CHAPTER FORTY
the dead takes paris

The skies were black and weeping, on the day that Ragnar Lothbrok died.

Merida thought the rains were tears, falling to the ground in great floods as if the Gods themselves were mourning the loss of a great King. But Lagertha said they rejoiced. That their tears were drops of happiness, replenishing the earth in Ragnar's name, for he would be joining them at their tables, within their decorated halls. No matter that Ragnar had been baptised unto the protection of a Christian God. Odin would ride to intercept his ascent into heaven anyway, and he would feast in Pagan halls and be remembered as a Pagan King.

But the tears the people cried were tears of sadness. Their King was laid to rest in a coffin, carved from wood and made into the shape of a longboat, studded and decorated with a rich red. He would rest as he would war, laying down amongst his legacy as the King who had raided and conquered.

Merida was last to talk to him. The tented room was still with the silence of the dead. Ragnar's body lay beneath the walls of his coffin, eternally sleeping. She knelt down, hand placed against the side, wondering if the touch was felt. Merida thought of what she might say, of how she could honour a man as great as he when she had known so little of him.

But Bjorn and Ragnar had told her everything.

She wondered if she stayed quiet enough if she would hear the faintness of his breathing from beneath the coffin lid. But the silence persisted. Every word that was said to him would fall upon sharp, listening ears. Merida used the opportunity wisely.

"I'll go home, I think, when we return to Kattegat and before the Winter steals the water with ice," she said, feeling as if she was talking to the air, the wind stealing her words away swiftly. "But you were right, Ragnar. You're always right. My destiny was always supposed to entwine with yours... with Bjorn's. I don't think I'll ever have the strength to stay away, no matter how much I once had thought I wanted to."

Imagining the smug smile that was spreading on his face, Merida couldn't help but smile herself.

"We're all indebted to you, Ragnar Lothbrok."

The coffin was carried in a procession, surrounded by the drum of music and the carrying sound of many voices. Women in wolfskins danced, twirling around their dead King and singing high-pitched chants. Merida stood beside Bjorn with their hands interlinked, a show of false grief.

The Franks waited by the doors with a large, golden cross, ready to escort the coffin inside their protected walls. The Christian priests with their pristine robes surrounded the men with the coffin and swallowed them as readily as the doors.

The northern army gathered at the gates, cloaked in paint and furs, the picture of their violent promise. News of Ragnar's resurrection rippled through the camp like a forest fire picking up speed, lit with the fuel that poured from Bjorn's purposeful words. The cold warriors spoke of his spirit, lingering on the threshold of life, waiting to be pulled to the afterlife by Odin himself. As they marched up to the gates, waiting for their way in, they spoke of the figure on the battlements, watching them like an omen. A good one, they said it must be. For Ragnar was now watching over them. The dead man would give them Paris.

Lagertha had not understood at first, or rather, had not allowed herself to. Ragnar was dead. She'd seen his coffin, felt the stillness of the room he lay in, had spoken to him as if he'd passed, and he'd let her believe it all. She, along with Rollo and Floki, were the last to stride toward the city walls, their arms laden with shields and weapons.

But, as Bjorn promised, the walls had opened, leaving a gaping hole staring straight into the heart of Paris, allowing their army to push through. There, at the end of that carved pathway, stood Ragnar Lothbrok, not resurrected, not a shell of his former self, a draugr, but himself in the living flesh and beating blood. Merida had known he was alive, but still, to see a dead man walking, was a sight to behold. Ragnar strode down the open corridor, the doors behind him pulled as wide open as the ones in front. Despite his sickness, he looked strong and worthy.

The Princess he'd used to get to the city gates stood at the very end, watching him with fiery eyes, fooled by his trickery. And though Merida much saw herself in that girl's face and figure- hair falling in ringlets down her back, a crown upon her head- she took her bow in her hands and advanced forward with their small army.

The inside of Paris was far grander than even what it appeared to be on the outside. That small glimpse she'd acquired from atop the battlements held small comparison to actually standing amongst the walls, the streets inside flowing amongst each other, creating a labyrinth.

There was no order to the attack. The Northmen flooded into the great city as an army of individuals, each warrior reading their own building, taking their own loot. Merida did not follow their example. She ploughed on, reaching far into the city's heart, looking for something worthy.

Golden crosses hanging on the walls meant nothing to her. Behind these walls lived the mundane, just as it had been in Dunbroch. But as Merida ventured further than the front of the army, trailing through the emptying and cowering streets, her eyes fell upon a treasure.

The Frankish Princess was being rushed forward, evading the oncoming army, her guards flanked around her. In a flush of decadence and trailing fabrics, she turned, eyes scanning the street behind them, falling upon Merida at the end of it. There seemed to be recognition in the Princess' gaze.

Merida dropped her bow from her hold, keeping it at her side, She watched as the woman's head tilted, her brows furrowing as if in confusion. Then they were sprinting around the corner, hiding themselves in the belly of the fortress, closed in behind doors, and Merida was left to turn her back on the vast castle, to return to the northern army that revealed in its spoils.

On the eve after the battle and raiding, and as Ragnar slept off the lingering effects of death, they gathered in Bjorn's tent- Lagertha and Rollo, Floki, Erlendur and Kalf. The darkened light sent a chill through Merida's body and she lay against the bench, legs sore from the running, arms fatigued from the weight of her great bow. She had no energy for argument, but they would bring it to Bjorn's door anyway, and where he was she was.

Merida was glad to leave the shores of Paris and head home- to Kattegat. Though the city had left them with all that had been promised, she missed the snow, the familiarity, missed the comfort of a sturdy roof over her head.

"Why did you not tell us earlier? Did you not trust us?" Lagertha said, speaking for them all.

"I did what my father asked me to do."

"But-" Floki began, only making Bjorn's anger flare.

"It was the way he wanted to do it and he is still king!" Bjorn shouted, his jaw pulled tight and pale eyes scowling. "And he succeeded. He got us into Paris. And now we have even more spoils."

He left no room for arguments now. When Merida cast her gaze across the room, she saw solemn faces. Faces that were coming to terms with Ragnar still living. Lagertha still held onto her glare, which was half spared to Merida as well. She understood Lagertha's sense of betrayal. Bjorn hadn't told his mother, Ragnar hadn't told his once wife, past lover, but they'd told her. The foreign Princess, the girl who'd been within their presence just shy of a year.

"We leave the camp tomorrow for home. But because we intend on raiding Paris again in the spring, it is important to maintain some sort of presence here.

"I will stay," Floki said. Bjorn began to shake his head but it was Rollo who interrupted him.

"No," he said. "You have no reason to stay here Floki."

"And what reason do you have, uncle?"

Rollo didn't say anything, his shoulders seemed to move as if in a shrug. Merida eyed him, watching the way his gaze flickered away from his nephew. She didn't like it. She'd didn't like the heat that came from the room, because it didn't come from fire.

"Then it is decided. You will winter here with the rest of the warriors who decide to stay with you."

Bjorn's words were used as a dismissal, and the gathered dispersed as swiftly as they had come, no more words shared. Finally slumping into a chair, Bjorn nursed his head between his hands, letting out a heavy sigh. Merida found his side, taking his hands and replacing them with her own. His eyes were closed, a soft smile gracing his face when her fingers began to trace circles on his cheek.

"You talk and lead like a king," she said, bringing her forehead to rest against his. "You lead like Ragnar

"He told me to use my head first," he said, and she could feel the heat of his breath against her neck, drifting past her chin. "I couldn't tell them."

"But you told me."

Merida's own eyes were closed, her hands reaching further past his face, to his shoulders, soothing down the roughspun material of his tunic. She could feel his smile pressing against her cheek.

"Ah, we've found a weakness," he said, pressing feathered kisses against her skin that left her head tipping backwards. "Or perhaps not a weakness at all."

She stopped him with a finger to his lips, drawing his eyes open and upwards.

"Then what is it?"

"A strength," he said, pulling her closer once again. "You're my strength."

*