through the myriad of guards sparring, wooden spears, polearms, and shields in hand. The training grounds were little more than a flat patch of dry earth surrounded by turf, worn down by dozens of feet. Most of the guards stilled to observe as Gale made his way towards the centre of the arena.

Gale stopped, quickly surveying all the men staring back at him, before bracing his feet into the dirt. Time to show these Saxons how to really fight.

----

CRACK!

Astarion recoiled when the whip bit into his back, clenching his jaw shut to prevent loud sobs threatening to escape him. The jagged stone floor dug into his knees and shins, splitting the pain currently devastating his body, causing him to tremble within the chains holding his arms to the wall. Someone screamed behind him—it sounded like Deorwyn—and another voice shouted back at her to shut up.

CRACK!

Another lash landed on the open wound of his back, flaying more skin off and leaving a caustic burn behind. This time, a muffled cry slipped out, and he heard his father’s pleased hum in response. Somebody else was whispering a prayer feverishly in the corner, probably Æbbe. Astarion didn’t dare join in, or even make another sound. The less Astarion screamed, the sooner Goda and his father would grow bored of him, so Astarion pressed his lips into a thin line.

CRACK-CRACK!

Two successive strikes ravaged his back, but this time he kept silent, nearly biting his tongue off from the effort. The blood was running in rivulets down his skin and soaking through his waistband. It seeped into the spaces between his bare toes.

“That’s enough, Goda. I believe this pathetic little wretch learned his lesson.” 

Astarion didn’t dare move, let alone breathe out in relief. If he did anything of the sort, the whipping would continue. They would figure he had lost all the fight in him if he fell silent.

“As you command, sire,” Goda replied, and Astarion could hear as the whip dragged along the slick ground, followed by the sound of the cell door creaking open. Then his father’s voice filled the empty silence.

“You should be grateful that I even allowed a rotten little mongrel like yourself to remain in my household, and were it not from your mother, you would have been tossed into the streets after you were born. You are to remain in this cell indefinitely, until I deem you worth releasing, and only once you have repented for your behaviour.” Then, his father’s voice dropped into a low snarl. “The next time you embarrass me, I will have Goda break a few bones for good measure.”

Astarion’s eyes bolted open and he clawed at his chest, feet kicking away at the covers binding him to the bed. Stale air filled his lungs as his mind slowly quelled, realizing he had suffered a nightmare once again.

He steadied his breathing, calmed down his racing heart, and closed his eyes in an effort to speed up the process. The nightmare must have been stirred from the inflammation in his scars last night.

Getting flayed, all for trying to make a joke that didn’t land with the guests. And the marks remained as a permanent reminder of it.

Astarion let out a dejected sigh. The startling clarity of that day was one he would never forget. Any further attempts to smile and make merry had vanished. His will to press on became a bitter existence. That day had been the moment when he realized just how cruel and unforgiving his father was. It had not been his first whipping, having known that pain since the age of ten, but never had it been this long, deep, or cutting.

He turned his head, looking to see if his new husband was still asleep, only to find all traces of the man gone. For a moment, Astarion felt a spark of hope that maybe the marriage had been nothing but some grand concocted nightmare on top of this memory-induced one, but then the bent circlet laying on the floor demolished that construct immediately. As did the distinct tightness around his ring finger, indicating the union was truly set.

Gale had vacated the room at some point. At least it gave Astarion the time to compose himself and get out of bed without feeling watched.

Astarion’s thoughts drifted back to their fight, still harbouring discontent over it. He was not to blame for Gale’s father’s passing, so the gall of the Dane to even insinuate such an absurdity still bothered Astarion. It may have been a generalized statement about all Saxons, but felt rather pointed in his opinion. 

However, now that the original heat of the moment had long since passed, he did not fault Gale for being so hard-pressed about it. While he did not display it out in the open, Astarion secretly mourned the loss of a mother he did not know, speculating on how different his life might have turned out if she had survived his birth. Sadly, it was one thing he would never experience, and Gale’s boast about a mother’s love had been too much to shoulder last night.

A night that should have been the happiest of his life was instead mired in sorrow, anger, and despair.

Finding the inner strength to rise, Astarion went about cleaning himself in the small wash basin. The smells from last eve’s festivities still clung onto his skin, and served as a desolate reminder. 

He dressed himself in a simple pair of grey trousers with a brown shirt, before tying a cloak over his shoulders to keep out any unexpected chill. He would have normally opted for something more refined and a ring or brooch, but there was little reason for that occasion. Drab on the inside, drab on the outside.

Astarion sighed, knowing that another day of keeping his head down while meandering through the burh awaited him. He pushed the bedroom door open, and immediately caught wind of what sounded like a fight, which included the clang of metal and jeers.

Astarion had planned to go and find some food due to his growling stomach. He had done nothing else but push his meal around on his plate during the feasting, not feeling particularly celebratory, and the byproduct was feeling quite famished this morning. But innate curiosity had him following the sounds.

He exited the praetorium into the courtyard, taking a longer route around the outsides of the buildings to avoid the passageways leading to his father’s hall. The sounds were coming from the flat patch of land outside the residence where he knew the soldiers trained. With Gale gone from the bedroom, paired with the cacophony, he had an inkling as to where his new Danish husband might be. His guess was correct as he entered the training quarry to an astounding sight.

Gale was nothing short of majestic as he swung his massive axe, and Astarion again found himself completely entranced. Sweat gleamed on Gale’s tanned skin as his muscles rippled with each dodge and parry, and his hair, now freed of braids or beads, flowed with every fluid movement as he shifted from one sparring partner to the other. The tattoos stood out, shifting and glistening under the heat of the sun.

Astarion could not tear his gaze away, catching the expression of happiness on Gale’s face, something Astarion had not felt outside of his entanglement with Sӕbeorht for an age. Astarion knew that the Danes prided themselves on their battle skills, and many who stood against them would weave tales of their immense prowess. 

The Danish views on life and war were similar enough to that of the Saxons’, and yet Gale and his fellow Vikings appeared so much more jubilant. Once more, Astarion spied a mirthful grin upon Gale’s face as he tussled and parried attacks, unadulterated joy as he bested each of his opponents.

And Astarion found himself yearning for a sliver of that happiness more profoundly than ever before. 

“Is that a hint of drool I see?” 

Astarion jumped at the familiar voice. Sharply turning around, he saw Wulf standing directly behind him, an amused grin on his face. Astarion frowned. “Wulf, you startled me! And I’m not drooling. Whatever gave you that ridiculous idea?” 

Wulf gave a teasing shrug, coming to stand next to Astarion. “Oh I don’t know. Perhaps the way you were eyeing your new husband like he’s a feast for you to indulge in? Makes me wonder what you both got up to after storming out of the hall last night.”

Astarion immediately bristled. “I wasn’t eyeing anybody. And nothing happened, you nosy ass. I’m just a humble observer.”

Ignoring the jab, Wulf shot up an eyebrow, grinning at him knowingly. “Since when did you take an interest in battle tactics?”

Astarion crossed his arms over his chest defiantly, facing Wyll head on. “Why, just this morning in fact. I realized we have an enemy within our walls who is oblivious to the danger he is in. Now shut up. We have the perfect opportunity to study him for any weaknesses.”

Wulf’s grin only grew, and when his eyes briefly flitted up to a spot somewhere behind Astarion’s head, it was clear that the Viking in question was headed their way. Astarion steeled himself.

Gale had finished duelling with the others just moments ago before he spotted Astarion standing off to the side in conversation with the Wulf fellow. Briefly thanking his sparring partners, shaking sweaty hands, and commending them on holding their ground, Gale tossed his axe over his shoulders, resting the elongated handle across them, and made his way towards his spitfire of a ‘husband’.

Once he reached them, thrumming from the exertion, he heard a haughty scoff from Astarion, no doubt noticing his presence. It irked him, but Gale had decided in the middle of sparring to try and at least be cordial, if only to make the remainder of his stay in Ipswich, and life back home in Baldursgata, more bearable.

Beside him, Astarion’s arms were crossed over his chest, and from Gale’s overhead vantage, he witnessed the moment Astarion’s lips dropped into a deep scowl. In turn, Gale’s upturned slightly at the obvious effect he had. Gale caught the way Astarion shot an annoyed look out of his periphery, before rolling his eyes with a ‘tsk’.

Gale would have burst out laughing if not for their curious onlooker.

“Ah, Geir. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. We have not had a chance to be formally introduced,” Wulf said, bowing his head. “My name is Wulf, son of Ulferth, and I am from one of the noble houses of Ipswich.”

Astarion exhaled harshly through his nose, wanting nothing more than to retreat to the sanctity of his bedroom, but it was already defiled by Gale’s looming presence. Nowhere was truly safe for him anymore, and the sole pocket of the burh that he could call his sanctuary had ceased to exist.

He could no longer run into Sӕbeorht’s embrace in times of emotional peril. He was stuck. Trapped. And irate.

“Now that you and Ӕlfstan are married, I would like to formally invite the two of you, as well as your entourage, to our home for a celebratory going-away feast. It will be held in four days, if that is amenable to you,” Wulf declared, which broke Astarion out of his thoughts.

Gale shifted his gaze between Astarion and Wulf, before addressing the invitation. “I am humbly honoured that you would have my presence in your home. Seeing as I am just a guest here, I will leave it up to my husband to decide on this matter. Should Astarion give the word, I will pass along the message.”

Astarion felt nauseated by Gale’s overly polite tone, but was even more irritated by the way his chosen name and new ‘title’ was pointedly being emphasized in the conversation. 

“Don’t worry, Wulf. We will be there. Gale, darling, go tell your friends,” Astarion said, intentionally mirroring Gale’s enunciation of his name.

Wulf raised an eyebrow, switching his gaze between the two of them quizzically. Astarion could almost hear the question forming in his friend's mind about the names they were referring to. But wisely, Wulf deigned not to comment on it. “I will let my father know, then. I look forward to hosting you both. I will take my leave now. Thank you for your time, Geir.”

When Wulf walked away from them, neither Gale or Astarion saw fit to acknowledge each other beyond a quick meeting of their eyes before Astarin left, cloak swishing as he disappeared from the training grounds.

Gale observed Astarion’s exit before shaking his head. Things were sure to remain incredibly tense for some time, and there was no use dwelling on things. Picking up his discarded shirt, Gale tossed it over his head and made his own way out of the arena, ready to bathe himself and enjoy the remnants of adrenaline still coursing through him.

----

Gale entered the shared quarters with all his belongings in tow and did a silent survey. The room was devoid of anyone else, namely Astarion, and Gale sighed in relief. Having a few moments to himself as he organized his things was a welcome reprieve. While the sparring earlier had assisted immensely, the rest of his morning, and day, had been soured.

Not long after leaving the arena in the morning, he ran into Dunnstan again. The guard told Gale that Baron Cadwallon had requested an audience. It was rather inconvenient, considering Gale was covered in sweat and his hair was a rat’s nest. But it would have been foolish to keep the Baron waiting to address those things so he followed along, prepared to face whatever was to come.

The Baron had been surprisingly lenient, no doubt due to the rumours spreading about how he and Astarion had run off to consummate the marriage with the utmost haste. While such whisperings were the norm, Gale was still rather miffed knowing they were occurring when they were vehemently untrue. But if it was keeping Cadwallon off their backs, then Gale was ready to swallow his pride. He doubted Astarion would feel the same.

That was until the Baron officially commanded that he vacate his original room, and move all his things to Astarion’s— the one they had spent the night in together. There was no use in protesting, for it was expected of a married couple to sleep in the same bed from the moment they were wed. But Gale made sure to delay it all until the last possible moment. 

Instead of following the Baron’s orders, he spent the day bathing, eating as much as his stomach would let him—which was surprisingly little despite all its gurgling to the contrary—and conferring with Káta, Lækný and Sigrid regarding future plans and when they would depart the city. He also informed them of the invitation from Wulf. 

Lækný had scoffed, questioning the relevance of the invitation, while Sigrid had appeared aloof and unaffected by it. However, Gale had noticed a tiny shift in Káta’s posture at the mention of Wulf, as well as the faintest, barely perceivable blush dusting her cheeks. 

While her demeanor was that of an imposing shield maiden, it would seem that even Káta was not immune to the charms of the noble who had joined her table last night. Out of all of them, Káta had the most exposure to Saxons considering her stint as a mercenary for Godric of Mercia, and Gale couldn’t help but wonder if this was the first time she was smitten with a Saxon.

Gale held no love for Saxons, but he was not one to stand in Káta’s way when she wanted something. And never before had she blushed at the mention of a person’s name in all the years he’d known her. It was quite intriguing. At least Wulf seemed to be a level-headed, reasonable man, if Gale’s first official meeting was any such indication. That noble character had more than likely drawn Káta in. While the shield maiden enjoyed spirited fights and hearty meals, Gale had a feeling she dreamed of a quieter life with a gentle husband, even if she never outwardly voiced it.

Following that, he checked in on Þara throughout the day as well, learning just a short while ago that she was not far from Baldursgata. The sun was nearly set, and she had anticipated reaching the village around then. With the bedroom to himself for the time being, and as long as Astarion did not come around in the immediate future, it was the perfect opportunity to wait for Þara to contact him.

Then, as if she heard him from so far away, Þara’s voice entered his mind.

Mr. Dagrsson, I have arrived in Baldursgata. I am approaching the longhouse as we speak. Are you prepared?

Gale tucked away the final pieces of his belongings and sat down at the edge of the bed, running a hand along the delicate embroidery of the covers and carvings on the posts. Surprisingly, the motions helped steady him. Alright, I’m ready.

Gale closed his eyes, muttering the words to the spell which allowed him to see through Þara’s eyes. He was suddenly soaring over the thatched roofs of Baldursgata, fondly gazing down at the people he knew winding down for the night. The tranquility of the flight transferred over the mental link, and Gale felt like he was back home despite the distance. Þara then swooped down and flew past the open doors of the longhouse, and Gale braced himself to speak to his mother.

Inside, standing in discussion with one of the village elders was his mother, always regal as her title of jarl demanded of her. As soon as she spotted Þara flying in and landing on the armrest of the throne, she finished whatever conversation she had been part of and politely dismissed the older man.

“Þara! It’s wonderful to see you again. I trust my son sent you with good tidings?” Møyfrid asked, coming to stand by the throne. She stroked Þara’s glossy feathers and Gale couldn’t help but smile fondly. He opened his mouth to speak but Þara beat him to it.

“It’s a pleasure to be in your company once again, Mrs. Dagrsson. I do bring news, and your son is eager to speak with you,” Þara said matter-of-factly.

His mother nodded, and addressed him through Þara. “Geir, my son. Is it done?”

Through the telepathic connection, he mentally relayed the words that came out of Þara’s beak. “Yes. I did as you asked, mother. The exchanges were made, and all the rites were conducted per Saxon tradition. We shall be returning to Baldursgata by the end of the week.”

Møyfrid’s expression did not carry the usual joy a parent would have, learning their child was wed. On her face was a pragmatic smile, one that Gale understood to be recognition of his noble sacrifice—not that he would deem it as such, personally.

“I know that this responsibility was a massive burden placed upon you, chiefly by me. But I’m glad to see that you followed through on it like we discussed,” Møyfrid stated.

Gale bit his tongue and held back on his desire to express just how pissed he still was about everything, and at the mention of the word responsibility again. While most of the initial indignation had abated overall, the underlying resentment from being used like a bartering chip still persisted. “The Baron is not one to take no for an answer,” was all Gale could come up with, hoping Þara was able to properly convey his attempt at humour.

“Indeed. So, tell me about your new husband,” his mother fired at him, eyes narrowed with interest. “Is he truly as handsome and vain as they claim?”

Gale had no desire to converse with his mother about Astarion, so he deflected the trajectory of the question. “I apologize mother, but I think it best to engage in this conversation upon my return instead of through Þara, if that’s alright. You will have a chance to see him for yourself and speak with him directly.” Unless some dastardly fate fell upon him, Gale thought to himself.

Unfortunately, his thoughts were not safe from Þara at present, and she silently poked him mentally as a form of scolding.

His mother huffed out a breath. “Fine. I will hold you to that then. I assume you have another visit you are hoping to make?”

Gale nodded, and in tandem, so did Þara. There was no explanation necessary for this leg of the trip, and they were all aware of it.

“Very well. Thank you for coming to share the news, Þara. I look forward to seeing you arrive over the horizon, Geir. The village misses you, as do I.” 

Gale felt a twang in his chest, torn between feeling angry at his mother for sending him here in the first place and missing her as well. The latter took precedence. “I miss you too, mother. We will be back before you know it.”

With quick goodbyes, Þara spread her wings and flapped her way out of the longhouse in the direction of Mýrún’s home. Gale quickly spotted the smoke rising through the hole in the roof, indicating his love was home.

Gale’s heart thudded in his chest with elation, finally getting to see Mýrún’s face once more, regardless of the dreadful news he was about to deliver. 

But when Þara dove through the roof and landed on the wooden banister of the bed, Gale instantly felt his heart stutter to a stop, before splintering inside his chest like a thousand arrowheads embedding into him simultaneously.

Mýrún was home, but she was not alone. And Gale could do nothing but watch through his raven’s eyes as his still beating heart was ripped from his chest.

His lover was fully naked, her back facing Þara, while sitting atop a man whose face he could not see. Her cries of passion and rolling of her hips told Gale all he needed to know as he saw everything unraveling before him through Þara’s own stunned gaze. The man’s hands appeared and grasped at Mýrún’s undulating hips, slipping lower to grab her rear as leverage. 

Mr. Dagrsson, I…, Þara began, but Gale quickly stopped her.

Þara, please, not now. Just…just leave and come back to Ipswich once you have had proper rest, Gale conveyed to her, all while holding back the incoming flood of emotions cracking through his steeled outer facade.

Without an additional word, Þara left the abode with haste. Mýrún likely didn’t even hear the flap of Þara‘s wings in departure over her wanton cries of pleasure. Sounds that were supposed to be for his ears only were now shared with another, and they rang around inside his head like a taunt.

Þara quietly soared towards a lone tree overlooking Baldursgata and sat there for a moment, talons tapping against the bark. Mr. Dagrsson?

Gale’s fingers rested on his thighs, ten pressure points.

Þara, thank you for making this long and arduous journey so swiftly. You have my unending gratitude as always. It’s getting late. Good night, Gale answered, nails digging small divots into his legs as he combatted the oncoming wave of fury.

Þara let out a heavy sigh. Alright. I shall head out for Ipswich in the morning. Have a good evening, Mr. Dagrsson.

The moment the connection was severed, the torrent unleashed.

----

Astarion trudged his way down the hall following the chewing out he inevitably received from his father. The whole day he had managed to avoid the man and his henchmen, knowing a harsh scolding awaited for his early departure during last night’s feast. It had been sheer luck that he had dodged most of his siblings and guards.

Until he had stumbled upon Leodmar walking with his wife and daughter through the halls just after dinner.

There had been no escape after that, with Leodmar relaying that their father had instructed him to pass along the following message to Astarion if they ran into each other. 

“If you see that little brat, tell him to come to the main hall this instant. We have important matters to discuss.”

Astarion still shivered when the words Leodmar told him replayed in his mind. They carried an unmistakable warning buried within: disobey and rue the consequences.

It was a miracle his father had not sent him to spend the night in the dungeon. But with their current guests, it would appear that the risk of bad publicity was more important than reteaching him the fifth Commandment. Astarion begrudgingly admitted to himself that Gale's presence had spared him a more grueling fate. He got to sleep in his bed tonight, instead of the cold and wet floor of the kennels.

Astarion approached his bedroom door, mild agitation growing. No doubt Gale had retired for the night, as was expected of him now that they were married. A heavy gloom hung over Astarion. He had no choice but to get used to his new roommate (better to think of it that way than husband ), at least for the time being, so he might as well go inside and try to get some sleep.

The moment his hand touched the doorframe, a sudden, anguished roar bellowed with such power it nearly rattled the door off its hinges. Astarion backpedaled a good distance, startled by the sheer volume, breathing hard and fast from the sudden kick of adrenaline. What the…

More loud cries and sobs penetrated through, leaving Astarion reeling in shock. That couldn’t possibly be Gale, could it? The big, strong Viking was not blubbering behind the door, surely. Astarion strode forward with purpose once he calmed his breathing, and opened the door, freezing at the scene occurring within the threshold.

Gale was pacing to and fro with a massive, pained scowl on his face that pulled the scar on his right eye taut. His blue eyes were glassy with a thin, watery sheen. His hands were balled into fists, and he had yet to acknowledge Astarion’s presence in the room. 

Astarion could only mutely observe, jaw parted in surprise and hanging loosely. Gale was muttering to himself in his Danish tongue, walking back and forth in a straight line, and already Astarion was fed up. The Viking would wear out a hole in the carpet at this rate.

“Pardon the intrusion,” Astarion attempted, unable to mask the sardonic tone, taking a proper step into his room.

“What do you want?” Gale shouted at him, ceasing his movements and leveling a stare so piercing Astarion thought he would be torn asunder from it.

“You’re rampaging around my bedroom!” Astarion finally found both his courage and voice, letting the door slam shut behind him.

Gale spun away, unable to look at Astarion, unable to stomach his presence. “It’s none of your business,” he spat out, body vibrating with rage. If only I had remained in Baldursgata, she would have had no reason to stray. I failed her, I failed in my promise and this is my punishment, Gale mentally beat into himself, fingernails digging into his palms just shy of drawing blood.

Astarion scoffed. “Excuse me, but you are in my room , and I will not have you demolishing it as a result of whatever tantrum has possessed you. It is very much my business, with your stomping around and seething.”

Gale’s anger dialled down half a notch, but the empty void inside him was replaced with slowly blooming sorrow. He stood quietly for a brief moment, trying to will away the fury still rushing through him so he could think clearly. It was unlike him to have such a temper, but a launched spear had landed directly in the centre of his chest, unraveling the deepest of pains and driving them to the surface. 

“I…I was betrayed,” Gale murmured, tension releasing from his arms as they hung listlessly by his sides. He moved to sit at the edge of the bed, the same spot from which he had watched everything unfurl before his very eyes. His elbows rested on his knees, and his head fell into his hands, tears beginning to well in his eyes. By the mighty gods, he was pathetic.

Astarion crossed his arms over his chest and quirked up an eyebrow. “Well, that’s rather vague.” He shuffled over to stand next to Gale, unsure of what to do. Seeing the Viking so…pitiful was not something he expected, and it felt like navigating an open field with no obvious direction or markers on the path.

Gale lifted his head but downcast his eyes and stared at the floor. He blinked the tears away. While his every instinct screamed at him not to share anything, Gale was simply too exhausted from this new turmoil to end up in another pointless argument again. Astarion was sure to press him further, and he had no energy to deal with it. And so the words flowed freely from him. “The woman I was set to marry in Baldursgata. Her name was—is—Mýrún. I found out she was with another man during my absence.”

Astarion was intrigued by this new information. Well, served the Dane right. Astarion himself was torn from Sӕbeorht and now Gale knew what it was like to lose someone precious to him. But there was one perplexing aspect Astarion could not wrap his head around. The means by which Gale learned his lover had been unfaithful. “And, pray tell, how did you come across that information, and so quickly?”

Gale practically wired his mouth shut, unwilling to divulge the truth. He had already said more than he intended. “That’s not important.”

Astarion laughed. “Oh, but you will find that it is. I have a sneaking suspicion of how, but I think it's better I heard it from the horse’s mouth, than continuing to speculate.”

Gale clenched his jaw. Astarion would not relent on this matter. He was headstrong and stubborn, as Gale had learned last night. There was no point in hiding things anymore. One way or another, the truth about his connection with Þara would be revealed, so it was better to rip off the bandage now instead of letting it continue to fester.

“My raven, Þara, flew back to Baldursgata to inform the jarl about the marriage. But I also tasked her with visiting Mýrún, to tell her about the grave situation and the effect it would carry regarding our future. Namely, your presence and our unfortunate union. Through Þara’s eyes I witnessed everything,” Gale explained, his gaze darting towards Astarion a few times in the process as the tears sprang anew.

Astarion listened intently, finding himself shockingly unfazed by the news that Gale’s freakish talking bird was involved, or that heathen magics were at play. Instead, he honed in on the fact that Gale was suffering from immense heartbreak, and a devious, diabolical plan brewed in Astarion’s head. One that would secure his freedom from Gale for certain. Something he could use to his advantage—a weakness in Gale’s internal armour.

He stepped closer to Gale, hiding his thoughts behind a veneered smile. Then he raised his arm and awkwardly patted Gale on the shoulder. “There, there.”

Gale turned his head around and stared at Astarion. While still roiling with the feelings of solemn guilt and devastating grief, Astarion’s sudden desire to comfort him was incredibly jarring. It didn’t sit well with Gale one bit and his eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”

“What? Can’t I try to make my husband feel better?” Astarion shot back with a wicked grin and nonchalant shrug, retracting his hand immediately when the energy in Gale’s gaze intensified.

“You are surprisingly calm upon learning I used magic and can telepathically communicate with my raven,” Gale noted, eyeballing Astarion and looking for any indicators of potential concern.

Astarion played it cool. “Following our first meeting, and your dubious little promise to my father to abstain from such foul practices, I am not shocked to find that you, a Dane, went back on your word. If anything, I’m surprised I didn’t encounter it sooner with you.”

Gale eyed Astarion warily. He didn’t trust the Saxon whatsoever, and the sudden about face was sickly sweet, almost nauseating. Now that he had revealed his use of seiðr within the grounds of Ipswich, effectively proving he had reneged on his agreement with the Baron, Gale pondered if Astarion was simply accepting things as they were, or putting up a facade. The fact that Astarion was not making a scene just added to turmoil.

Gale held his gaze a moment longer, before looking straight ahead. “I need some air. Don’t follow me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Astarion muttered in reply.

With that, Gale stood up, grabbing his axe along the way out of the room. He needed to be alone, to try and comprehend the truth, a truth he wanted to deny with every fiber of his being. Surely it was a mistake. Surely it wasn’t real. Surely Mýrún had not been unfaithful to him of her own free will. He didn’t want to believe that she would do such a thing to him, but there was no denying what he had seen.

The tempestuous feelings were a raging maelstrom inside him, and he was liable to explode in a fit of seiðr unless he found a secluded spot for some much needed solace and calm.

The site of his baptism, that spot by the river, would do.

Astarion remained in place until Gale exited the room before releasing the breath he had been holding. Being left alone gave him all the time in the world to devise his plan. Finally, a way out of this binding hell.

With his smaller stature and thinner frame, Astarion knew he was no match for Gale’s size and strength. But if he could get close enough to deliver the killing blow…

Yes. It could work. If he had to sully himself to achieve it, and lose everything he ever knew upon escape, so be it. Astarion was certain in his charms, and with Gale’s present grief, he would be too distracted to catch him crafting his scheme and executing it to perfection.

He just needed to make it past the gates of Ipswich before enacting it, and he had a week to prepare. His freedom was close at hand, and it would be by his own hand that he earned it.

Chapter Text

Gale followed Astarion’s lead through Ipswich as they all marched their way down towards Ulferth’s home. They walked in single file, with Astarion at the helm and Lækný taking up the rear.

Gale could almost hear the way his three companions were still brooding behind him despite having shared the news of Mýrún’s betrayal a few days ago. None of them had foreseen such an event, with Sigrid being the most perturbed, considering she never had a vision of it. None of the women knew Mýrún well enough beyond the blessings she would dole out in Freyja’s name and short conversations here and there. Aside from Gale, Mýrún did not interact much with others besides pleasantries, but she had always been kind and giving.

Of all his companions, only Káta and Þara had been around Mýrún long enough to form a neutral opinion. But his mother had perceived that something was wrong from the start, and her stern stance about not handing down a blessing should he marry Mýrún now made sense after his eyes were opened.

Much speculation had been shared amongst his entourage about who the potential man was, about whether the act had occurred under duress. But Gale already knew it was not forced. Mýrún had not been pinned to the bed or restrained, but on top, riding wantonly. She was not shouting in pain and fear, but moaning in ecstasy. Those sounds still plagued Gale even now, as he slowly came to terms with every agonizing fact and excruciating emotion.

Aside from his mother, his future title as a jarl, and a bratty Saxon for a husband, he had nothing left to return to in the place he called home. His fate was set in stone and sealed in parchment. All that was left to do was confront Mýrún in a few days’ time and sever the bond he thought they had shared. A heartwrenching notion, but one Gale knew he must complete.

As they marched on, Astarion shot a glance behind him towards Gale and the women in tow, trying to hide a sneer. At least they knew who was in charge and their better, seeing as he was the one at the front of the line.

Focusing his attention straight ahead, Astarion grumbled to himself under his breath. After Gale’s less than ceremonious exit from his bedroom-turned-shared-chambers that night, Gale had returned looking worse than before, red and puffy eyes indicating he had been crying. Not that Astarion had been moved in the slightest. No one had ever cared for his tears, so what did a Viking’s sorrow matter to him?

Gale had been no better than a wet rag, moping and quiet in the privacy of the bedroom before going to bed late in the night. The following days, he remained sullen but stoic in public. It was abundantly clear to Astarion that the Danes did not value any form of weakness, channeling it into anger instead. It explained Gale’s flagrant need to bash the training dummies with his axe until the wood splintered and sacks of straw disintegrated to dust.

Putting the thoughts out of his mind for now, Astarion concentrated on the path ahead, smoothing out his pristine clothing while judging the attire of those behind him. 

Astarion was wearing a red tunic and a wool cloak, standard fare elevated with an enamelled disc clasp pinned to his shoulder. On the other hand, Gale had foregone all of his admittedly refined garments, opting to shrug on a plain blue (not purple) kyrtill and a hood, as if to hide himself from the rest of the world and onlooking citizens. The fact that Gale had managed to muster himself and even dress in something half decent for the occasion at Wulf’s was a feat in itself. 

Thankfully, Gale’s companions made up for his lacklustre choices—a blessing, considering Astarion would have hated to be seen with an unfashionable and motley crew. 

Sigrid, the witch, had strings of beads around her neck and a dark strap dress held up by tortoise brooches. Her cloak was decorated with woven borders and Astarion wouldn’t have been surprised if she had stitched heathen runes into the pattern. Sigrid’s long black braid was studded with metal hairpieces throughout, and the charms on her staff made tiny clatter sounds with each step she took.

Káta was no less striking. She was vast, which was made all the more clear by the fact that her simple brown dress only came down to her calves and revealed the leg wraps that allowed her to move unhindered by brambles or brush. Even then, she didn’t skimp on flair either, adorning her hair with ornaments, much like Sigrid.

The same could not be said for the toadlike soldier. Lækný had insisted on dressing in her armour, taking her role as a guard too seriously. Amidst the quiet of the evening, the sound of her mailshirt was resonant.

In the middle of Astarion’s musings, he heard the language of the heathens suddenly start up behind him.

Sigrid whipped her head around. “Þarftu að vera í því?”

Lækný sniffed with her tiny snub nose. “Ok skilja okkur eftir óvarinn? Ek efi þat.”

“Jæja. Þat er ljótt.” Sigrid hoisted her dress as she stepped over a puddle.

Káta laughed. “Fátt er ljótt á Lækný.” She added, “Né þú.”

Astarion abruptly turned to them with a huff, causing all of them to stop, the women almost crashing into each other. If they were in England, they might as well all speak English. “What are you going on about?” he demanded tersely.

It was Gale who replied, rather brusquely, “Nothing that concerns you.” 

Astarion spluttered, slack-jawed as Gale pulled his hood further over his head. With a newly formed scowl, Astarion resumed walking, quickening his pace, not caring if he left his husband behind.

When they reached the wooden fences, they came to an immediate halt. Astarion had been to Ulferth’s before, but he still had to stop every time he visited. This was no resurrected Roman villa but a long hall house, built with oak and hazel and thatched with water reeds. Around the residence were apple and sweet chestnut trees, a far cry from his father’s concrete, walled estate. It was quaint, Astarion told himself. Unsophisticated. But that didn’t change how much more at ease he felt here than under those tiled roofs of his home.

As for Gale, he had to pause and stare for a moment. It was as if he were back in Baldursgata, with its peace and greenery. The structure in front of them was as grand as his mother’s longhouse and emanated the same sense of home, like he could stop here on a journey to be served ale or buttermilk and given a bed for the night, as any Dane ought to do.

To strengthen that notion, Wulf approached them from the doorway, no doubt eagerly waiting for their arrival, if the skip in his step was any indication.

“Ӕlfstan! Geir.” Wulf nodded towards Gale. “All of you.” He bowed before the women. “Be most welcome. My father is waiting inside. He’s glad to finally have the chance to speak to our Danish arrivals face-to-face.”

Gale could smell the firewood and the food cooking over it before he entered. Around the central fire, the tables were set with rounds of barley and wheat bread, braised root vegetables, and various stews and meats, including a wide dish of griddled trout with herbs. Cups and servingware were set in place. In the back of the room was a stern-faced man, who rose to his feet once everyone stepped into the sunken floor.

“Welcome,” he began. “I am Ulferth, the scirgerefa—sheriff—of Ipswich. I oversee its defenses and enforce legislation and decrees, but tonight, I will oversee your comfort. Please, sit.” 

Gale did as he was told, lowering himself onto the benches that lined the walls, and watched as Astarion and Wulf did the same. Thralls flocked around to pour each of them some ale. Just as Gale reached for his cup, Astarion swatted his hand away.

“Haven’t you learned to say grace by now?” Astarion hissed, scowling at him.

As Gale looked up, he noticed that Wulf and Ulferth had closed their eyes and clasped their hands together. Somewhat clumsily, Gale copied the motion. When his lids closed, he realized they were praying. Ulferth began to speak, thanking the Lord for this food they were about to receive and saying something about daily bread. Gale squinted his eyes open and cast a subtle glance at his companions. Káta had her head bowed. Sigrid had folded her hands, but her eyes were wide open. Lækný did neither, staring straight ahead and looking incredibly impatient.

The same awkwardness as the day of the baptism hung over the table around them, an unpleasant sensation that Gale tried to brush off, if only for appearances sake.

Thankfully, the “amen” came sooner rather than later and Gale was finally free to tuck into the meal in front of them. The bread was warm and hearty, perfect for soaking up the bacon and hazelnut stew. The parsnips and carrots were sweet, and the trout flaked with the lightest touch, sending up steam scented with sage and thyme. It was a meal fit for the gods as they all feasted, while Wulf, Astarion and Ulferth entered into subtle conversation. Gale lifted his cup to his lips and was pleasantly surprised to find the ale infused with apples.

Ulferth noticed the vigour with which Gale downed his cup. “The apples are from the tree on this estate,” he said with a smile.

“And how did you come by this land?” Gale asked, placing the cup down on the table.

“I earned it.” Ulferth’s tone remained neutral but in the candlelight, there was pride on his face. 

Wulf passed a platter of cheese pastries. “My father wasn’t born a noble,” he explained. “He started out as a common footsoldier and worked his way up. People took notice of his work ethic and in time, he was rewarded.”

“Courage. Insight. Strategy. Justice. I always say they have served me well, as they would anyone.” Ulferth looked pointedly at Gale, but Gale had a feeling those words were meant for Wulf.

Gale’s gaze flicked up and across the table towards Astarion. For once, Astarion wasn’t pushing the food around on his plate, but he didn’t eat much either. A shame really, to see such delicious food going to waste by someone so clearly ungrateful towards all the effort made by Ulferth to acquire the foodstuffs and the thralls in preparing such a fine feast. 

Astarion wiped his mouth and said, “Justice is relative, my dear Ulferth. Should it be swift and lethal, or are we letting criminals waste away while taking up space these days?” 

”I hear King Godric has a secret complex for dozens of his prisoners,” Wulf said in a hushed tone.

Gale spotted Káta momentarily freezing at the mention of her once former employer, but she immediately brushed it aside and stabbed a fork into her trout.

“I have been there myself on a diplomatic visit,” Ulferth relayed. “It is a wretched, squalid place.” He finished his cup and a thrall stepped forward to refill it. “Tell me, Geir, how do you punish those who have broken the law according to your customs?”

Gale set his spoon down. Around him, Káta, Lækný, and Sigrid continued to eat. “We are expected to govern ourselves, to know right from wrong, and to hold those around us to account. When a crime has been committed, we assemble and hear witnesses to determine whether the accused is guilty.”

He watched Astarion again and found himself frustrated that his husband looked bored—a perpetual countenance, it seemed. Gale had hoped that being in his friend Wulf’s presence and that of Wulf’s father’s would compel Astarion to at least pretend to be respectful, but it seemed that Astarion was a rude, impudent brat wherever he went. Gale continued. “If they have been found guilty, we do not arrest or execute them. They are fined, or, if the crime is severe enough, they will become a skógarmaðr—an outlaw.”

The last part seemed to cause Astarion to stir. His fingers curled around his cup as he asked, “And pray tell, Gale, what does being an outlaw entail?”

Ignoring the confused glances from Wulf, Ulferth, and his friends, Gale reached for a slice of bread and buttered it, making an effort to look unbothered by Astarion hanging out his nickname to dry. “Technically speaking, there are two types of outlaws,” he explained. “A partial outlaw is only so for three years, after which they can return to the community from which they’ve been cast out. Then there is full outlawry. A lifetime of banishment.”

Astarion swirled his ale. “Now would that be such a bad thing? That could mean freedom from any ruling powers that be. Freedom,” a hard glint entered Astarion’s eyes, “to do anything you want.”

Gale took a bite of his bread. The butter took too long to melt in his mouth. “Well observed, Astarion,” he intoned, relishing the scowl on Astarion’s face. “But I don’t think you’re accounting for the fact that freedom from the law means freedom from its protection. And to have committed a crime so heinous to warrant full outlawry? An outlaw sleeps with one eye open, constantly on the move to hide from the wrath of their former peers. More often than not, an outlaw flees into the uninhabited wild, forever on the run, forever afraid.”

Ulferth’s house had gone quiet save for the crackling fire. Gale shrugged, attempting to ease some of the tension. “It doesn’t have to be all doom and gloom. You could become a hero in a distant land or sail away and discover a new continent. Even Óðin, the All-Father himself, was an outlaw.” He met Astarion’s gaze again. “Though you wouldn’t have the wisdom and thirst for knowledge necessary to count yourself among his company.”

The tension in the room thickened following the insult Gale hurled Astarion’s way. As if to chase it away, Wulf cleared his throat. “That was interesting to hear, Geir. If you would allow, I’d like to go for a walk and show you something of our own once we have finished.” He turned to his side. “Káta, care to come along?”

Káta stopped and stuttered. Looking back and forth between Gale and Wulf, she gestured to the door with her thumb, wordlessly asking for permission. Gale granted it with a nod and Káta visibly brightened. She rose out of her seat, placing her cutlery next to her empty plate and met with Wulf who escorted her towards the exit to wait for Gale and Astarion.

Astarion scoffed, finally ending the little feud in the most sardonic manner possible. “Yes, Gale. Riveting.” He got up from his seat, the chair scraping the wooden floor in the process. “Well, I’m heading to bed. I’ll get the full, personal tour of Ipswich on the way home.”

Gale sighed for the hundredth time since arriving in Ipswich. Astarion obviously had no intention of joining the stroll through town, and Gale himself was not in the greatest mood either when combining their latest spat with the devastating news about Mýrún. Any interest Gale had in Wulf’s invitation withered away for the time being. “I appreciate it Wulf, but I think it best to return to the Baron’s estate for now. Perhaps tomorrow, if you are free, I can accompany you.”

Wulf, recognizing the predicament, bowed his head in agreement. “Certainly, Geir. Meet me at the church tomorrow morning. For now, I bid you all a good night.”

Gale returned the greeting. Astarion was already rounding the table and clearly ready to leave, impatiently huffing when he went to stand next to Wulf. 

Sigrid dabbed her lips with a handkerchief and deposited it next to her utensils, before rising to her feet as well. “You know what? I’ll go for a walk myself. It’s a nice night after all.” She took her staff in hand.

“Indeed,” Lækný agreed. “No point in wasting the rest of the evening.” She gave Gale a questioning look and instantly, he knew what she wanted but lacked the vocabulary to ask.

“Do you have a training yard by any chance?” Gale asked Ulferth.

For the first time that night, the corners of Ulferth’s lips twitched up. “I’m a soldier, Geir. Of course I do. It’s in the back, just before the orchard.”

“My thanks.” Gale acknowledged, passing on the information to Lækný.

Wulf turned to Káta, sweeping his hand in front of him in the direction of the door. “Well then, after you, my lady.”

Káta, lightly blushing, almost tripped over her own feet as she shuffled her way past the threshold to the main hallway, before following Wulf as he led her down a side corridor.

As the dinner guests filed out one by one or in duos, Lækný waited until only Wulf’s father remained. She made eye contact, a silent thanks for his hospitality, before tailing after Sigrid into the dark.

----

Káta walked alongside Wulf as he led her down the streets of Ipswich. Before they departed, Wulf had ordered the thralls to wrap up some leftover bread and meats and place them in a basket, something Káta found odd. And sweet, if she was honest with herself. Perhaps he intended to take her on a stroll by the river and have a little picnic before the evening was over. For someone who was so used to brutality and fighting on the front lines of a battlefield, it felt…nice, to be fawned over for once in any capacity.

It was unusual for her to feel drawn to a man such as Wulf—he stood nearly half a head shorter than her, was a Saxon noble, and she had yet to see him wield anything larger than a kitchen knife. Yet she felt drawn to him inexplicably since the night of the feast post-wedding. Oh, she had noticed him before that, but had simply thought the way he had stared at her had been morbid curiosity at her tall and burly frame. 

But it became immediately clear that Wulf found her much more interesting than her stature alone. While the Saxon’s language was a bit rusty on her part, Káta swiftly managed to ease her way back into somewhat effective communication. It made it much easier to understand Wulf, who carried Baldr’s patience as she stumbled her way through the vocabulary. 

“It’s a lovely evening for a walk, wouldn’t you agree, Káta?” Wulf asked her, shooting her a little smile. The basket of food swayed lightly in his hand with every step as he attempted to match Káta’s long-legged strides.

“Oh. Yes, it is very lovely,” Káta replied, slowing her gait somewhat upon noticing Wulf was working to keep up. “Can I ask where you are taking me?”

Wulf nodded as they rounded a bend. “You’ll see. It’s not far and just ahead.” 

Káta silently acknowledged Wyll as they approached the building he wanted to show her, one that he was particularly fond of. Not for its exterior, but for who inhabited the interior.

When they came to a stop in front of the large wooden structure, Káta glanced up at the sign, which was inscribed with script she could not make out. “I’m sorry, Wulf. I never learned to read.”

“Pay no mind to the signage. I think you will know exactly what this place is the moment you step inside,” Wulf said, before pushing open the door and signalling with a tilt of his head for Káta to enter.

Káta eyed the open door warily for a moment, before crossing through the threshold and into a small entry way. That was when she noticed a plethora of tiny, worn down, leather shoes lining the wall. Children’s shoes. Her brows furrowed as she examined them, feeling a sinking sensation knotting inside her. Was this Wulf’s home? Was he married? How many children did he have? Come to think of it, there was no ring on his finger, opening the door to additional speculations. The more she ruminated, the more she began to feel so stupid for harbouring any sort of enamourment.

Wulf walked by, completely unfazed, or perhaps unaware, of her inner turmoil and made his way further into the abode, where a sudden commotion of children’s voices immediately swept in. His voice echoed over their smaller, higher pitched ones, and a woman’s voice entered the fray. 

Káta had half a mind to turn back around and leave, but her pride forced her to move and traverse deeper into the building. Pushing the curtain draped over the doorway aside, Káta’s eyes widened as came upon a group of children circling Wulf, eagerly taking the pieces of bread and meat offered to them, while a woman stood nearby with her hands clasped together on her skirts. She was gazing upon the children affectionately as Wulf passed around the food. Then her eyes travelled up to meet Káta’s, not once losing their soft quality.

“Ah, is this the one you mentioned to me the other day, Wulf?” she asked, looking over at Wulf, who lost the battle with the children, who tore the basket from his grasp.

With a genuine laugh, Wulf bounded over to stand next to the woman, and Káta felt herself bristle at their closeness. The woman also appeared to pre-date them both by at least two decades, which baffled Káta. Did Wulf have a thing for older women?

“Indeed it is, Œdilburga. This is Káta, one of the guards accompanying Geir, the Dane that was married to Ӕlfstan less than a week ago.” Then Wulf turned to Káta. “Káta, this is Œdilburga. She runs this safe haven.”

The sudden swell of relief flourished within Káta and she let out a heavy exhale she hadn’t realized she was holding. Then the concept of standing in this strange place—a house full of orphans—careened directly into Káta. Why had Wulf brought her here?

It was subtle on the warrior woman, but Wulf noticed the tension in Káta that had not been so profound on her striking features before. “Káta, is everything alright?”

“I—yes, it is. I was just curious why you brought me here,” Káta replied with a tiny stammer.

“I wanted to introduce my wards. I help care for them, seeing as they were all left behind by disease, or from…attacks.” Wulf explained, skirting around mentioning the cause of the raids that had stolen the youth of many housed in this very place. “These children had no kin left and the nobles turned their noses up at the idea of taking them in, so my father and I built them a home.”

Káta anxiously shifted on her feet. “I’m sorry they were left all alone. I, too, know the pain of losing my family young.”

As the children bustled over the final remnants of their extra meal, Káta gazed upon them with an open fondness. 

Meanwhile, Wulf mulled over what Káta had just said as he sidled up close to her. It was a topic he was not sure how to bring up without sounding insensitive. Mercifully, Káta read his mind.

“My family was in debt,” Káta began, glimpsing down at Wulf from the corner of her eyes while observing the joy on the children’s faces—a sight that warmed her soul. “I left them to work as a mercenary under Godric of Mercia. It’s where I learned your language. But I fell out of love with the jobs when he would send me after innocents. So I left and went back home. But when I returned, I learned my parents had died of a disease and had been buried in the ground for the worms to devour. They were thrown into shallow graves with crudely chiselled stones marking their spots. I had no choice but to leave because I had nothing left. It’s how I ended up in Baldursgata.”

Wulf’s face dropped into a sad frown as he listened to Káta’s story. It was difficult to understand what it felt like to experience poverty when he grew up with so much wealth, but it never stopped him from helping those in need however he could, just as his father had taught him to.

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Káta. I think your parents would have been proud of the woman you have become,” Wulf expressed, noting the way Káta turned her head away with a fetching blush painting her cheeks. An endearing sight.

“Thank you,” Káta replied shyly, unsure of how to take such praise. But one thing she could not discount was how hard her heart was thumping in her chest, both as a result of witnessing such kindness freely given to the needy, and from Wulf’s own heartfelt words.

The pitter-patter of feet came up to them and they were quickly swarmed by the children. 

“You’re so tall!”

“What’s your name?”

“Why are you wearing pants under your dress?”

“Can you carry me?”

Wulf shushed the crowd of children. “Now, don’t be rude. Everyone, this is Káta. She is a Dane from Baldursgata.”

The kids, a total of eleven per Káta’s head count, lobbed a new barrage of questions at her. 

“Are you a pagan?”

“What’s it like being on one of those big boats?”

“Did you kill my mum and dad?”

At Káta’s hip, a little girl with tears in her eyes looked up. Káta’s jaw dropped and only closed when Wulf gently admonished the girl. “She didn’t, Æðelhild. But even if she did, it’s not the kind of question you ask strangers.” Wulf turned back to Káta. “I’m sorry. Difficult pasts mean the children can be a handful. At least Æðelhild’s only sin is being too inquisitive for her own good. Many of the others were beggars and pickpockets before we rounded them up and we’re finding it hard to break those habits.”

Káta swallowed. She might have grown up dirt poor, but she never had to starve or steal, or reckon with the knowledge that her parents had been killed. Bending down on one knee and feeling self-conscious about her size again, Káta stooped to the girl’s eye level. “Tell you what,” she said. “I will find who killed your parents and kill them back. Deal?”

Æðelhild stopped sniffling long enough to smile.

Wulf and Káta did not remain too much longer, with Œdilburga quickly ushering the children over to their respective beds. Œdilburga then shooed them out to let the children rest, and they were soon standing outside of the structure again.

Wulf observed the way Káta gazed back up at the carved sign, and he had a feeling she was committing the spelling of the word ‘orphanage’ to memory should she come across something like it in the future. She looked so lovely in the evening glow, skin soft, eyes shimmering. “Thank you for accompanying me, Káta.”

Káta shook herself, too concentrated on ensuring she never forgot the symbols above the entrance. She swivelled around, looking directly at Wulf. “Thank you for inviting me. It was very nice to meet all the children.” 

Wulf smiled. “It was my pleasure.” Then he took her hand in his. 

Káta gasped, unprepared for the sudden touch, but she was even more surprised at what happened next. Wulf bowed down, and placed the faintest, barely perceivable kiss upon her hand, and Káta immediately felt a hot flash shoot through her from head to toe. She trembled, the shock of the gesture catching her completely off-guard.

Wulf straightened, and couldn’t repress a tiny giggle at how awestruck Káta appeared. In spite of her imposing appearance, Káta was gentle and kind. And she deserved no less than to be treated as a lady, on and off the battlefield. “Would you like me to escort you back to your lodgings?”

After Káta’s brain reset from its temporary malfunction, she slipped her hand from Wulf’s grasp, the sensations of his warm fingers and soft lips lingering. “I appreciate the offer, but I think I can manage on my own.”

Wulf inclined his head. “As my lady decrees. I hope I will have another chance to speak with you before you depart from Ipswich. Rest well, Káta.” With that, Wulf took a few steps backwards, admiring Káta, before turning away and heading home.

Outwardly, Káta was stalwart and silent. But inside she felt like she was about to explode with a myriad of emotions. Jubilation. Fear. Happiness. Trepidation. Never before had one man managed to so effortlessly evoke so many baffling things at once within her. That was the moment Káta knew she had met her match, and as she began the trek back to the Baron’s villa, she found herself longing to see Wulf again.

----

As soon as they entered the bedroom, Gale and Astarion placed as much space between each other as possible. 

Gale retreated to his usual spot by the hearth, removing his axe from its belt loop and setting it against the wall before undoing the ties of his cloak. He snuck a peek over his shoulder at Astarion, who was standing over by the bed and beginning to undress.

Immediately veering his head away so as not to stare at Astarion for no good reason, Gale did the same, placing his cloak next to the fur rug and pulling off his tunic to make a pillow like every other time he slept. Astarion never saw fit to spare one of the many extravagant cushions on the bed, and Gale was not going to test that additional boundary by asking for one.

The last few days had been exceedingly frustrating and mundane, learning everything necessary about the Saxon way of life that was not too much different from his own. Perhaps a few odd customs, but otherwise, it was all the same. The intricacies of court were mindboggling to Gale, and he yearned for the simplicity of the longhouse back home. At least Wulf’s abode had been decent and welcoming, with plenty of food and ale to partake in, even if his little squabble with Astarion had darkened the mood somewhat. But nothing could ever slake the desire for the way things were back home.

Just a few more days, and he would be in Baldursgata, greeting his mother before dealing with Mýrún. With a small exhale, Gale placed the folded tunic on the rug and knelt down, the dreadful weight of what loomed ahead bearing down on him as he tried to settle in for the night. He had plans with Wulf to keep in the morning, and there was no sense in staying up any longer fretting over the days to come.

Astarion risked a quick glimpse towards Gale as he situated himself by the hearth like he had for days now. The firelight danced on the Dane’s skin in an enticing manner, flickering across toned muscles and flexing abs, highlighting the numerous tattoos inscribed into his flesh. All of which Astarion tried to ignore, considering Gale insisted on sleeping with his upper half exposed. 

They had practiced this same ritual daily, and barely spoke outside of necessary engagements, including the dinner at Ulferth’s. There was not much to say between them, neither feeling the need to get to know each other beyond initial judgements and ongoing impressions. Wulf’s invitation to the feast had been a formality, and an excuse to get Káta alone—a ploy that had worked rather flawlessly in the end, in Astarion’s opinion.

Astarion still had yet to comprehend what Wulf saw in the brutish, godless woman. But at the end of the day, he had no say, no sway, and it was not his business who his friend got tangled up with. He had his own concerns to deal with.

In a few days’ time, he would enact his plan. He had the necessary items prepared and stowed away. Retrieving them would be no issue the morning of as they were hiding in plain sight. 

A fiendish smirk grew across his face as he replayed every step of his plan in his head while climbing into bed. It was foolproof, with no chance of being foiled, and the moment it was done, he would steal the nearest horse and ride off towards freedom, wherever it took him. 

----

Lækný stepped carefully through the foliage covering the forest floor so as to not alert Sigrid to her presence. She kept a wide berth as she followed her, wondering why Sigrid had not taken the path directly out of town and instead decided to traverse the forest instead. It was a scenic route that avoided any of the townsfolk, perhaps, not that Lækný saw the point.

The trek took them down to the river’s edge, back to where that strange ceremony, baptism, had taken place, and Lækný was certain there was some significance as to why Sigrid had returned. Especially when she halted right at the riverbank.

Once within range, Lækný hid behind the trunk of a nearby tree, and observed the sullen look forming on Sigrid’s face. It was one that had made an appearance a number of times since they had arrived in Ipswich, but more so over the last few days.

It was odd to witness it. While Sigrid was not the merriest of their group in general, to see her brooding so heavily was out of place. And Lækný was determined to find the cause. They needed to be ready in the event of an unforeseeable catastrophe, and having one’s mind mired was the opposite of battle readiness.

“I know you’re there Lækný. I saw you follow me.” Sigrid acknowledged Lækný’s presence immediately, craning her head towards the large tree trunk nestled behind some bushes. “There is no use remaining there. You may as well join me here.”

Lækný grumbled. Normally she was thorough, and had never gotten caught in the midst of recon missions, but Sigrid had somehow sniffed her out instantly. She would need to be more careful next time. Leaving the safety of the tree’s shadow, Lækný trotted down to silently stand next to Sigrid, staring out across the river where the moon bathed the tiny waves in its light.

Aside from the buzzing of insects and the ambient noise of flowing water, the river was serene and tranquil, until Lækný had enough of the unnerving quiet.

“Ever since the day of that ritual, or ‘baptism’ as these Saxons call it, you have been acting strange,” Lækný pointed out as she pronounced the Saxon word, crossing her arms over her chest. Out of her periphery, she noticed Sigrid remaining stoically still aside from the light jangle of the charms on her staff when her grip on it tightened.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sigrid replied, not wishing to divulge what was consuming her mind. Not that she could do it without revealing her true faith.

Since Vígdís had come, demanding to know about the procession of the baptism without any elaboration about why it was of interest, Sigrid had been at war with herself. Not once over the last few years had she questioned her purpose for being sent to Baldursgata under the guise of a healer and seeress, but Sigrid was beginning to wonder why Vígdís cared so much about Geir. More than that, her interest in his baptism to the Saxon religion was unprecedented.

It was not until that abrupt message in her head to meet outside Ipswich and relay such insignificant news, that the cogs began to turn in Sigrid’s mind.

“That. You are doing it again. Eyes blank, mouth shut, brain working,” Lækný hissed. She moved to stand directly in front of Sigrid, who backed up a foot with a frown. “Something has you completely distracted, and I intend to uncover what exactly that is.”

Sigrid thought quickly about how to address this accusation and managed to come up with, “The baptism and Geir taking on a foreign god still has me on edge. The gods are always watching us and—” Her jaw suddenly froze in place, and her vision went startlingly white. Whatever words Sigrid was about to say disappeared as an image began to form in her mind.

Through the foggy edges of her field of view, a picture started to form. Deep within the recesses of earth, was a woman. Not just any woman, but a warrior, glowing like a flaming torch, with a set of mighty wings that protruded from her back that glinted like the sharpened edge of steel. She fought against the restraints chaining her to the centre of a ritual dais, slinging strings of curses and bellows of anguish.

It was a Valkyrie, a shieldmaiden from Valhalla. 

Sigrid tried to hold onto the vision, hoping to glean more about it, but the moment her metaphorical eyes met the Valkyrie’s, the hatred and vengeance exuding from them propelled Sigrid back into the present, only now picking up on Lækný’s voice calling to her.

“Sigrid! What happened?” Lækný pressed, grabbing Sigrid by the upper arms and giving her a shake. Watching Sigrid abruptly go quiet while staring into space and trembling had prompted Lækný into action. The völva had a vision. “What did you see?”

Sigrid steadily inhaled, debating on what to divulge and how. Unable to make heads or tails of the situation, she decided it best to hold back for now. “I’m not sure. It was strange and I have yet to make sense of it. I will need some time to contemplate because the meaning of the vision is not yet clear to me.”

Lækný clucked her tongue in displeasure. “I don’t need to know the specifics. Tell me what you saw.”

Sigrid chewed at her lower lip. Lækný was relatively new to Baldursgata. Perhaps sharing her vision with someone still somewhat neutral towards her home would not cause an issue. Sigrid did not trust many, not that she truly could with her obvious deception. But one thing was certain—whenever a troubling vision came about, speaking about it always helped.

Swallowing past the slow forming lump in her throat, Sigrid nodded. “Somewhere deep beneath the ground, I saw what I think was a Valkyrie,” she relayed with a hushed tone.

Lækný stared at Sigrid with no emotion, but dropped her stiff hold on the völva’s arms. “Are you positive?”

Sigrid gave an affirmative nod.

Lækný spun round a quarter turn, and spared a moment to take in the glow of the moon in her ponderance. The god Máni was staring down at them, holding his breath. “Where was this Valkyrie?”

Sigrid sighed dejectedly, somewhat frustrated. “I don’t know. I couldn’t make out anything because the Valkyrie was just that radiant. Her light effectively blinded me to anything but her.”

“Hmm. All of your visions have come to pass so far. The question now is when this one will as well,” Lækný surmised. She had witnessed the soothsaying in action, be it in battle or for something minor like a dying crop. 

Following Lækný’s line of sight, Sigrid observed the rustle of the trees in the gentle wind as they painted a tranquil backdrop. “I wish I knew. For now though, we should keep this to ourselves. Geir has more than enough on his plate if you ask me, even if eating meals has been the last thing on his mind lately.”

While bothersome, Lækný was aware that Geir’s mind was constantly preoccupied. Worse, he was faltering in his duties as their leader. The latest news of his lover, the gyðja Mýrún, had certainly hampered his normally levelheaded demeanor, and the constant petty fights with that little Saxon were no doubt tiring. Even more concerning, however, was the fact the Geir and  Ӕlfstan were referring to each other by nicknames—a trademark of a loving couple, not one that was so outwardly at odds.

Lækný swivelled her head to level Sigrid with a rigid look. “I have no authority over you, so do as you please. But should another reverie come about, then I will tell Geir myself. We don’t know who this supposed Valkyrie is, but if you are seeing her, then she must carry significance.”

“Or she could be embroiled in some situation that has nothing to do with us. For now, I will consider the implications of what I saw, perhaps prepare a draft and go into a trance to try and uncover more.” Sigrid was already heading back towards Ipswich, backing away from the river. “I’m going to find a secluded spot. Should I discover anything new, I will inform you.”

Lækný watched Sigrid walk away, cognizant of the fact that she was hiding something about what she saw. It bothered Lækný to not know how dire the image truly was and what it represented. But pushing for answers would get her nowhere. Better to bide her time and wait to see what unfolded. 

In the meantime, Lækný returned to Ulferth’s abode, considering the implications of Sigrid’s vision. After she passed the orchard, she stopped, turned, and followed the directions to the training yard.

Chapter Text

The day had come to leave Ipswich and the sun was blinding, heating the room up long after the fire in the hearth had ceased burning. Gale had to squint as he dressed, gathered his belongings from multiple corners of the shared quarters, and did a quick count. Loathe as he was to admit it, he would miss some of the comforts of the Baron’s estate. The praetorium was objectively beautiful, for one. Here, he was guaranteed a bed (or a not uncomfortable spot on the floor) and good food almost daily. Gale enjoyed the bathhouse, and hearing the choir of singers coming from the church on Sundays was a charming ambience.

But then there was everything else, and the biggest part of everything else was currently taking up space on the bed, fast asleep.

Astarion hadn’t bothered to pack. If he did, Gale didn’t see any chests, baskets, or bundles. Not that he knew how much or how little Astarion owned anyway, with his greedy ghoul of a father. For a moment, Gale contemplated leaving him there. Things would be much easier and the fault would be with his husband for being unable to wake up on time. Cadwallon would be furious and for once, that wasn’t Gale’s problem.

Then he thought about his mother and her expectations. About Mýrún and what it would feel like to return to Baldursgata and show up to the meadhall with a new husband on his arm. It embarrassed him to be so vindictive, but Gale wanted to see the look on Mýrún’s face when he and Astarion arrived. Would she be disappointed? Pleased that she no longer had to pretend to be faithful? It didn’t necessarily feel good, but it felt right. While still on edge about the impending confrontation, much needed answers were almost within his reach.

Gale hoisted his pack and paused by the door. He cleared his throat. Astarion continued to sleep. He tried again, louder. Astarion didn’t budge. Gale swore under his breath and marched back over to the bed, cursing the idea of having to make contact with the Saxon, and flung the covers off of him. Astarion’s eyes flew open. “Get up.” Gale demanded.

Before Astarion could lift his head or snap back, Gale left the room, door slamming in his wake, not in the mood to hear any arguments.

Káta, Sigrid, and Lækný were wide awake and waiting for Gale by the gate with their horses reined in, one dowry chest lighter. Þara had swooped down from some roof to join Gale on his trek towards the entrance of the burh, flying alongside him.

“Good morning, Mr. Dagrsson. Might I ask where your husband is?” Þara inquired.

“Yeah, where’s Ӕlfstan?”

Gale only registered Káta by her voice now that the sun’s rays flooded the horizon. He brushed his hair aside to allow Þara to perch on his shoulder as he approached. “Good morning, Þara. Good morning, Káta.” He nodded and Sigrid and Lækný returned the greeting. “Ast-Ӕlfstan has elected to take his time this morning.” Gale caught himself on this occasion with Astarion’s name, having grown accustomed to saying in spite more often than not.

“He’s always been a late sleeper. I’m surprised you haven’t caught on by now.”

Gale shielded his eyes and only then did he notice Wulf and his father Ulferth arriving from a few paces away. A few shouts and giggles emerged from behind as they were followed by a gaggle of children—the ones from the home Wulf and Ulferth built.

Wulf had invited Gale to visit the place a few days ago and Gale was astonished, not only by the concept of such an institution, but the generosity on display. He had known Saxon nobles to be selfish and even cruel all while loudly proclaiming their goodness and piety. Another sobering thought hit him as he saw the sheer number of children orphaned by people like him—his people—but it quickly vanished when they were suddenly around him, all wanting to tug on his locks or pet Þara. It was all incredibly endearing. As they did so, Gale spied Wulf heading towards Kara out of his periphery.

“Well, it’s not like he has to work,” one of the children said, quickly snagging Gale’s attention.

Gale clasped his hands behind his back, a sarcastic grin forming at the child’s astute observations. “That’s right, Mæthild, and what a shame that is.” He had honed in on the girl as the leader of the pack within minutes of entering the children’s home. Mæthild was bold and sly, and mischief sparkled in her one good eye. She had lost the other when it was slashed during a bandit attack. As her parents valiantly defended their home, they told her to run. It was a sad, gruesome tale, but it never killed the fire in her soul—a sentiment Gale admired in her.

“I wish I didn’t have to work,” mumbled Morkere, a little boy with curly hair.

“I just wanted to say bye to Káta and Þara. Bye Káta and Þara!”

Another girl named Siflæd waved and Gale couldn’t help but smile when Káta waved back and Þara flapped her wings. In some way, he felt sad that he would no longer be able to have a family of his own. Any possibilities with Mýrún had been dashed and Astarion could give him no children. Astarion didn’t even like children, having refused to visit “the whiny brats” when Wulf invited Gale. Just like that, Gale’s line would end with him. The gods, while not revoking his seiðr, had chosen not to intervene on this matter, leaving Gale to contemplate why he was walking this path without the ultimate goal of offspring as the prize. 

The clop of hooves broke off his train of thought. If the whole burh was about to show up, they might as well do it all at once. However, there were only a few figures descending the path behind him. Cadwallon was bearing down on a fetching white horse. Flanking him were Dunnstan, who was holding onto a lead, and Father Atheric, whose robes swished glibly around his ankles. Only when the horse came to a stop did Gale finally see Astarion appear in the back, holding onto a bundle of indiscernible items. His eyes were fixed on the ground and his face was unreadable, an indication of having received a stern talking to or worse. Surprisingly, Gale didn’t feel joy at either prospect, in spite of the earlier musings about Astarion’s laziness being his own problem.

Once the steed came to a halt, Cadwallon’s long legs swung over the side of his horse effortlessly and his feet hit the ground with a light thud. His upper lip curled at the sight of the children milling about, the distaste clear and obvious. Dunnstan dutifully passed the lead to Astarion. Atheric smiled, ignoring or ignorant of the tension around him as he stepped forward.

“Friends,” Atheric began. “It has been our pleasure to give you shelter this past while and of course, to welcome you,” his gaze met Gale’s, “as a brother in Christ. Wouldn’t you say, my lord?”

“Indeed.” Cadwallon’s tone was flat and Gale got the sense that he was present solely for the sake of propriety, or to make sure Astarion didn’t take off in the complete opposite direction. Gale quickly glanced over at Astarion, spying a tiny scowl beginning to form on the man’s face, before refocusing his attention on Cadwallon and Atheric.

“Your generosity has been most welcome…sir. I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.” Even after having been married for some time, Gale still didn’t know what to call Cadwallon. It certainly wasn’t going to be ‘father’. At least Cadwallon seemed indifferent to the title as he drew his cloak tighter around himself.

Atheric glanced from one side to the other. “If there’s no further business to attend to, allow me to pray for safe travels, and for Ӕlfstan as he is thrust into the darkness, that wicked world beyond.” He held his hands out, palms turned upwards. “The Lord will keep you from all harm—He will watch over your life; the Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.”

Ulferth and Wulf made the gesture symbolic of a cross, touching their foreheads, chest, and both shoulders from left to right. Cadwallon followed, then Astarion, albeit unenthusiastically. Gale did not mimic them, and thankfully none of them noticed.

Astarion returned to clasping the objects in his hands. He was more preoccupied with making sure he had everything he needed for the journey, mentally cataloging every item. The thralls had loaded his valuables onto his horse. There wasn't much aside from some clothing and lower quality jewelry. The bundle in his arms enclosed supplies for setting up camp, not that he knew what to do with any of them. His father had questioned him, eventually buying the tale that it contained scraps Astarion scrounged up to bring with him. Thankfully.  

Astarion had purchased the tent from a vendor in the city yesterday, since his father saw no reason to provide him one, despite Astarion arguing in favour of it. ‘You will share a tent with Geir, as you are intended to, now that you are married.’ Hearing those words before he left his quarters the previous day had incensed Astarion to no end, but it was no matter. Everything else he needed to get his plan going was stashed inside the bundle as well, carefully concealed.

While the priest and his father spouted formalities, well wishes, and blessings—some more sincere than the rest—Astarion flexed his fingers against the cloth. He wasn’t feeling as nimble as he would have liked, but the long ride ahead would wake him up. By nightfall, his joints would be loosened, his limbs would be well worked, and everyone, especially Gale, would be tired. He would be ready.

A hand closed over Astarion’s shoulder. He felt the bite of rings through his cloak and he shuddered. “Go on, my boy,” he heard his father say. “Obey your husband and it will all be alright. Your brothers and sisters will miss you.”

You won’t, though. Astarion didn’t say it out loud, but he made it clear in the defiant gaze he held as he stowed away the bundle in his arms, and as he hoisted himself up onto his horse, trying to look dignified while he did so. Even then, he felt out of place among the group of seasoned travellers.

His mind briefly dipped to only a short while ago, bidding his siblings goodbye, for he would likely never see them again. It was bittersweet in a way, for while he was not particularly close with any of them aside from Deorwyn and Æbbe, it was odd to contemplate life without their presence going forward.

Wulf came up beside him and patted the horse’s flank. “See if you can get that nifty raven of yours to send me a letter sometime. Otherwise, I might have to come and hunt you down myself.”

Astarion sighed. Wulf had been introduced to Þara and spoke with a tone of fascination ever since, as opposed to the way Astarion’s siblings had screeched upon first hearing the raven converse. Gathering the reins in hand, Astarion addressed perhaps the only true friend he ever had in Ipswich. “Technically, my raven-in-law. I’ll see what the little winged beast can do, but don’t get your hopes up. Farewell, Wulf. I hope to see you again some day.”

Wulf shot him a smile that was both sincere, but sorrowful. “And I hope the same. Farewell, my friend.” Wulf swivelled his head and Astarion followed his gaze, which was trained towards Gale and Þara. “Geir, it was wonderful to host you all and introduce you to the children. Þara, I hope you had a good morning and have a pleasant journey.” 

Then Wulf swung his gaze over to the female entourage. “My ladies, I pray you all have a safe trip home.” Wulf’s eyes lingered a split second longer on Káta before he took a step back from Astarion’s horse. Káta noticeably blushed.

“And a good morning to you, too!” Þara squawked back at Wulf, to which he smiled in acknowledgement. When Þara shifted her attention towards Astarion he stiffened momentarily. “Good morning, Ӕlfstan.” 

Astarion muttered back a quiet good morning in reply as well. While still a bit unsettling to hear the raven speak like a mortal, Astarion slowly became accustomed to Þara’s presence after learning that Gale was able to mentally communicate with her. Now that it was out in the open, at least with Astarion, that Gale and Þara possessed a unique bond, it meant more frequent encounters with the creature.

The gates creaked open and the horse nearest to it began a slow trot forward. Astarion looked over his shoulder and saw Wulf and the orphans waving goodbye. Atheric was heading up the path back to the church. His father remained, watching, expressionless and as still as stone, until he was too far away to see. The gates swung shut.

Sensing an open road ahead, the horses picked up speed and so did Astarion’s heart. He had never been far from the burh on his own, and certainly not unaccompanied by his siblings, his father, or his father’s men. The whole world was now his for the taking, but it wasn’t lost on him that he felt more alone than ever.

“Sá ek hversu hann leit á þik.” The witch, Sigrid, broke the silence. “Wulf, was it?”

The sudden swap to English told Astarion that she wanted him to hear. Astarion straightened up in his saddle, not expecting her to speak his language and direct the question at him. Sigrid had only more recently revealed the extent of her linguistic capability in the Saxon tongue, if it was a bit stilted and lacking. “What about him?”

Sigrid brushed the mane on her black mare with her fingers. She smirked. “Before we left, he was hovering around Káta like a mayfly.”

“He was making sure everything was tied down,” Káta insisted.

“Right. Because you need help from a brjóstbarn like him.” Sigrid tossed her head, braid swinging, as the conversation fell into another lull.

Astarion didn’t know how to respond, opting to remain silent instead. Ahead of him, Gale was leading their formation, silent himself. With a frown, Astarion decided to concentrate on the final details of the escape plan, schooling his expression in the process. Just a bit longer and he would be free.

Gale snapped the reins to command the horse to break into a faster trot, avoiding the earlier conversation. For once, he wasn’t in the mood to talk. His head swam with a dozen thoughts at the same time: about whether they’d be able to find a suitable camp, the obvious tension still standing between himself and Astarion, and what to do when they finally returned home.

I believe I know the answer to that last one for you, came Þara’s voice, as pointed as her beak.

Gale sensed that the raven was further up ahead, their horses too slow to keep up with her need to fully stretch her wings. I don’t know who to speak to first, he admitted. My mother is expecting me, but I can’t let Mýrún assume I’m blissfully unaware of her dalliances.

You want to make it hurt. Like she hurt you.

Gale gripped his reins tighter. I insinuated no such thing.

There was silence. Wind rustled the leaves and boughs winding overhead. Then, Þara said, We’ll speak to your mother. After all, we don’t want that harlot to think she’s the first thing on your mind.

Gale was glad for the brusque course correction. Yes, that is the wisest choice. For now, let us focus on the path ahead and find a spot for the night. I will contemplate more once we rest. When Þara sent her affirmation, Gale picked up the pace of his horse, hoping to reach his destination sooner rather than later.

----

After a long, arduous ride, they reached a clearing as the sun began its descent. While Gale longed for nothing more than to reach home and the comforts of his own bed, food, and family, travelling at night was never a smart decision. Limited lines of sight, highwaymen, and nocturnal creatures were all threats that warranted caution. 

When they halted their horses near a bundle of trees, Gale leapt off with ease, landing with a solid thud, before looping the reins around the truck to secure his mount. Then he begrudgingly circled over to Astarion’s steed. He wordlessly presented a hand out to assist Astarion in dismounting, but the vexatious Saxon upturned his nose and ignored the gesture. Gale stepped away and shook his head, veering back to retrieve his supplies and packsaddle. Better to spend his time putting up his tent for the night instead of dealing with his husband’s foulness.

When Gale turned away, Astarion carefully slid off the horse, boots hitting the ground softly. While taking the Dane’s offer would have eased his way off the noble creature, he needed to keep up the appearance of disdain (which was not an act) and have Gale blissfully unaware of what was soon to transpire.

To his side, the three women conversed in the pagan tongue as they too dismounted, which was still irksome to Astarion. Not being able to understand a lick of what they were saying put him at a massive disadvantage, like navigating an obstacle course while blindfolded. Then there was Þara to contend with.

Þara was sitting upon Gale’s shoulder, and the two were quietly murmuring to each other as he offloaded the horse. Astarion could admit the raven was rather majestic in her unusual feathered pattern. The talon that bore a small jewelled bracelet showed she carried a flair for fashion, oddly enough. Though they had only been formally introduced just a few short days ago, and barely engaged in any dialogue, Astarion would bear with her being around for now, even if everything in the Bible pointed towards evil magics afoot. He would not have to tolerate these heathens for much longer.

Mirroring those around him, Astarion unpacked his horse and went to the farthest edge of the clearing to set up for the night. His meagre shelter was temporary and would serve its short-lived purpose.

Gale’s eyes trailed Astarion out of his periphery as the Saxon marched past him. It was going to be a tense night at camp, that was certain, and Gale just wanted to rest before the coming day was upon them. Once he had his tent materials in hand, he moved to the completely opposite end of the clearing, as far from Astarion as possible, to go about constructing his own lodgings.

As he trekked, he faced Þara, who was still perched on him. Gale gnawed the inside of his lip for a moment, contemplating how to approach things. “Þara, are you hungry?”

Þara turned to face him, pausing a spell before answering. “Not particularly, Mr. Dagrsson. But I have a feeling that's not the real question you have for me.”

Gale sighed. “Nothing can ever slip by you, can it? I wanted to give you the reprieve to stretch your wings for a second time while we toiled with our tents. And…”

“You wanted some time to yourself to mull over certain things, I assume?” Þara surmised.

Gale reached his little selected alcove and deposited his supplies. He felt bad even asking for the space since he and Þara were thick as thieves. But with so much looming over him now, he didn’t want Þara to shoulder or bear the brunt of any of his burdens, if only for a little while. Her earlier insinuation had given him much to consider as well. “If you wouldn’t mind, my dear friend.”

Þara hopped off his shoulder onto a nearby branch. “Mr. Dagrsson, in all the years I have known you, not once have you asked for this. It signals to me just how dire things are in your mind, especially following our more terse exchange as we left Ipswich. If this helps you in ascertaining things, then it's no issue for me to find something to occupy myself with. Speaking of direness, I also hope you and Ӕlfstan will find some measure of common ground in the end, because the persistent bickering will do neither of you any good. It’s difficult to observe the way you two effectively ignore each other otherwise, when you’re now oath-bound to one another.”

Gale huffed, searching for a semblance of equilibrium at the mention of Astarion. “I fear your wish may not come to pass. He is incredibly stubborn, as you have witnessed. And I am of no mind to try and tame him into submission. I can only hope he won’t make my life any more miserable than it already is when we arrive home. I have enough to deal with as it is.”

Þara tapped a claw against the branch. “I know it may seem insurmountable, Mr. Dagrsson, but even in my short time within Ӕlfstan’s presence, I do not believe him to be a scourge upon you. He is encumbered by his own burdens too, that much is clear to me. The sting of what Mýrún inflicted has bruised you deeply, but you cannot permit it to blind you to potential good along the way. For now, though, I shall take my leave and return before darkness fully falls. I wish you luck with your shelter.”

With that, Þara soared off. Gale stood there mutely, watching her fly away while taking in her words. Perhaps there was a kernel of wisdom to be gleaned from them when he deigned to set aside the time. At this point, assembling his shelter was the perfect quantity of physical labour he needed to keep himself occupied while plotting out how to deal with Mýrún– what exactly to say to her when he saw her again face to face– as well as how to handle introducing Astarion to the masses of Baldursgata, a populace that would likely not extend a warm welcome his way.

Knowing Mýrún, Gale hoped, no, prayed to the Gods that she would be reasonable and honest, and no longer seek him out once he confronted her. He would move out any of his belongings remaining in that home, and return them to his chambers in the long house. While a part of him boiled with rage at what Mýrún had done, he knew remaining level-headed was critical. As for Astarion, many in Baldursgata carried grudges for the Saxons, and finding out one would be coming to potentially lord over them in the future had undoubtedly soured a few people’s thoughts. Convincing the masses that things would be alright may prove difficult for those most aggrieved.

The two tasks were somehow more daunting than marching headlong into a warzone. But if Gale was to take the mantle of jarl someday, it was a hardship he had no choice but to overcome, one way or another.

With his resolve established, Gale knelt to the grass, pulled his supplies closer to him, and got to work.

As the two men toiled away, the women observed them by the congregation of horses. 

“I can only pray to Frigg that we’ll sleep peacefully tonight,” Sigrid muttered, wrapping an arm around her belongings, and taking her staff back in hand.

Káta shrugged, shifting her eyes between the two men. “Since that night at Wulf’s, they’ve pretty much avoided each other. I can’t speak to what happens when they’re alone, of course, but things really do seem even worse. At least Ӕlfstan and Þara have reached some sort of middle ground. Silent acknowledgement is the only thing I can really call it. Better then the constant tension between him and Geir.”

Lækný grumbled, aggravated. “I grow tired of petty infighting. We have a camp to build and firewood to collect. Meanwhile, these two cannot even speak to each other without some manner of altercation. The fact we even had a relatively peaceful journey today astounds me. Geir needs to put that runt in his place once and for all.”

Káta picked up a large chest with all her things and stood pensively for a moment. “I see this going one of two ways between them. They’re going to be at each others throats until one of them kills the other, or they finally fuck about it, because we all know they have not touched each other once since being married yet both struggle not to stare at each other.”

Sigrid, who had already started walking to the spot she had been eyeing, spun around rapidly to level Káta with a shocked stare. “You think they will lay together? I find that notion rather preposterous. I would call on one of them snapping and then slicing the other’s throat first.”

Káta snorted, shuffling over to stand next to Sigrid. “Why don’t we bet on it, then? Ten pieces of hacksilver on them laying together before anyone lands a killing blow. No cheating with your visions.”

Sigrid narrowed her eyes before a keen smile grew across her face. “You’re on.”

Lækný shoved past them with purpose, before turning around to glower at them. “While you waste time gambling, we are losing daylight. Go assemble your quarters for the evening so that we may find some manner of efficiency before dusk arrives.”

Sigrid rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, knowing that Lækný was right. Tightening her grip on her bundle she proceeded towards the clearing.

Káta chortled, adjusting her grip on her chest and making her way to her own desired camping spot.

Lækný stomped her way over to build her own chosen location for the night, hoping to beat the setting sun to procure firewood lest they freeze overnight. 

It was not a speedy process as everyone constructed their individual tents, but they had the time to spare to collect whatever driftwood or branches they could find.

Gale had enlarged his axe, uncaring whether Astarion witnessed his use of seiðr now that they were well beyond the bounds of Ipswich, and cut down a few suitable trees. With his tent being as large as it was, he set up a secondary fire pit inside to keep warm since he was situated furthest from the main fire and his tent flap faced the opposite way. It was small, and the hole in the ceiling would allow for the smoke to rise and ventilate.

Astarion had taken the longest to put together his tent, and was essentially incapacitated when it came to assisting with camp preparations. His setup was a poor imitation of the others’, propped up haphazardly, and he had to be asked to stoke the campfire. It was obvious Astarion was not used to travelling, if at all, but Gale avoided commenting.

Once camp was ready, Gale announced that he would take the first watch, upon which Lækný offered to do the second watch. Shortly afterwards, they all sat by the camp fire as dusk shifted into night, eating some of the rations they brought along. Gale and Káta alternated between their own fables of righteous battle and slaying foes. Þara had also rejoined them, having caught a sizable river trout to feast on. 

Astarion observed the exchanges, and the way the raven engaged in the conversation. Obviously, he was not able to understand much if anything, but Káta or Gale translated a few times once they noticed he was silently staring into the campfire. Sigrid also chimed in a few times too, while Lækný merely grunted. Whether out of pity or genuine desire to include him, Astarion didn’t care, in spite of the surprising comfort their efforts sparked. None of it would make a difference in the end and there was no point in allowing it to distract him.

Wrapping his arms around his midriff, Astarion announced he would retire for the evening, heading to his tent immediately upon stating it. Once things lulled and Gale went to his appointed watch point, Astarion would make his move.

Gale kept his gaze glued on Astarion as the Saxon departed from the firepit. Once the tentflap closed, Gale turned back to face the women all eyeing him with curiosity. His gaze darted between them, before he sighed and rose to stand. “It would seem that’s my cue to get to my post. Þara, do you want me to take you to my tent to slumber?”

Þara shook her head. “Not this evening, Mr. Dagrsson. I will find a tree to roost in. It’s a rather nice night. I hope you don’t mind.”

Gale petted Þara on the head. “Not at all if that will be of more comfort to you. Besides, we have the final leg of our journey tomorrow—”

Þara cut in, knowing what he was going to say. “Try not to fret about it any longer Mr. Dagrsson. You will deal with things when you get there. For now, tend to your duty and then get some sleep.”

Gale acquiesced. “Alright. I will see you in the morning, then.” With that, Þara spread her wings and took off. Gale faced the squad behind him, directly concentrating on Lækný. “I will see you in a few hours when you come to relieve me.”

Lækný rigidly nodded, ever the prepared soldier. “As instructed.”

Gale turned around, and grabbed his axe off the ground. “Rest well, all of you. While the remainder of our journey is not long, come morning, it would do us no good to be sleep deprived.” Once the chorus of agreements rang out from Káta, Sigrid and Lækný, Gale strode over to his watch post for the night, placed his axe against the rock, and gazed out over the bend.

----

THREE HOURS LATER

A tap on his shoulder signalled that Lækný had arrived for the shift change. She was so effective at sneaking around in her clangy armour it was astounding, and an asset in battle. Gale wordlessly stood up, taking his axe in hand and spun around to meet her. Sitting immobile for so long was never a pleasant experience, and his back required a decent crack after being hunched over for hours. 

He presented Lækný with an outstretched arm, and she met him in a customary handshake, before they switched positions. She silently replaced him, keeping a sharp eye on lookout, as Gale descended down to his tent, ready for sleep to take him. 

But when Gale lifted open the flap, a sense of complete bewilderment came over him. His jaw hung open, the breath in his lungs hitched, and worst of all, his traitorous cock stirred to life.

Laying down on the bed spread of high quality furs, illuminated by the flames of the fire within the large, thick, linen-wrapped enclosure was Astarion. He was fully bare aside from his usual metallic headpiece, lounging on the furs as if they were his own. His body was like a flawless gem, cut just right and smooth from the lack of body hair. Astarion’s rusty eyes stared up at him with perhaps the most potent come-hither look Gale had ever come across, and his loins grew tight and hot as a result.

No amount of mental scolding would ever will away the erection swelling within Gale’s trousers, certainly not upon catching a glimpse of Astarion’s shaft, hard and glistening at the tip under the firelight. Gale knew Astarion had immediately picked up on his reaction as well, with the way those beguiling eyes flicked downwards for a split second before slowly dragging their way back up his body. When reddish-orange irises landed on his face once more, a mischievous little grin followed soon after that made Gale shiver on the spot.

“Astarion? What are you doing here and not in your own tent?” Gale asked as calmly as he could once he stepped inside the confines and let the flap drop, not daring to move again lest he generate any unintended sounds.

With a flirty tilt of his head, Astarion gazed up at Gale, finally ready to set his scheme into motion. “You know, darling, we had a really rough start. We were thrust together into a marriage, neither of us liking each other, and that persists to this day. I figured we could start over and find some better means of…communication, if we are to live together for the foreseeable future as spouses.”

Astarion could see the gears cranking in Gale’s head at the proposition. If everything went according to his carefully crafted plot, Astarion would be a free man. All Gale had to do was take the bait. Astarion had stroked himself to full hardness in preparation of this moment and he would not waste this solitary, golden chance to escape.

Gale worked to decipher Astarion’s intentions but fell short of an accurate conclusion—aside from the certainty that Astarion was attempting to seduce him. 

Internally, Gale bristled at the notion. While he was, for all intents and purposes, single, considering Mýrún’s unfaithfulness, that didn’t mean he was going to engage in sex with anyone else just for the sake of it. The pain was still fresh, the wounds had yet to heal, and the touch of another was bound to come with all sorts of emotional consequences.

But then an intrusive thought wedged itself into his ruminations, one that Gale never expected to cross his mind. By Saxon law, he and Astarion were now married, and it would not be viewed as defilement should they engage in marital relations, as the pious people of Ipswich would deem them. They were essentially legally bound together and expected to perform the act frequently. Astarion, who had spent the better part of the last two weeks berating, insulting, and aggravating Gale to no end was now offering himself up for a night, as a means of mending their strained relationship, if one could even call it that.

It was both troubling and tempting at the same time. Why shouldn’t Gale make use of Astarion’s body if the Saxon was so willing? Perchance, losing himself in the physical sensations could help erase some of the lingering heartache still lodged within his chest. Perhaps burying his cock in a willing hole would dull some of the tension tearing him apart regarding everything he was to face tomorrow. Not once had Gale ever entertained the idea of sleeping with Astarion, yet now, he was feeling drawn towards it as his prick became uncomfortably constricted in his trousers. 

Whether through a moment of weakness or insanity, the arousal was already coursing through him and clouding his mind to any resistance. Gale pulled his axe up from his belt loop and gingerly placed it down against a wooden stud of the tent, eyes never leaving Astarion as he undid his belt and dropped it to his feet. Next were the shoes and leg wraps that came off easily once the material was unwound.

Astarion nipped his lower lip, intentionally wanting to portray desire and ensnare Gale even further. His plan was succeeding thus far, but when Gale reached for the hem of his tunic and began to pull it over his head, Astarion felt a hot flash rocket through him, cock jerking in response. Once again, Astarion found himself enthralled when each inch of toned skin was revealed, and his mouth went dry as he followed the line of abs upwards until Gale’s upper half fully was bared. His tattoos were on display once more, enhanced by the glow of the fire and begging to be traced over.

Inside, a twinge of annoyance washed over Astarion at his own body’s physical response, but he masked it with practiced ease. It was no surprise that he found Gale attractive and had already come to terms with that fact, constantly struggling to steer his gaze away despite his contempt. But he would not falter in his mission and he was ready for anything. Or so Astarion thought until Gale pulled at the waistband of his trousers and yanked them down, revealing a thick, darkened cock that hung heavily between muscular thighs. 

Astarion found himself utterly speechless. Gale was significantly more well-endowed than anticipated, and the worry that he had not prepared himself enough to take the massive girth was a true concern. But he held fast, not betraying anything and keeping up the act. “My, that’s rather impressive. Who knew you were hiding such a formidable weapon down there, darling?” Astarion purred, leisurely prolonging his gaze upon Gale’s cock, which appeared to jump under the appraisal.

Gale ignored the comment even if it brought a sense of pride to hear the praise. He stepped out of his pooled trousers and kicked them away to join his tunic, before levelling Astarion with a stare. If they were going to do this, Gale alone would call the shots. Hopefully taking up the offer would eliminate the cynicism and gloom that he had been drowning in recently, even if he still carried reservations about Astarion’s intentions. “Turn around. On your knees,” he gruffly commanded.

Astarion went stock still, his suave smile waning ever so slightly. Of all the components and aspects to his calculated, foolproof, grand plan, Astarion failed to account for this rather crucial detail. He never considered the prospect that Gale would want to rut in any other position than missionary, and this posed somewhat of an issue as it changed the angle of attack. Then there was the concern about his back scars being fully exhibited, which would no doubt give rise to future questions he had no inclination to answer. Astarion couldn’t let this detract him from his end goal, and any protest was likely to garner suspicion as well. 

Returning the devious smile to his face, he rose up onto his haunches. “If that is what my husband desires,” Astarion said sultrily, shifting himself into position and presenting his ass towards Gale.

Gale’s eyes widened and his throat was instantly parched. A sheen of oil decorated the crease of Astarion’s ass, with some excess sliding down his inner thighs. The entire ensemble was a mental image Gale would never forget and made his shaft pulse with vigour. 

Astarion peered over his shoulder with purposely heavy-lidded eyes, watching the way Gale appeared absorbed by the efforts to speed things along between them. No sense in prolonging anything when there was the end goal almost within reach. But Astarion could not deny the molten heat that welled up inside with the way Gale was ogling his body. It was an irksome sensation he mentally batted away as he continued. “Like what you see?”

Gale’s eyes darted between Astarion’s hole, then to his face, and back. He had no immediate response, his body too wound up and ready to pounce just from the smoldering look Astarion was sending his way. Until he finally caught the unexpected sight of scars marring the entirety of Astarion’s back. The off-colour welts were faint and barely visible if not for the pink, raised edges being highlighted by the fire. A pang swept into Gale’s chest and diminished his arousal slightly.

A myriad of questions formed in Gale’s mind, ranging from what Astarion had done to earn the obvious remnants of deep whippings, to who had ordered them. But now was not the time or place for such quandaries, nor was Gale of the mind to ask about them, even if he had an inkling of the answers already. He was far too enthralled with other more pressing matters—and body parts. With his arousal reinvigorated, Gale knelt down and shuffled directly behind Astarion.

From this closer view, he could see that Astarion had indeed meticulously opened himself, that his rim was loose, flexing, and slick. And by the gods did it trigger a primal need within Gale he never could have foreseen, a voracious hunger to stake his claim. Laying a palm on Astarion’s lower back, he took himself in hand, placed his cock at Astarion’s entrance, and slowly started to breach.

Astarion’s fingers curled into the furs and his breath caught, for the sheer magnitude of the stretch nearly overwhelmed him. It caused light to strobe in his vision and choked groans to slip from him as Gale carefully worked his way in. Astarion had half-expected the brute to plunge in without a care in the world, so the almost tender way that Gale was sliding into him as if he were fragile twisted something in Astarion’s chest.

Gale released a ragged breath, shuddering the moment he fully seated himself within Astarion’s tight, slick sheath. It clutched around him so fiercely he was almost worried it would cut off his circulation. But it felt perfect, so hot and wet, and any of Gale’s reservations melted away instantly. His hands moved to rest on Astarion’s slender hips, avoiding the raised scars along the way. The size difference between them was more prominent than ever before, further stoking the growing desire.

Grasping at Astarion’s hips, and after giving him a brief moment to adjust to the no doubt large and probably uncomfortable intrusion, Gale reared back part of the way, and gave a shallow, measured thrust.

Astarion sucked in a breath, head hanging down from dizzying sensations, legs already trembling. If they had been standing, Astarion was certain his knees would already be buckling. Behind him, Gale swiftly increased the might of his thrusts, pulling nearly all the way out only to sink back in with a hard snap. It induced a mind-numbing flurry of sparks up Astarion’s spine whenever the blunt head would hit his prostate, to the point he almost forgot the entire purpose of this endeavour. 

Astarion readied himself, letting out soft moans of his own as Gale bucked into him with rough grunts, before discreetly reaching under the pillow.

Gale was lost in a labyrinth teeming with arousal as he repeatedly slammed into Astarion’s clenching hole, producing lewd squelches that resonated within the tent. His fingers divotted into the meat of Astarion’s hips as he strengthened his grip, eyes shut and head tossed back. While feeling the slow rise of blistering heat winding through him, had Gale not squinted his eyes open when he did, he would have missed the travelling glint of steel aimed directly at his chest.

With lightning fast reflexes Gale managed to prevent the dagger from stabbing its way into his heart at the last possible moment, catching Astarion’s wrist as they grappled for control. They fell over to the side as the scuffle ensued, and Gale easily overpowered Astarion while still, somehow, remaining buried to the hilt.

NO! No, no, no! Astarion was furious, enraged. He had been so close to landing the killing blow, so close to liberation, and he had failed. His plot had withered away and despair flooded him. Tears of frustration welled in his eyes as he swung his free, closed fist backwards to pummel against Gale’s body to no effect. “Unhand me you damned bastard!” Astarion growled, trying to stifle moans as a result of any movement, seeing as Gale’s cock was still balls deep in him. 

Gale disregarded Astarion, instead tightening his hold on the wrist holding the dagger. He trapped the flailing free hand between their bodies as he lifted one of Astarion’s legs up, exposing the place where they were joined together. The rush, the thrill of Astarion’s blatant effort to murder him unlocked something deep and feral within Gale. It was the same thrum of energy when at the height of battle, readying to lob a fireball or rain ice spikes on enemies—the excitement of facing death head-on. Instead of quelling his lust, what Astarion had done simply unleashed it.

Gale immediately restarted his motions, hips thrusting and burying deep into Astarion’s hole. He angled his head down to bite at Astarion’s shoulder, evoking perhaps the most decadent noises he had ever heard in his lifetime and triggering his own answering moan.

Astarion cried out from the brutal pace, still trying to squirm and get out of Gale’s reach. The Dane’s teeth dug into his shoulder, almost possessively, while the tongue lapped at his skin. The intensity was on the brink of too much to handle when combined with the thick length spearing him open in tandem. When Gale’s mouth unlatched from his skin, the tears finally slipped over onto Astarion’s cheeks as the frustration continued to build. “Fuck you! You’re a filthy pagan with no soul–mph–I’d rather lay with a hag than a brute like you. You’re–fuck–not even that good…ah!” 

Contrary to his own words, the truth of the matter rang out in Astarion’s head. Fuck, he feels so good. The stretch of Gale’s cock fucking into him was both sublime and devastating, pleasurable but confounding. A tempest of conflicting emotions that battered him with every thrust.

Astarion was waging a losing battle, slowly succumbing to the rise of ecstasy within. But he was too stubborn to give up the fight that easily, stammering out a string of expletives as Gale pounded into him, all while gradually losing steam in his own resistance.

Gale grinned, noting the defeat on Astarion’s face despite the boastful insults. It was almost adorable to hear the little Saxon lay into him with so many uncouth curses, and further fueled the fire shared between them. “While I admire your attempt to end me, I’m sure I can find a better use for that mouth,” Gale muttered sinfully against Astarion’s neck, bucking hard. 

Astarion yelped, unable to come up with a suitable response. An incoherent, choked sound was all that came out initially, before he grit out, “Go to hell.”

“I thought you were supposed to honour the Lord with those lips. Correct me if I am wrong, but is that not what you call blasphemy?” Gale mocked, enjoying the rise out of Astarion when he did so as he increased to a more punishing speed, skin slapping from the fervency. The odour of soot from the campfire mingled with the scent of Astarion’s own musk, and the tantalizing moans emitted by the little Saxon spurred Gale on.

Astarion whimpered when a precise ram of Gale’s hips bumped his tender spot and made his whole body quake. He was toeing the edge, the unbelievable swirl of pleasure overtaking his every sense and there was no preventing it despite his valiant efforts. Astarion gripped the stock of the dagger harshly, trying to rip his arm out of Gale’s grasp in a last ditch effort. But to no avail. He was quickly reminded of just how feeble and defenseless he was against a battle-hardened Viking.

Gale slowed his movements a fraction, picking up on Astarion’s latest attempt at combatting the restraint. “Astarion. Drop the dagger,” Gale softly demanded, ghosting along the shell of Astarion’s ear. 

Astarion craned his head, affording himself the opportunity to stare at Gale with menacing hatred radiating out of his eyes. He didn’t respond to the command, instead chewing on his lips to try and repress unwanted moans from breaking free in spite of Gale’s more languid thrusts.

Gale met Astarion’s stiff look, letting his voice dip into a lower register as he spoke with a quieter, more soothing tone. “We are already in this position, both of us entirely too pent up and irritated, so let’s just get it over with and we can go back to resenting each other afterwards.” Gale supplied, pushing Astarion’s leg further back and adjusting the angle of penetration ever so slightly.

Something within Astarion crumbled at the sincerity carried in Gale’s tone, and his fingers loosened their hold on the dagger. It fell onto the fur bedding below with a muffled thud, and Astarion knew then and there his body had willingly caved. His internal rage was curbed, overtaken instead but the heat engulfing them with each glide of Gale’s throbbing length filling him.

When Gale felt Astarion’s grip slacken, and heard the dull tumble of the dagger, he slammed back in with potent force this time, finally letting go of any inhibitions.

“I–I abhor you!” Astarion stammered out in place of a moan, hand still suspended over his head in Gale’s burly grip. “You a-and all your people.”

Gale hummed, his breath fanning errant tendrils of silvery hair, fingers digging into the underside of Astarion knee. He drove his hips forward ardently, revelling the way Astarion squeezed around him. “The feeling is mutual for you and yours. Nothing but hardship and unnecessary problems,” Gale rasped, licking a thick line up the column of Astarion’s neck with the intent to torment, eliciting a shiver from the little Saxon. 

“Y-you bastard, that was–ah!—uncalled for,” Astarion bit out, unwittingly arching his back to meet each of Gale’s thrusts. His long-forgotten prick dribbled on his stomach, bouncing with each jostle of his body. More and more he gave into the sensations, the rising pleasure that was unstoppable and all-consuming, before finally letting go. Groans and whimpers echoed in the tent, and Astarion closed his eyes when his vision began to turn fuzzy around the edges. Of all Astarion’s past encounters with anyone else, none could compare to what Gale was delivering onto him tonight. 

Suddenly, as if hit by a bolt of electricity when Gale sank deep into him, Astarion’s orgasm ripped through him with the speed of a thunderclap, burning him from the inside out. His cock spilled over, shooting jets of cum up his chest, a few stray drops landing on the furs below. Every part of Astarion’s body quivered, a strangled wail flying out of him that he attempted to suppress as frissons of pleasure erupted within. 

Gale was utterly entranced by the sight of Astarion coming undone and spasming on his cock. It was a stunning vision he never once fantasized about but knew he would never be able to exorcise from his memories. The high-pitched keens filled Gale’s ears, the muscles fluttered around him, and finally his own climax surpassed the precipice, bombarding him with ample shockwaves of bliss. The pressure low in Gale’s gut broke free, and he exploded deep into Astarion’s hole as his movements became stilted.

Astarion rode out the torrents, head thrown backwards against Gale’s shoulder as they gradually ceased rutting. Their heavy pants filled the silence of the tent, and the only other sound was the crinkling of the fire pit that warmed them. Abruptly and without warning Astarion felt the sensation of momentary levitation before his arm and leg dropped to the ground with an unceremonious plop.

Gale extricated himself and rolled away to lay on his back. He stared up the fabricked ceiling of his tent while catching his breath, coming down from the high as the dazed sensations began to fade. He noticed movement in the corner of his eyes and heard shuffling on the furs, turning his head to see Astarion rising to his feet. The Saxon wordlessly crossed to the other side of his tent with a slight limp, disheveled, cum and oil streaking down his legs with the dagger in hand, towards what Gale recognized to be a pile of clothing–no doubt belonging to Astarion. He observed quietly, not daring to speak up for there was nothing he could really say.

Not after what just transpired.

Astarion could feel Gale’s eyes on him, and it was chafing. Every possible negative emotion was assailing him at this moment and he needed to leave, to go to his own tent and forget any of this ever happened. But he knew he would struggle to not relive the feeling of Gale buried in him, stretching him, claiming him so rigorously yet at the same time with more care than expected. It was all too much to tolerate now as he scrambled to haphazardly toss on his clothes before scurrying out of the tent, making sure the Dane’s entourage were not sitting nearby. 

Luckily, the one on watch duty was Lækný who either didn’t notice him or deigned not to care from her post a good fifty yards away. She made no notion of acknowledgement as Astarion stumbled his way through the camp, heading towards the river’s edge in the hopes of clearing up the mess of fluids left behind.

As his feet crunched against the leaves and grass that littered the pathway, Astarion idly traced the outline of the bite mark that still stung on his shoulder, scowling that the indent was so deep. Hopefully, come morning, it would disappear and leave no lasting damage, but it would probably bruise all the same. The soreness below was another matter entirely, making him waddle with some discomfort that would last until the morning hours. Riding a horse would not be pleasant in the end.

Tonight had been an utter disaster in the most spectacular of ways, and the exhaustion was creeping into Astarion’s bones as he approached the river’s edge. He undressed once more and dipped himself into the frigid waters, shivering at the sharp thermal shock before his body grew accustomed to it. Gale’s scent of pine and leather clung to Astarion’s skin and overpowered the lingering hint of woodsmoke from the fire. While he was aware that the water could wash away the remnants of their tryst, nothing existed to remove the faint traces of where Gale’s hands and body had touched him. 

Meanwhile, Gale was back in his tent, scrubbing his hands up and down his face. As clarity returned and swept the haze away, the realization of what he had just done ingrained itself. He had fallen for a carefully laid trap, and by sheer chance avoided death. No, not fallen, he corrected himself. He had willingly accepted the invitation, in spite of knowing something was afoot, and that Astarion’s abrupt change of heart was out of place. While he admired Astarion’s courage, Gale had given into his wayward stirrings too easily, stirrings that should never have materialized to begin with, especially when the little Saxon tried to kill him. But they did, and he was left to rue the end result.

Gale blamed his broken heart for steering him astray, and giving rise to a whole new slew of complications he had to deal with.

A multitude of queries suddenly came out of the woodwork. What had possessed him to lay with Astarion? Why had he bit him? Why had Astarion been so set on killing him in such a vulnerable position? Had he injured Astarion in the fray? What caused the scars on Astarion’s back? Too many questions that he simply lacked the mental capacity to address. It was late, they had more travelling to accomplish in the morning, and Gale had other issues to resolve prior to beginning to answer any of these questions.

Turning over and pulling another fur over his nude body, Gale focused his attention to the stickiness coating his cock, quickly weaving a spell to eliminate the leftover residue. He didn’t need the reminder of what had occurred as he tried to go to sleep. However, his dreams were sure to be consumed with Astarion in the throes of passion, preventing a fitful sleep. As he closed his eyes, Gale knew slumber would not come peacefully for him.