MORNING
Bjorn was still working on his table and the chairs, while close to him, Gyda and Athelstan sat learning the Bjornic Alphabet, on stools and benches, outside the longhouse.
He was carving the final chair for the set he'd been making, his brow furrowed in concentration as he smoothed the curve of a leg. Close to him, on low stools, his sister Gyda and the Northumbrian monk, Athelstan, were hunched over a slate tablet.
Athelstan pointed a slender finger at a symbol. "And this one makes the 'guh' sound. Like in your name, Gyda."
Gyda squinted, her small hand gripping a charcoal stylus. "I still don't understand," she said, her voice frustrated . "Why make marks for what we already say? I can just tell you the story of the one-eyed god and the great wolf."
Athelstan's face was patient, his voice soft.
"Yes, you can," he agreed. "And it's a wonderful story. But what if you travel to the lands of the Svear? And what about your children's children, long after you have gone to feast with the gods? Who will tell them the story exactly as you know it?"
He leaned in, his tone becoming more earnest. "With these marks, your voice can cross any distance. It can even travel through time. A person who will not be born for a hundred years could listen to you."
Gyda's eyes widened. "So this... this is talking with your hands?" She tried again to copy the letter Athelstan had shown her. Her first attempt was a clumsy, wavering line, more worm than symbol. She glanced at Athelstan for reassurance, then at the bold, clear letters Bjorn had carved into the back of one of the chairs. They were a declaration.
She squinted at one particular symbol, a sharp, angled character with a strong vertical line. A grin slowly spread across her face. "This one looks like a fish with no tail. Did you make it, Bjorn?"
Bjorn didn't look up from his work, the shavings of wood curling at his feet. He gave a single, affirmative nod. "Made all of them."
Gyda was quiet for a moment, processing this. The runes she knew were ancient, gifted by Odin. They held magic and mystery. But these were Bjorn's. They were new. A different kind of magic, perhaps. Her voice, when she spoke again, was softer, touched with awe. "Does that mean you made your own way to speak? That's so nice!"
That's when Ragnar and Lagertha appeared from the forest, as they just came back from Kategatt. They paused on the threshold, their eyes adjusting to the familiar shapes of their children and their world taking form.
Ragnar's gaze settled on Bjorn A slow, knowing smile touched one side of his mouth, though his eyes remained assessing. "So," his voice rumbled, cutting through the focused silence, "this is what you've been up to."
Lagertha moved past him, her shieldmaiden's stride softening as she approached the children. She nodded, a genuine curiosity warming her features as she looked over Gyda's shoulder at the strange marks on the slate. "You are teaching the girl something new." It was a statement of fact, layered with approval.
Bjorn glanced up from his carving, his hands momentarily stilling. He offered only a slight nod in acknowledgment, his expression guarded, letting his parents draw their own conclusions.
"She's learning well," Lagertha said softly, her voice a gentle counterpoint to Ragnar's gruffness.
At her mother's praise, Gyda looked up, her face breaking into a proud, bright smile. "It's hard," she admitted, "but I like it."
Ragnar walked over to where Bjorn sat, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. He gestured with his chin toward the half-finished chair. "Looks like you could use another hand. A man can't build a kingdom and all its furniture alone."
Bjorn nodded once. "Thank you. Is there any new news with our Earl?"
The air in the room seemed to cool, the brief moment of peace dissolving into tense anticipation. Ragnar's expression hardened. "The Law-Speaker made an announcement in the square," he said, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. "A Thing is to be held in three days. 'All free men must attend. Those who do not come will answer for it.' That's what he said."
Bjorn set his knife down, the soft click of steel on wood unnaturally loud. "Strange timing. What is to be spoken of?"
"He was not specific," Ragnar answered, his gaze distant, already playing out scenarios in his mind. "My guess is it will be about you."
Bjorn's brows drew together in a hard line. "So Haraldson finally makes his move against us."
"He is bound by the law," Lagertha interjected, her voice firm. "He cannot spill blood without cause, or he will lose the support of the very men he needs to hold his power. He knows this."
"That's the problem," Bjorn countered. "I would really prefer a fight right now. And if they attack us, we simply have the justification to defend ourselves. There is nothing more annoying than shadow plays when you have no information of the other side about how they will do it."
Ragnar let out a long, weary sigh. He looked at his son, his expression a mixture of concern. "I have already sent word to the men who sailed with us to the west. The ones who saw the Gods presence. If it comes to it, they will be ready."
Athelstan looked up from the slate, mustering his courage. "What if there's another way? What if you could avoid this confrontation entirely?"
Bjorn stopped and looked at the monk. "How?"
"I don't know yet," Athelstan admitted. "But in my experience, powerful men often create their own downfall by overreaching. Perhaps your Earl will make a mistake."
"Perhaps," Ragnar said, though his tone suggested he didn't believe it. "But we cannot count on our enemies' mistakes. We must be prepared for the worst."
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Over the next two days, the Earl's will spread. Hrafn led riders to the outlying farms. At each small homestead, nestled in the green hills, the message was the same, delivered without pleasantry.
"You are ordered to attend the Thing. It will be held in three days. The Earl will speak. Do not miss it."
Farmers and their families, faces weathered by work, simply nodded. They answered with short, clipped words. "Yes." "We will be there."
On the final evening, as the sun bled orange and purple across the horizon, the true call went out. A long, deep note from a horn sounded from the watchtower of Haraldson's hall.
It was answered a moment later by another horn from a nearby hill, then another, a chain of sound echoing through the valleys. On the high ground, bonfires were lit, a stark message for even the most distant farm: The Thing is coming. Everyone must see. Everyone must know.
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The night air was cold. High above, it was a full moon, and the stars were brilliant points of light in the clear sky. Earl Haraldson stood by himself in front of his great hall. He stared up at the sky, looking for something he couldn't name.
The weight of leadership pressed down on him. Tomorrow would bring the Thing, and with it, a confrontation that would determine the future of his power. He let out a long, tired sigh, the sound lost in the wind.
A hand touched his shoulder. He turned and saw his wife, Siggy. She gave him a small, concerned smile and then hugged him from the side, resting her head against his arm. They stood like that for a moment before he turned his eyes back to the sky.
"You should come to bed," Siggy said softly. "You need to get some sleep. You'll need your rest for tomorrow."
"I will," he answered, his voice low and rough. "There's always time to sleep later." He paused with his eyes still fixed on the stars. "I was thinking about our boys. I was picturing what they'd look like now… how tall they would be. Wondering what kind of men they would have grown into."
Siggy's grip tightened slightly. Their sons were killed by someone, and they never found who did it.
"And then I thought of Ragnar," Haraldson continued. "And his boy." He let out a short, harsh laugh that held no humor. "They go out on the sea, they find new lands, they bring back gold and stories and the favor of the gods. And what do I do? I sit here counting coins, sending out guards, and putting on feasts for men who can barely remember my name the next morning."
"That isn't true," she said quietly.
"Isn't it?" He looked at her, his eyes sharp but visibly tired. "I envy them. Both the father and the son. And what makes it worse is that I respect them, too."
Siggy looked surprised. "Respect? You respect Ragnar Lothbrok?"
"Why shouldn't I?" Haraldson countered. "He's everything I used to be. He's restless, and he's ambitious. And he was right about going west. But I knew it too. Deep down, I knew it. I just didn't have the courage to act on it."
He sighed and looked away again. "But this is where we are now. Maybe he has opened up those western lands for me, and for that, I'll have to destroy them both."
"It doesn't have to end like that," Siggy said, her voice tight.
"When it comes to holding power, it always ends in blood Siggy. Always"
They were quiet for a long moment. Siggy stepped closer, trying to find another way, realising how dangerous it could be. "We could offer Thyri to them."
Haraldson looked at her, his interest piqued despite himself.
"As a bride," she continued. her words coming faster now. "For Bjorn. It would join our families. Make him one of us instead of our enemy. A political marriage could solve this without bloodshed."
Haraldson scoffed, almost laughing. "Now? You think that would work now?"
"It's not too late."
"It feels like it is," he said. He rubbed his face with both hands. "I've seen the way people look at his son now. The way they talk about him since he came back with that mark." He gestured toward the town. "They're saying the gods chose him. If they believe that, they'll follow him. They'll start to think Thor guides his axe, Odin whispers in his dreams."
Then his voices raises, "Then It will be Freyja, who blesses him with beauty and luck, then Njord calms the seas for his ship. Tyr gives him victory. One god at a time, until he's untouchable in their eyes. Until questioning him feels like blasphemy."
He looked down at the ground. "They'll follow him because they want to believe in something like that. It's easier than just waiting for things to happen." He was quiet for a second. "But to stand there in front of everyone and claim the gods are on your side, that was a mistake."
"Why was it a mistake?" Siggy asked.
He finally met her eyes, and the tired look was replaced by a sharp, calculating one.
"Because how do you really prove it?" he said. "With a mark on your shoulder?" He snorted. "It doesn't prove anything. Not really."
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GATHERING FIELD – DAY
A strong wind whipped across the gathering field, rattling the woven banners that marked the assembly area. The free men and women of Kattegat stood in a vast, murmuring crowd. A ring of shields had been formed, a space for law and judgment.
The tension was a physical thing. Haraldson's men, forty of them, all clad in leather armor and bearing the Earl's insignia, were not clustered around him. Instead, they moved strategically through the crowd, their presence a constant reminder of where the power lay. They stood in small groups, their hands never far from their axes and swords, their eyes scanning the faces of the assembled people.
Near the eastern edge of the crowd, Bjorn spotted Hrafn talking quietly with two other warriors. The man's face was set in its usual stoic, but there was something different about his posture, a coiled tension that suggested he was ready for violence.
Ragnar and his followers stood together, a small island in the sea of people. Lagertha was at his side, her hand resting on Bjorn's shoulder. Rollo, Floki, Thorstein, Arne....all were there, their expressions grim, their stances ready. They were outnumbered, and they knew it.
Rollo stood slightly apart, his massive frame and scarred face making him easily recognizable. His eyes moved constantly, cataloguing threats and escape routes with the practiced ease of a veteran warrior. Beside him, Floki swayed slightly, his strange laugh occasionally bubbling up despite the serious atmosphere.
Thorstein, Arne, Erik, and the other men who had sailed west with Ragnar were scattered throughout their small group, their faces showing the strain of being outnumbered but not outmatched in experience. Each man's hand rested on his weapon, and their eyes held the hard gleam of men who had seen combat and survived.
The crowd itself was a mix of farmers, craftsmen, traders, and warriors, all the free people who made up the fabric of their society. Many looked nervous, unsure of what was about to unfold. Others seemed excited, hungry for drama and the possibility of witnessing something historic.
At the center of the shield-ring stood a low stone altar. The crowd fell silent as Earl Haraldson approached. He wore his finest wool cloak, trimmed with black fur, and heavy silver rings adorned his arms. Beside him walked Torvald, his sneering leader of bodyguards, and the Lawspeaker, Jorund, holding his ceremonial staff of office.
The Lawspeaker stepped forward first, his voice carrying clearly across the field. "Let all free men and women bear witness! The Thing is called by Earl Haraldson, lawful lord of this land, protector of the people, keeper of the peace!"
A murmur ran through the crowd, those were the ritual words that opened every formal assembly.
Haraldson raised his hand and the murmur died instantly. His voice, when he spoke, was calm and resonant. He looked every inch the powerful Earl, a man accustomed to command and respect.
"Freemen and women of Kattegat! We gather today not for celebration, but because of a danger that threatens us all." He let his gaze sweep across the faces before him, making eye contact with as many people as possible. "Throughout our history, men have claimed the favor of the gods to justify their own ambition. They proclaim that the gods guide their swords, whisper secrets in their ears, and they use that claim to become tyrants over their own people."
The crowd shifted uneasily. This was not what they had expected to hear.
"Remember Hrólf the Skald," he continued, his voice growing stronger. "He swore that Freyja blessed his raids, that she whispered to him in dreams and granted him victory. And what did he do with that supposed divine favor? He bled his own people dry with taxes to fund his pointless wars. He took their sons for his armies and their daughters for his bed, all in the name of the gods."
Uncomfortable murmurs rippled through the crowd. These were old stories, cautionary tales told to children around winter fires. But hearing them spoken aloud at a Thing gave them weight and immediacy.
"Remember Erling Blood-shield," Haraldson continued, his voice taking on a darker tone. "He claimed Odin's personal favor, said the All-Father had chosen him to lead. And what did he do? He murdered his own brother to seize power, then killed anyone who questioned his rule. He said the gods demanded it."
The crowd was completely silent now, hanging on every word. Lagertha's grip on Bjorn's shoulder tightened protectively.
"These are not distant legends," Haraldson declared, his voice ringing with authority. "These are warnings from our ancestors. They knew that men who claim divine favor without proof are the most dangerous of all. They are the ones who will sacrifice everything and everyone for their own ambition."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the assembly. Then his voice became more personal, more immediate.
"Today, we face such a man among us. Today, we must decide how to protect our people from those who would use the gods' names for their own gain!"
The crowd stirred, sensing that the real purpose of the Thing was about to be revealed.
Haraldson turned, his eyes scanning the crowd until they found their target. When he spoke again, his voice carried across the field like a battle cry.
"Bjorn Ragnarsson!"
A collective gasp went through the crowd. Heads turned, people craned their necks to see the young man who had been called out.
"You stand accused of claiming divine favor without proof!" Haraldson pointed a finger directly at Bjorn, his voice filled with righteous anger. "Your followers spread tales that you have spoken with Thor himself. They claim thunder bends to your will, that you bear the mark of the gods upon your flesh!"
At his subtle signal, a dozen of his forty guards began to move. They didn't advance aggressively, but their movement was deliberate and coordinated. They formed a loose but unmistakable semi-circle, effectively cutting off Ragnar's group from the rest of the crowd. Their hands moved to rest openly on the hilts of their swords.
The crowd pressed backward, creating a clear space around the confrontation. Parents pulled their children closer, and warriors fingered their own weapons nervously.
Haraldson's eyes were locked on Bjorn, and his voice carried the full weight of his authority. "How do you answer this charge? And more importantly, how do you propose we protect our people from false prophets and god-touched madmen in the future?"
The challenge hung in the air like a blade. Every person in the crowd understood what was happening. This wasn't really about divine favor or protecting the people. This was about power, about an old Earl facing a young challenger who threatened his authority.
"After all," Haraldson continued, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone that somehow carried to every corner of the field, "you say the gods chose you. You bear their mark. You claim their blessing."
The crowd murmured, looking back and forth between the powerful Earl and the young man who had dared to challenge the established order. Some faces showed fear, others intense curiosity. A few showed the beginning of anger, whether at Bjorn for his presumption or at Haraldson for his heavy-handed tactics was unclear.
"So I ask you, Bjorn Ragnarsson," Haraldson's voice boomed across the clearing, echoing off the surrounding hills, "prove your divine favor! Show us all that the gods truly walk beside you!"
He paused, letting the challenge sink in, then delivered his final blow.
"Or face the punishment reserved for those who lie to their people about the gods' will. Face the blood eagle."
A collective intake of breath swept through the crowd. The blood eagle was the most feared death in their culture, a ritual execution so brutal that even hardened warriors turned pale at its mention. It was reserved for the worst criminals, for those who had committed unforgivable acts against the gods and their people.
The silence that followed was deafening. Every eye in the crowd was fixed on Bjorn, waiting to see how he would respond to this ultimate challenge. The young man stood straight and tall, his expression calm despite the magnitude of what he faced.
Around him, his father's men shifted nervously, hands tightening on weapons. Lagertha's breathing was shallow and controlled, her body coiled for action. Ragnar himself stood motionless, his face a mask of controlled fury.
But all attention was focused on Bjorn. What would he do? How could anyone prove divine favor? And what would happen if he failed?
The wind picked up, whistling across the field and setting the banners snapping. In the distance, a two ravens cawed once, then fell silent. The moment stretched on, heavy with possibility and danger.
Haraldson stood waiting, confident in his trap. He had cornered his enemy, forced him into an impossible position. Either Bjorn would fail to prove his divine favor and be executed, or he would refuse the challenge and lose all credibility with the people.
Either way, the Earl would win.
The crowd held its breath, waiting for the young man's response to this deadly gambit.
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