Somewhere in Wessex

His boots press against the winter slush, heels seeping into mud and frost. They slip and slide through the slick and he silently curses the winters of this foreign land. Where he hails winter shares the entirety of her wrath. Ice consumes the sea and hills are buried in a blanket of white. Winds carry deadly frost that seeps into the flesh until it is raw as the meat of a fresh kill. Here they are meager gusts that only chill the bones.

Everything here bears weakness. The men, the women, the winters.. Their children had soft flesh, and the women didn't bear calluses on their hands. The men grew fat on wealth instead of building muscle with victories. Their muscle is their armies. But when they fight they sit atop ponies buckling from the weight above them while the nameless soldiers are slaughtered below. How could any coward such as that be worshipped as a king?

Their god was by far the worst attribute of their culture. An unforgiving being that demanded chastity and gentleness. It demanded more than it gave, and isn't swayed by the blood of sacrifice. Only one being rules over all. The scriptures are tales of warning for those who do not follow it. Hours are spent in a structure called a church, where their leader of worship rings bells and breaks bread.

More and more of his people were converting. Most by force of jarls that were seduced by this ridiculous religion. He remembers only years before when they looked at Christianity as a mockery. So long as he is king, his subjects will only bow to one all father. The one with ravens adorning each shoulder and an empty socket where his eye should be.

And for his loyalty Odin has blessed him with a growing kingdom and two heirs. Even if their mothers are beneath the ground, his offspring thrive. They whisper of him around fires. How any woman chosen to be his wife is cursed to death. If he were a younger man, the king would question the actions of his gods. Why take a woman from him when the ice around his heart was beginning to thaw? But perhaps they understood his only reasoning for marriage. The offspring that would carry on tradition. As long as they live, so does his legacy.

But another does not carry such a legacy. At least not with flesh and blood. His fame is achieved with cruelty and war. A cursed throne that he's held for over a decade. And for the life of him the king can't piece together how. Time and time again old skeletons emerge from the ground just to meet defeat from Ivar the Boneless.

The king has bided his time. Several kingdoms surrounding the Boneless have fallen. Time and time again their kings bend their knees and their land becomes his. Their men take his shield and their women warm his bed.

But Kattegat remains impenetrable, until now. His hands shake with impatience at the thought of waiting any longer to attack. But the young king isn't dull in the brain. His lack of legs are made up with the strength of his mind. When it comes to their alliance—if one could even call it that, arrangement is a more appropriate term. Ivar hasn't broken it. He's kept the kingdom safe, the throne away from usurpers. He's failed to produce an heir, and after the death of his strange wife, he's yet to take another. Not that the king can imagine many women find him desirable. Not when Hvitserk stood by his side with a capable lower body to please them.

By going through with selfish desires, he will be breaking their arrangement. Though one could only hope the young king wouldn't hear of it before his longships reached Kattegat's shores. But knowing Ivar, he would learn of it. Which is why he needs the element of surprise. A shock factor to distract Ivar from his real motive. For he has the numbers to attack Kattegat, but not a crippling factor. Ivar the Boneless has few weaknesses, and it's fortunate that this king has knowledge of them all.

Enough so that he suffered through spending the winter in England, in a coast so far from his own. He had one shared settlement with Ivar, and two of his own. But they matter little now that the entirety of his homeland is so close to resting in his grasp. He prefers raiding to settling. Stealing what he can from foolish Christian lords and returning home to the kingdom that whispers his name in the wind late at night.

But it's taken him a good chunk of this winter to find what he is looking for. A wounded wolf should be easy to hunt, but he's proven to be as clever as his late father. But his weakness is no different from most. Comfort. The settlement his licks his wounds in has become a source of such comfort. Here they call him lord and do as he says. Here there aren't little brothers to take away everything he was promised as a boy. Rumors swirl of a chain around his neck adorning a cross pendent. They say the wolf only kneels to christ and for that King Alfred leaves him be.

But the only way to dispel a rumor is to locate the source. When they hear of this settlement he and his men ride continuously. They take little time outside of the journey other than to eat and sleep. His thighs grow sore from being in the saddle, and his eyes grow heavy from continuous travel. Age is a curse even he can't avoid, and recently he feels the effects of it more than ever.

It isn't until the fifth day of their travels that one of the men shout of structures in the distance. He isn't sure what to expect. But he's surprised by the humble nature of the wolf to fall so far below his station. Once the prince of a flourishing kingdom, he now ruled over settlement that was an eighth of the size of his home. The king almost felt a pang of pity—almost. Soon enough the wolf would be engorged in blood and choking on gold again. This he was sure of.

The next steps are tedious. A messenger arrives, trembling in his boots at the sight of northmen. He cannot be more than the age of ten and four.

"Who—who has arrived at my lord's gates?"

The men chuckle. Such a small voice the messenger bears, and little does he know the bloodthirsty soldiers only yearn to tear into him more after such a display.

"Tell your lord that King Harald requests an audience."

The messenger's eyes resemble saucers, as they try to grapple with what the king has said. For there is no King in this land other than king Alfred so surely this message is a farce? But the furs fastened around King Harald's shoulders and the ink that covers his face is enough for the boy to comprehend that this man isn't from these lands. But rather the lands of his lord.

Just when the king assumes the messenger will reject his request, the boy stumbles atop his shaggy pony and darts for the structures ahead. Perhaps it was the fear of northmen that provided his haste. Or the looming threat that his lord's kin had returned.

And as he expects the grey sun looms over the horizon before the messenger returns. Ubbe longs to draw him out. The wolf wants to play with his prey. Harald lets him despite the impatience that fills him. Sons of Ragnar are all born with chips on their shoulders and large egos. Even though he has fallen the wolf doesn't submit so easily to the temptations of his past. The king cannot blame him. If he were to face Ivar's wrath, his wounds would cut deep as well.

The messenger is out of breath, his dark locks blowing wildly in the winter winds. His mount huffs and stomps its hooves into the slush, causing mud to splash against its legs. He looks to the king's party with a hitch in his breath. King Harald already knows the instructions for the messenger before the words leave his lips.

"If you will follow me, your highness, the lord has invited you into his home."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Ubbe's settlement isn't any more impressive on the inside than it is on the outside. It reminds the king of York. Except York dwarfs this settlement in size, and even appearance. Most of the inhabitants don simple garbs covered in dirt. They carry tools for farming and Harald isn't surprised. Even in winter the fertility of the soil here never ceases. Ubbe's people will never starve so long as seeds shall grow into crops and livestock reproduce. It's a simplicity the king isn't familiar with, but it isn't anything he doesn't expect from Ubbe.

The people look at his party with expressions of disgust. He's the enemy, the entity that burns their crops and ruins their women. How many of the children staring at his mount with wide gazes had viking blood coursing through their tiny veins? Do they look at his men and see a future reflection, or the stories murmured by their elders at night?

They dismount, either servants or thralls taking the horses from his party. He watches carefully in the direction which they take. In case the wolf remembered where they stood the last time they were in the presence of one another, the king couldn't be too careful. The messenger waits in front of a hall that is only a shadow of the one in Ubbe's homeland. The structure doesn't bear the same pagan adornments of antlers and plants. There are no runes carved into the walls of this structure. It is painfully brown, and painfully plain. King Harald idley wonders if this christian religion is the same way. Painfully boring, and more rigid than the walls of its churches.

The structure is much more silent than his hall. They all cower in the corners, their faces hidden in shadow. He can only make out the whites of their eyes as every gaze falls on his party. Are they always this dull? Are they always like deer waiting for the wolves to come? Except these deer have been claimed. They're protected by the wolf instead of feasted on.

When the messenger can lead them no further, he scuttles toward a large chair. King Harald can't bear to call it anything more. It is not his throne of whale bones. A big, wooden chair that seats a beast with a gaze of solid ice. The messenger hurriedly whispers in the lord's ear, but the king doesn't care to eavesdrop. These two already know enough about one another. The ghosts of one another's pasts that always find a way back to the same burial ground.

He's the image of his father. A lone plait that curls down to his waist. The rest is shaven, and a plum of ink adorns the side of his weathered face. He bears the same haunted gaze and plump lips. But that is where it ends. For Ubbe is not exploring the world or conquering kingdoms. He's playing house. The wolf has grown into a lazy mutt. Harald feels the embarrassment of their people, witnessing first hand that such a travesty is possible after all.

Beside him is another ghost of yesterday. Her blonde hair has begun to change to silver. She's always been a face to him, another sword and shield. Torvi. The lover of not one but two sons of Ragnar. A favorite of the wicked Lagertha and the widow of a jarl that even had king Harald once shaking in his boots. Her expression mirrors her husbands. It's cold, an uninviting winter's night. In her lap sits a young girl, with her mother's hair and her father's eyes. A little bit of him, and a lot of her.

"You've come a long way just to talk."

The wolf's voice is gravel brushing against the soles of Harald's boots. His father's voice.

But with different intentions.

King Harald's lips tug into a grin, but it doesn't quite light his eyes. "How else would I be able to converse with you? You are a difficult man to find."

The wolf and his wife exchange glances. "You've wasted your time. The answer is already no."

"How do you know what I plan to ask?"

"Because you're not the first one to come."

This doesn't surprise him. Rumors find their way into his ears through the whispers of his people. They say Björn Ironside lives, biding his time in the shadows until his army is great enough to strike again. Another is the English king himself, begging Ubbe to show him where the vikings come from if only to stop them in their tracks before they reach his land. Then the others were even more ridiculous than the other two. Enemies coming from nowhere, threatened by the usurper thousands of miles away. Harald was the only real enemy. He was the only one who had a true stake in any of it.

He raises a dark brow. "So you do not yearn to see Ivar fall?"

The wolf doesn't speak at first, but his expression says enough. Raw rage flashes through his violent blues. "I do not care about him, or any of them. I have more than enough to deal with without that mess."

"Ruling over a farming settlement gifted by a Christian is more than enough?" The king questions.

"It is." Ubbe snarls. "Do not forget where my faith lies, King Harald."

In a non existent god. "And what will you say to Odin when you die? Will you beg on your knees to feast in Valhalla even though you've lost every right to it?"

Ubbe's fist slams into the arm of his chair with enough force that Torvi and their child flinch at the sound. The whites of his teeth come into view, a cornered wolf.

"I will tell you what I've told every bastard that's come for my help." His voice grows low. "I do not care about my birthright, it was taken ages ago. I have everything I desire right here. I wish to grow old and fat far away from Ivar the Boneless."

The king nods. "Reasonable." He murmurs.

Ubbe narrows his eyes, he's waiting for the catch. The former prince forgets the curse of domestication. A dog is too comfortable, it never understands a threat. But a wolf fights tooth and claw for dominance. The wolf knows when trouble is coming his way. The dog buries his head beneath his wife's skirts.

"But what will you do when he returns to these shores? You know he will." Ivar has a disturbing lust for revenge. Even Harald himself will never understand the extent of it. "And when he returns he will find you to finish what you both started ten years ago."

This time Ubbe won't be able to run. Ivar will burn this settlement to the ground, and watch as his brother's flesh cooks in the flames. It was the brutal reality they all carried with them for over a decade. Hvitserk was clever enough to figure it out before his elder brothers. It was better to lie with the serpent, than hide from him in the tall grass.

Ubbe's sullen expression proves the king's theory true. Ivar will find his way back to England, and when he does he will search under every rock until he finds the brother that left him York a lifetime ago.

The wolf attempts to change the subject. "Why, have you decided to chase an old dream?"

The king scoffs. An old dream. It's a conquest he's never forgotten. A kingdom he should have taken years ago. But blind greed brought him nothing but a dead wife, infant, and brother. Their spilt blood alone was enough motivation to conquer his kingdom.

"I've always wanted to conquer all of Norway, Ubbe. It didn't matter who sat on that throne."

It's Ubbe's turn to mock him. His laughter burns against the king's flesh. "You did it for a woman if I recall? She ended up like most of the women that cross your path. Dead before her time."

It's a low blow. The breath hitches in his throat, but it's silent enough that the wolf doesn't bother to notice. She was a dream he hadn't visited in a lifetime. "I like to think Ellisif planted the idea, but I'm the one who raised it to fruition."

"It's just a port." Ubbe shrugs.

"It's more than a port."

The wolf rolls his eyes. "You're right, it's a cursed port. No one who sits on that throne lasts long enough to enjoy it."

Ivar certainly is.

"I understand if—"

"Understand?" Ubbe's gaze is daggers. "You think you understand my little brother?"

He does, in the only way one can truly understand Ivar. His objectives are never simple enough to interpret. He may claim to desire one outcome while working toward another. He's a genius, but a mad one. More creature than human. His thirst for blood blinds him to being anything more than a feared monarch.

"I understand him more than you do, Ubbe." The king rocks his weight against his heels. "Ivar has changed. He's become a king. You were all just stones for him to step on to reach that goal."

"Then why come at all?" The wolf accuses with narrowed eyes. "To Ivar I'm just a ghost."

"Which is why you are the person he least expects to come barreling on his shores. He suspects you're waiting for him." Harald raises his arms in exasperation. "Tell me, do you enjoy it here? Do you feel content praying to a false god and living in only a fraction of the luxury that was your birthright? Is it worth living in a foreign land under the influence of a king who was once your enemy?"

Harald's gaze falls on the child nestled against her mother's chest, the fear evident in her blinding blue eyes. "Do your children know who they are? Have you robbed them of their birth rights as well? Do they know their son was the father of a great king and warrior? Or will they only know him as a foolish lord who stuck his head in the sand when the opportunity to relinquish it all presented itself?"

Before he can continue a snarl rips to Ubbe's left. His wife's gaze murderous. "That's enough."

Ubbe's calloused hand grips her lower arm. The tips of his fingers brush against the rough fabric of her sleeve. It's a silent thank you for coming to his defense, but it also a silent warning. For Harald is much like the others in their world. One wrong move and you're his enemy. And Ubbe wouldn't fare well with the king as an enemy. Not with his army of farmhands and christian maidens.

"Torvi." Ubbe's chest rumbles. "Not now."

It's a command. But Ubbe's wife isn't a lady. She's as volatile as the king's former wife. Her drab skirts can't conceal the armor underneath. But despite Harald's assumption the shield maiden remains seated, her lips in a thin line. The fire yearning to burn him clouds her eyes.

"King Harald, ten years ago I had a decision to make. I could either grovel and beg Ivar for the mercy he'd never give me, or I could start the life my father envisioned for all of us." Ubbe's sigh fills the room. "He didn't want to be a king, he wanted find better land for his people to farm. This was the future he had in mind when he sailed to Wessex for the first time. The raiding was only what it took to achieve that.

"Ivar will find his way back here one day. I pray we're both too old and grey to remember the blood stained on our hands. But whether he does or not Ivar will conquer every kingdom until his name is carved into the backs of its people. When he comes I will be ready to meet my god. I will not be disappointed if he burns this village to ash and spits on the remains. But I will not waste the time I have left fighting a war I never desired in the first place."

The hall is silence. Not the grunt of a man or the whine of a child is heard as the lord finishes his declaration. Though it's not a surprise to the king, he expected the wolf to submit more easily. The beast still stirs beneath the eldest son of Aslaug. Yet he accepts the fate of a coward. He will submit to his baby brother without so much as a battlefield between the two. And when Ivar feasts on the wolf's remains no one will be to blame but himself.

He remembers a time when all the sons of Ragnar struck fear in his heart. They were five pieces of an impossible legacy. If their father could achieve all he did, imagine what they would do? Except one fell to the axe of another, and two went into hiding. Then the third kissed the youngest's feet and begged for mercy. A waste or a blessing? Perhaps in his case it's the latter. Far less barriers standing in the way of his destiny. Yet he can't fight the pity brewing inside his chest as he looks at the eldest of Aslaug's offspring. The world should know him as his father's shadow, but instead he'll willingly perish from the venom of a serpent.

"So you will rot here?" The king's question is fact rather than curiosity.

Ubbe's eyes fall to the floor as he nods. The strands of his beard brush against his drab cloak.

"Then it appears I cannot change your mind." King Harald's gaze falls around the room. "But it is your choice to live with the disappointment your father and mother will bear when you meet them in Valhalla."

If you end up there at all. Odin isn't the most forgiving god. Even if those who feast in his hall wage war for eternity.

"My father was more than a war mongering king. He prayed to the Christian god just as I do. If anything he will be waiting for me in the afterlife with a smirk on his face and ale in his grasp."

Except that wouldn't be a very Christian thing to do.

The wolf's face is drawn. It's only now that the king notices the lines creased between his eyes, and the grey flecks of hair twisted into his thick braid. Not once have his lips curled into anything outside of a tight frown. His skin has grown weathered, and his gaze lacks the ferocity that once brought several enemies to their knees. Let Thor strike him dead before he becomes a dead husk of his former self. Ivar will have an easy victory if he ever finds his elder brother. If one would even be able to call it a fight.

"When I return to Kattegat, I will fight in honor of the remaining sons of Ragnar. Ivar will choke on the memory of your brother Sigurd, and remember how he humiliated you and Björn. Even if you aren't there, he'll taste the blood he spilt once before."

It's a nice speech the King prepares. He's expected the answers he's given, and will act accordingly. But there is still a part of him wounded by the wolf's decision. For even a small army of Christians is still an army.

Ubbe's expression doesn't waver, not even a softness to his gaze. "You may take your leave, King Harald." His tone carries a finality to it. "Go from which you came, terrorize another settlement and spew bullshit to another lord. When the ice melts return home and do what you will with Ivar. Just leave my hall and never come back."

It's as if an unseen curtain has dropped, as the hall fills once more with murmurs of its inhabitants and the shuffling of feet. Forgotten is the foreign king and his party of rugged men. Bodies shuffle past, eager to speak with one another. From his seat Ubbe watches carefully as the king gives direction to leave. His men waste no time, the hairs on the back of their necks standing straight. One wrong shove or glance and his men will unhinge.

The messenger leads the way, a smug grin tugging against his lips. Harald idley wonders what his head would look like mounted at the stern of his ship. The thin strands of his hair whipping in the wind and the silenced scream through his open lips.

The thought persists enough that a sly smirk tugs against the king's lips as they exit the hall. It even tugs at his mind long enough that when Ubbe gazes out over his land the next morning he notices a cold spike lodged into the dirt. The slush bears a sheen of crimson and droplets fall at the same pace as a morning rain. When his gaze falls on the messenger's dead face his heart drops.

While his right eye, a sea of green grass stares ahead in death, an empty socket occupies the left.