Chapter 1 - Chapter 1: The Awakening

The last thing I remember is the screech of tires and the sickening crunch of metal.Now, I'm drowning.Frigid water floods my lungs. I surge upward, hacking for air as I break the surface. My hands—shrunken, strangely callused—scrape at the jagged shore. I haul myself onto the bank, spitting out what tastes like half the fjord." Ragnar! Ragnar, you fool!" The voice cuts through the ringing. A blond, wild-haired boy, maybe fourteen, runs toward me in rough-spun wool and leather. Behind him, wooden longhouses dot the shoreline, smoke rising into a clear sky.This isn't a hospital. It isn't anywhere it should be." You said you could make the jump," the boy says, grabbing my arm. His grip is strong, real. "Rollo won fifty silver because of you." Rollo. The name is a blow; real, physical." I'm fine," I say, but the voice is younger, accented in Old Norse I shouldn't understand. My hand finds my smooth, beardless face—features barely past childhood. No. No, this can't be—"Come on, before Father sees you've nearly killed yourself again." The boy—my mind supplies a name I shouldn't know: Kalf—hauls me to my feet.I look down at my reflection in the still water near the shore.Blue eyes stare back at me. A young face, sharp-featured and defiant. A face I've seen dozens of times on a screen, in a show I binged three times through.Ragnar Lothbrok.My legs buckle. Kalf steadies me, mistaking crisis for exhaustion. "You really did hit your head, didn't you?" he says, concerned now.I force myself to breathe. The settlement bustles—women haul water, men mend nets, a blacksmith's hammer rings. The air smells of wood smoke, salt, and livestock.This is Kattegat. Or what will become Kattegat.And I'm Ragnar Lothbrok. Years before the raids. Before Lagertha. Before everything that made the legend.Before the snake pit." Ragnar?" Kalf waves a hand in front of my face. "Brother, you're scaring me." A surge of confusion presses at my temples. Brother. Somehow, I know this is true—Ragnar's memories tangled up with mine. But they feel buried, waiting beneath the surface, creeping closer with each passing second.I need to think, to understand. But Kalf pulls me toward the longhouses. A large man—Father—strides over, his expression promising consequences." Walk it off," I mutter, more to myself than Kalf. "I'm fine." But I'm not fine. Not at all. I'm a twenty-first-century history nerd, trapped in the body of a legendary Viking warrior. Decades before he becomes legend.And I know exactly how his story ends.The question is: do I let it?Father—Sigurd—reaches us before panic consumes me. He's massive, all broad shoulders and an iron-gray beard, with eyes cold enough to freeze the fjord in summer." Ragnar." His voice is the rumble of distant thunder. "You bet against yourself?" The question catches me off guard. Ragnar's memories surface sluggishly, like fish in cold water. The jump. The wager. Rollo had bet I'd fail, and I'd... I'd taken the other side of the bet with Kalf and several others." I made the jump," I say, surprised at how steady my voice sounds. "Into the water counts." Kalf snorts. Sigurd's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or approval of the audacity." Your brother profited from your failure. He'll buy the ale tonight." Sigurd turns his gaze to the settlement behind us. "The jarl's son is here. He wants to speak with you." My stomach drops. "Jarl Haraldson?"" His son, Sten." Sigurd's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "He heard about your... ideas." Ideas. Ragnar's memories crystallize—I've been talking about sailing west, across the open ocean to lands I claim exist beyond the sunset, not just for trade.In the show, Ragnar doesn't start seriously pursuing England until he's older, until he's met Floki, until he's built his reputation. But this younger Ragnar has apparently already been running his mouth about it.Stupid. Dangerous. In this time, in this place, innovation is viewed with suspicion. The old ways are sacred. And Jarl Haraldson...Another memory surfaces: Haraldson is the current jarl. The one who, in the show's timeline, Ragnar will eventually kill to take his place. The one who forbids the Western raids.And his son is here. Wanting to talk to the boy who keeps speaking heresy about sailing into the unknown." When?" I ask." Now. He's in the hall." Sigurd places a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Think before you speak, boy. The jarl's favor is a fickle thing." He leaves me dripping on the shoreline. Kalf stares expectantly." Well?" Kalf grins. "Are you going to tell Sten about the lands to the west? Maybe he'll fund an expedition. His father certainly won't." I look out across the water, toward the horizon where—hundreds of miles away—England waits. Lindisfarne. The raid that will change everything. The raid that historically occurred in 793 AD.Dread settles in my chest. I'm missing so much—what year is it? Can I change what happens, or should I even try? What if pushing history forward is a mistake? The uncertainty gnaws at me." Ragnar?" Kalf's grin fades. "You really did hit your head."" Yeah," I breathe. "Something like that." I head for the longhouse, water dripping, my mind racing with centuries of consequences.One conversation. That's all this is.So why does it feel like the entire future balances on what I say next?