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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Lífþrasir

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When at last they came up for air, their lips bruised from each other's kisses, Gæl gently cradled Margaretha's face in his hand. "Are you all right?" he asked tenderly. "Did they hurt you?" He glanced down at her dress, suddenly terrified of the answer, his mind threatening to cloud with rage once more.

Margaretha turned her head and pressed a kiss into his palm. "I was hit," she admitted. "But it is a small matter."

"You killed the man who overcame me," Clove said. "That is no small matter."

Gæl smiled with relief and held his betrothed close. "Róry will be so envious that you saw action before he did," he said proudly. "If it is what you desire, we can make a shieldmaiden out of you yet."

"Maybe," Margaretha said, managing a shaky laugh. "But I predict it will take some time."

Gæl's heart leaped at the way she immediately touched her belly. "Are you…" he trailed off, placing his hand over hers.

A blush spread across Margaretha's cheeks. "It is too early," she told him. "Too early to know for sure."

An unfamiliar laugh echoed off the walls, and all those who were present swiveled their heads to find the source.

"What a heartwarming reunion," Sir Thread said contemptuously in Norse. It was the first time the Northmen had ever heard him speak; before this, they knew him only as Lady Coinn's shadow. "I was wrong in my estimation. I thought you a warrior, not a lover, Gæl Hallvardson."

Thome and Cato tightened their grip on the white-haired man, and Finn held his trident against Thread's chest. The king's men had previously stripped Lady Coinn's bodyguard of his armor, leaving only his clothes and his chain mail. "You have not been given permission to talk," Finn reprimanded him coldly.

"Let him speak," Gæl found himself saying. "Let us hear what he has to say."

"Gæl, no," Margaretha pleaded, clinging to him, her eyes round with fear.

But Gæl had disengaged himself from her embrace, and walked to where Sir Thread was held captive. "What is your problem with me, old man?" he demanded.

There is something very strange about him, Hejsel had said.

"Before we allied with Lady Coinn, you were a stranger to me," Gæl said. "And yet I find that, at every turn, you are always there, watching me with daggers in your eyes."

But at the same time...

"I may be a stranger to you," Sir Thread said, "but you are not a stranger to me."

... there is something very, very familiar.

"Do not listen to him," Katnisse said from where she stood next to Josef and the warriors from Tretten who held him fast.

"He is only saying this to provoke you," Thome warned. "Do not give him what he wants."

"Remember what we spoke about," Cato reminded him. "Remember control."

Gæl did remember. Take deep breaths. Clear your mind of everything but the mission. But the mission was the last thing on his mind.

"I do not care to play guessing games with someone such as yourself," Gæl said, drawing his sword and pointing it at Sir Thread. "Speak plainly, or do not speak at all."

"Your mother did not recognize me, and neither did Haymið or any of the others, because I always fight with a helm," Sir Thread said. "But before I came into the service of Earl Heavensby, I was a soldier myself. Your army battled mine on two occasions. I knew your father; I have seen him fight. I have fought with him myself."

"You lie," Gæl said, his heart pounding in his chest. "If you met my father on the battlefield, you would not be alive to tell the tale."

"The first time, I was not the one he faced. No... it was my son that he fought. My son that he slew." Sir Thread stared at the younger man with pure hatred in his eyes.

"From the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew you had to be the son of the man who killed mine. In truth, you are the very image of him... the second coming of the great and mighty Hallvard of Tolv." Sir Thread spat the words out like venom. "I would not be surprised if you had killed Lady Coinn's son Seneca as well, seeing as you have rather enthusiastically claimed his bride for your own."

"If that is true, and my father truly killed your son, then your anger is justified," Gæl said. "But you should never have entered an alliance with someone you hated so. That is what my father taught me about trust... what he taught me about honor."

Sir Thread's sinister laugh boomed in Gæl's ears. "It is rather touching, the way sons idolize their fathers. As if they could do no wrong. As if they were gods walking among men. But let me tell you this, boy... your father was no god." His smile, like his voice, was full of derision. "I know, because the second time we met in battle, I killed Hallvard myself."

The silence that followed was so deadly, so absolute, that it caused a deafening ringing in everyone's ears.

"Release him," Gæl said softly.

"Gæl, please—" Margaretha cried.

"I do not think that is wise—" Finn protested.

"Release him!" he roared.

Thome and Cato had no choice but to comply, and Sir Thread shook himself free of their grasp.

"Give him a weapon," Gæl said. In the blink of an eye, his voice had changed once more, and now he sounded dangerously calm.

Clove pulled Cato's sword out from its scabbard and tossed it to the older man, who caught it without missing a beat.

Clove stepped back and nodded at Gæl. She understood, perhaps better than anyone else, that Gæl would not find peace until he found retribution.

"I will fight you," Sir Thread said, "only on the condition that no-one interferes."

"You have my word," Gæl said. "This is between you and me."

They circled each other slowly, like predators sizing up their prey.

"Whatever enmity you hold in the darkness of your heart," Gæl said to Sir Thread, "I will end it tonight."

As he swore the oath with his lips, the battle-song was singing in his heart.

Ax time, sword time, 'ere the world fall;

Wind time, wolf time!

Do you know more now, or not?

"I will die happily," Sir Thread replied, "if it means I will send you to the hell where your father has been rotting for the past four years."

Ax time, sword time...

"Whether you refer to Hel, or to the Christian hell, you can be sure that my father will not be found in either," Gæl said. "He drinks with the gods in Valhalla."

'Ere the world fall...

"Your father was a fool," Sir Thread sneered. "I shielded myself with a slave, and rather than run through both of us with his blade, he showed a moment's hesitation that was all I needed to defeat him. Continue to venerate your father if you must, but the truth is that Hallvard was weak. For all of his skill, all of his physical strength, like you he was not a true warrior. Were I a pagan, I would say that he died unworthy of Valhalla."

Wind time, wolf time...

"Say that again," Gæl challenged him. "I dare you."

Do you know more now...

Sir Thread licked his scarred lips in triumph. "Your father did not go to Valhalla," he declared. "And neither will you."

... Or not?

With a battle cry that was terrible to hear, Gæl charged at him at full speed.

Gæl's ears were filled with the clang of metal on metal as their swords clashed. Sir Thread was old, but he was a seasoned fighter, and he parried the younger man's blows again and again.

"I killed your father," Sir Thread growled, their faces only inches away from each other as their swords crossed and fought for purchase. "I will kill you, too."

"I shall avenge him," Gæl said, his eyes black with fury as he pressed forward against the weight of his enemy's body. "I will take your life as repayment for his own, and strip you of your dignity as recompense for the slurs you have made upon his honor."

He twisted away abruptly, causing Sir Thread to lose his balance. Gæl seized this opportunity and thrust his sword at him once more. He caught Sir Thread on the forearm, which the older man's chain mail did not reach, and soon his opponent's woolen sleeve bloomed red with blood.

Sir Thread looked down at his wound, and back up again. "That is the last blow you will ever land."

He lashed out wildly, and while Gæl was able to evade him for some time, his movements were so erratic that Gæl could not anticipate each one.

Sir Thread knocked Gæl's sword out of his hand, causing his weapon to clatter uselessly to the ground. Then he spun around and hacked savagely at Gæl's back, bringing the Northerner to his knees.

"How fitting," Gæl managed to say, even as the pain caused spots to dance before his eyes, "that our treacherous ally has attempted to stab me in the back."

"I think this time I shall opt for a decapitation," Sir Thread said, holding his sword out in front of him with both hands. "And give your head to the next man who claims the woman you love." He glanced up at Thome and Cato. "From what I hear, there are many who would jump at the chance."

With Thor as his witness, Gæl had never hated anyone more.

As Sir Thread's sword slashed downwards and Gæl's vision threatened to turn black forever, all he could hear was the sound of Margaretha screaming.

But instead of cold iron on the nape of his neck, all Gæl felt was Margaretha's arms wrapping around him, and—a split second later—the thud of Sir Thread's body falling on the floor.

Gæl looked over Margaretha's shoulder, and was astonished to find one each of Katnisse's arrows and Clove's knives, together with Thome's sword, Cato's ax, and Finn's trident, all buried deep in Sir Thread's back, piercing the chain mail until blood pulsed out of the wounds in time to the fading heartbeat of a dying man.

"We did not give our word to Sir Thread," Thome said by way of explanation. "Only you did."

"Thank you," Gæl said hoarsely. "Thank you all."

As for Margaretha, she was herself unscathed. She seized his face, calling him a fool over and over again through her tears, and Gæl held on to her like a lifeline as he watched the man who killed his father die.

.

ooo

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The warriors disposed of Sir Thread's body and walked in the direction of the king's chambers, in order to return Josef to the room which he had previously escaped.

"I heard the fighting," Peeta said frantically, coming down the corridor to meet them. He saw Gæl limping towards him, supported by Margaretha on one side and Thome on the other. "What was happening?"

"This half-wit here challenged Sir Thread to a duel," Thome informed him.

Gæl grimaced in pain, but he managed to twist his features into a crooked grin for the former monk's benefit. "I shall tell you all about it some other time."

"Did you find my brother?" Peeta asked. "Darius and Jó said—"

The rest of the sentence died on his lips, for just then the rest of the warriors turned the corner and came into view.

There she was, dressed in leather and chain mail instead of the diaphanous dress of his dreams, but when she lifted her eyes to his he knew she had never been more beautiful.

"Katnisse," Peeta whispered, a lump forming in his throat.

"Peeta," Katnisse cried, her face lighting up at the sight of her love.

They ran towards each other as if on winged feet, and the next thing Peeta knew Katnisse was in his arms, filling his nostrils with her wildflower scent, covering his mouth with hers. She wound her fingers in his hair, and he drank her in like a man dying of thirst.

"Katnisse," Peeta gasped, when they broke apart. "Thank God."

"Do not leave my side ever again," Katnisse said fiercely, grasping his collar and staring into his eyes. "Not even for a moment."

He leaned his forehead against hers and nodded, the joy in his heart rendering him unable to speak.

"So this is your heathen whore," Josef said scornfully, reminding them that their ordeal was not yet over; no, not by far. "You should have just gone back to Delly when you had the chance."

Katnisse stepped away from Peeta and towards Josef. Though she was unable to understand what Josef was saying, she had caught the mention of Delly's name.

"What?" she asked, the Saxon accent unfamiliar on her tongue.

"God, these pagans are as stupid as they are violent," Josef said. "Like animals. Like mutts."

"Mutt," Katnisse repeated, narrowing her eyes. Though it was not a word she knew, Josef's jeering tone of voice was as clear as day.

"Yes, a mutt," Josef shot back. "That is what you are. A filthy, despicable mutt."

"She is not a mutt, nor is she a whore," Peeta said angrily. "She is the woman I will marry. She is a good person who fights for the people she loves. She is—she is—"

"A mockingjay," Margaretha said. These people, her friends, they were her family now, and the rebellion was theirs to win. "She is a mockingjay."

.

ooo

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After a fitful night's sleep—three times he woke up in a cold sweat, and each time Katnisse had to hold him and sing to him for half an hour before he slipped back into slumber—Peeta awoke on the day of the proclamation to the sound of a cockerel crowing.

One, he counted.

It crowed again. Two. And yet again. Three.

Why do so many things come in threes? There were three cockerels in the story of Ragnarǫk, each crowing to the others to herald the end of the world. Even in the Scriptures, a rooster crowed after Apostle Peter denied Christ three times.

The thought came to him without warning. It is a bad omen.

Beside him, Katnisse stirred. "Is it time?" she asked sleepily, through half-closed eyes.

"Yes," Peeta said. "It is time."

.

ooo

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"You do not seem to be quite yourself today, Josef," King Coriolan said, as they took their seats in the square for the proclamation.

The king's voice was calm, almost soothing, but his words nearly made Peeta jump out of his skin. He knows, Peeta despaired. He is waiting for me to commit one mistake, one misstep, before he reveals his hand.

Do not be foolish, he argued with himself. Josef is safely locked away. You look like him. You sound like him. You are him. You have nothing to fear. Just a little longer. It will all be over soon.

"Indeed, my lord, I do not feel like myself at all," Peeta said, his mind racing. "It is not every day that a humble peasant, the son of a farmer, is to be proclaimed prince regent and heir to the illustrious throne of Panym. You have raised me up, my lord king. I am a different person now: a better person. Because of you, my lord, I am Josef no longer."

King Coriolan smiled. "Well said," he praised. "Your powers of elocution have grown by leaps and bounds."

The king sounded sincerely satisfied with Peeta's answer. Still, the former monk could not shake the feeling that he would be caught at any moment.

As if there were not enough things to worry about, Peeta had belatedly realized that, apart from the king, he had an entire council of advisers to fool. The Archbishop of Panym. The master of coin, the man who had replaced Lord Undersee. The commander of the king's forces, who would surely have noticed by now that approximately a third of his men had suddenly become of Northern stock overnight.

Peeta tugged at the collar of his shirt, the finery they had found already laid out in Josef's bedroom, and tried not to make eye contact as the advisers filed past him.

The Archbishop sat down beside him. "It is a good day to become a prince," he noted. "I am glad to see some color in your cheeks at last, Josef. It becomes you, especially with your new clothes. You look altogether healthier and more wholesome. It seems you have taken my advice to heart—that more time spent outdoors admiring God's creation is balm for the soul."

From the corner of his eye, Peeta spotted Katnisse from where she perched, watching over the proceedings with her bow at the ready.

Finn appeared, dressed as a Saxon guard, with a bound and gagged Lady Coinn in tow. A similarly disguised Darius followed soon after, with Margaretha. Gæl had wanted to be the one to escort her, but he was in no shape to take part in the ruse. Last night Margaretha had given him medicine for the pain, and it had sent him quickly into a deep sleep. He would not awake until after all of this was through.

"Tie my sister to the stake," King Coriolan instructed. "Hook Lady Margaretha up to the post."

Finn brought Lady Coinn to the stake and did as he was told. Even from this distance, Peeta could tell that under the Saxon helm Finn was taking enormous pleasure in the intricate knot he had chosen for this special occasion. Get on with it, Peeta wanted to growl.

Darius had a faster time of it, simply looping Margaretha's bound wrists around a hook on a post.

The Archbishop clicked his tongue in pity. "Lord Undersee's daughter," he whispered to Peeta. "I had forgotten how beautiful she was. I prayed for her when her parents were executed, and again when she was taken by the Northmen, alas..."

Prayed? Peeta wondered. You are in a position of power, in a position to influence the king. You could have stopped him from executing Lord Undersee and Lady Magthilde. Moreover, you could have prevented the king from demanding human tribute in the first place. But all you did was look away and pray, hoping that God would punish those you did not have the courage to stand up against.

Of course, in his heart Peeta knew it was never that simple. But still...

King Coriolan rose from his throne, which had been carried out into the square for this purpose. "We are here to celebrate three things," he announced to the people who had gathered. Despite his age and frail appearance, his voice was loud and clear. "The execution of two rebels: my sister, Lady Coinn of Panym, who coveted my title and my throne, and the lady Margaretha of the house of Donner, half-blood bastard of Northern issue, raised by the traitorous Lord Undersee whom we also put to death a year ago. And, of course, the proclamation of Josef, my adviser, my son in spirit if not in name or natural birth, as prince regent and my heir forevermore. Which shall we accomplish first?"

"As it is winter, and I can already feel the chill in my bones," the commander of the king's forces said, "I would suggest, my king, that we start by lighting a fire. Burn the traitor until she is nothing but ashes and smoke."

The king laughed. "Of course, of course. Wise counsel, Commander."

"But first," the Archbishop interjected, "we must give her the opportunity to say her last words, and make her peace with God."

Peeta's heart stopped.

"Very well," the king nodded. "Guard, remove the gag."

Finn looked blank, not comprehending what he was supposed to do. Darius coughed discreetly and motioned for him to remove the cloth tied around Lady Coinn's mouth.

Finn hesitated, knowing the danger in this course of action, knowing the extent of what Lady Coinn knew and could reveal.

"Guard!" the commander barked. "Do as your king tells you!"

"Northmen!" Lady Coinn shrieked, the moment her gag was removed. "The castle has been infiltrated by Northmen!"

King Coriolan narrowed his snake eyes at her. "What are you talking about, you madwoman?"

"Your so-called heir—he is an impostor, a fraud! That is not Josef, but his brother whom he presumed dead," Lady Coinn accused in a shrill voice. "He is working with the Northmen to take control of this good, Christian kingdom, and force you all to bow down to their false gods."

The king turned to look at his young adviser. "I see none but Josef before me."

"That is because I am, my lord king," Peeta lied, his stomach churning.

"He is not," Lady Coinn insisted.

"This is a grave accusation," the king said.

"Test him," Lady Coinn urged. "Test him and you will know that I speak the truth."

King Coriolan pursed his lips. "I do not normally listen to the ramblings of a traitor, but in this case..." He considered it for a moment, and came to a conclusion. "Very well. If you are the man you say you are, Josef, tell me... what was the punishment we had in mind for the lady Margaretha?"

Peeta's heart flooded with relief, for he knew the answer. "Why, the punishment I myself suggested to you, my king," he responded. "You had dreamed of a half-mockingjay, half-raven, and together with the other birds that were torturing you it was transformed into gold—gold that represented great wealth and prosperity for Panym. Thus I arranged for a cauldron of molten gold, to be poured over this half-Saxon, half-Northern abomination."

"Correct," the king said, pleased with the answer.

"That means nothing," Lady Coinn said. "Ask him to say the word, carry out the punishment himself."

"A reasonable request," King Coriolan conceded. He looked at Peeta. "Well, then?"

"I—" Peeta began, panic beginning to creep into his voice. He threw a glance at Darius standing beside Margaretha, and saw him with one hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to strike down the men who were carrying the cauldron.

"You see?" Lady Coinn crowed. "He cannot go through with it. He cannot—"

An arrow flew straight into her mouth, silencing her forever.

"What is the meaning of this?" King Coriolan bellowed, before he himself was pierced with another arrow through the heart.

Katnisse jumped down from her vantage point, the crowd parting as she made her way through to the front with her bow raised and her grey eyes hard and vindictive.

It was easy to determine which soldiers were Saxon and which were Northern, for the former looked to advance, while the latter formed a protective circle around the archer.

Clove walked backwards slowly, a spear in her hand instead of her usual knives.

Sword unsheathed, Cato had the same idea, and soon the berserker and the shieldmaiden found themselves back to back.

"If we survive this," Cato said, "will you come to Tolv's midwinter festival with me?"

"You really need to reevaluate your priorities," Clove answered, her eyes darting back and forth at the Saxon soldiers surrounding them.

"You did not say no," Cato said. "Are you saying yes?"

"If you are no longer a stupid, insensitive brute when all of this is over and done," Clove said, "I give you permission to ask again, and perhaps then I will have an answer."

Cato grinned. "You have yourself a deal."

Katnisse continued forward relentlessly. One by one the advisers fell. The commander of the king's army. The master of coin.

She trained her bow at the Archbishop, who held his hands up in surrender.

"Stop," Peeta said in Norse. "Katnisse, please. Let us end the killing now."

He turned to address the crowd. "Soldiers, noblemen, people of Panym," he said, this time in his native tongue, and in as loud a voice as he could muster. "Lady Coinn spoke the truth; I am not Josef. My name is Peeta, and I am his brother. I was once a monk, but I have been living in the North for the past year. Lady Coinn approached us, asking us to fight by her side against the king. I gladly joined her cause, because I knew firsthand of the suffering that the people of Panym endure. The suffering that you, and your children, endure.

"We are not here to kill the innocent. We have freed the tributes, or at least, those whom we found living. Before this, we have only raised arms against the king's guards. The Northmen can help us. It may sound strange, for we have long viewed them as the enemy, but this time they can be our allies. They can protect us from other invaders, and you will not have to give your children as tribute anymore." He paused to catch his breath. "What say you?"

For a moment there was no sound, no motion at all.

And then, in the middle of the crowd, an old woman touched three fingers to her lips, and raised them in the air.

One by one, the rest of the crowd did the same. Finally, even the Saxon soldiers laid down their arms and joined the others in the salute.

"What is happening?" Katnisse asked. "What does that sign mean?"

Peeta felt tears spring to his eyes. "It is an old gesture, a symbol from before the reign of King Coriolan's father," he said. "It means thanks. It means admiration."

The Archbishop was the next to speak. Once he had been a missionary, and he had traveled to the North lands in his youth. Now, he understood their exchange. "It has another, older meaning," he said. "The people have spoken. They have chosen you, Peeta, as their king."

"What?" Peeta cried.

The Archbishop turned to the crowd. "God save the king!" he shouted.

"God save the king," they echoed back to him.

The Archbishop repeated this for each point of the compass. Finally, he faced Peeta once more.

"Panym prevails," the Archbishop said. "God save the king."

.

ooo

.

Peeta, Haymið, and Bogg were whisked away by the Archbishop and what was left of the king's council to discuss the terms of a peace treaty with the Northmen. As for the rest, they stayed behind in the square.

"My plans are never anything less than brilliant," Finn boasted. "But this time I have truly exceeded expectations. I had contrived to make Peeta a prince, and now he is a king."

However, Jó was decidedly less than thrilled. "I suppose this makes you the queen," she muttered, addressing Katnisse.

"Of course not," Katnisse said immediately. Then she blushed, and qualified her statement. "Not yet, at least."

Jó fell silent. Then: "Does this mean you are going to stay in Panym?"

"Peeta and I spoke of this possibility last night," Katnisse admitted. "First he wishes to visit his family, and return Josef to them. Perhaps they can help him rediscover who he once was. After that, Peeta plans to sail back to Tolv, and formally ask my mother for my hand in marriage. Bogg can stay behind and look after his interests while Peeta is away. But to answer your question... yes, I intend to make this place my home, and it will be easier now that Peeta does not have to pretend to be his brother. I want to be with Peeta, and help him change Panym for the better."

The berserker seemed uncharacteristically close to tears. "What about Prim?"

"It is up to her to decide," Katnisse said, even as her heart constricted painfully at the thought of being separated from Prim. She took a deep breath, and carried on. "The weather is milder in Panym, and I am sure she and our mother would like to winter here. Perhaps they will like it so much that they will stay. Besides, Róry has longed to see Panym ever since Gæl began raiding... if Prim chooses to settle here, now or in the years to come, he is likely to follow." She hesitated, and looked hopefully at the friend she had come to view as her sister. "Can you be persuaded to remain here as well? You will always be welcome to live with us."

Jó appeared crestfallen. "I do not know."

Katnisse decided to change tack, and turned to Darius. "You are a Saxon. Do you have a home here? A family to return to?"

Darius looked at Jó with adoration in his eyes. "Wherever Jórunnr goes, I will go. Whether she stays in Panym, or returns to the North... whether she wants to travel to Éire, the Caliphate, or to sail off into the unknown… it does not matter."

Jó felt his hand brush against hers. Darius gave her a small smile and raised his eyebrows slightly as if to ask, Is this all right?

His touch filled her with a kind of courage that was different from anything she had ever felt before, berserker mushrooms or no, and she gratefully entwined his fingers with her own.

"I know Anni would prefer you to return to Tolv, but we will support whatever decision you make," Finn said sincerely. His face broke into an impish grin. "But please, promise me now that the two of you will never go on watch together again."

"We promise," Jó vowed, unable to suppress her smile.

.

ooo

.

So it came to pass that a new day dawned in Panym.

Peeta's first decree as king was to abolish the system of human tribute, and to begin inquiries towards reforming taxation. With his council, he identified the lands which would be given to the allied forces of Tolv and Tretten, and outlined the responsibilities of defense that were expected of the Northmen.

"Things cannot change overnight," Peeta told Katnisse, as they stood on the balcony and watched the sun rise over their kingdom. "But we shall do what we can, to help the people of Panym."

Katnisse laid her head on his broad shoulder. "It is a good beginning."

.

ooo

.

As for the Northern army itself, its warriors remained, tending to their wounded before setting sail for home.

"I never knew nightlock leaves could be used for pain," Thome remarked as he watched Gæl sip his midday dose of the concoction Margaretha had made. Peeta had insisted that the castle be used to shelter those who were recuperating—mainly those warriors sent to seek out and kill more Saxon guards on the eve of the proclamation, while the core group had been preoccupied with Josef and Sir Thread. Gæl was even given the privilege of staying in the chambers of the departed king himself, and the warrior was now propped up on his elbows on the soft, enormous bed.

"It was the only medicine that worked for my mothe—Lady Magthilde, when she had her headaches," Margaretha said, helping Gæl to lie back down onto his stomach. "We called it morphling."

"It seems fitting, even profound, that something used to kill can also be used to heal," Thome mused. "I feel there is a great truth to it. Perhaps this is how Odin felt, after he hung himself from Yggdrasil, at the very moment the secrets of the runes were revealed to him."

"There is a poem in that, I expect," Gæl said, yawning. The drink of crushed and boiled nightlock leaves left him drowsy, but not as much as it had the first day it was administered to him. "You should tell Finn, or perhaps you should not, depending on your opinion of his poetry."

"I wish Bristl were here," Thome said wistfully. "It is not the same, fighting without him."

"He is making sure we have a village to return to," Gæl said. "We will see him again soon, when we return to Tolv."

Thome smiled ruefully. "Actually, I have decided to stay in Panym with Bogg and the others," he revealed. "Perhaps we can be of service to Peeta and Katnisse." He glanced out the door to where the new king stood in the corridor, talking animatedly to a lovely, curvaceous blonde.

Margaretha followed Thome's gaze. "Is that Delly?"

The warrior blushed. "Do you know her?"

"Only from Peeta's stories," Margaretha said. "He told me she is one of the most kind-hearted people he has ever known."

"Gods, Thome," Gæl said, shaking his head. "You do like blondes."

Delly looked their way and lifted her hand, giving Thome a shy wave.

"Go on," Margaretha encouraged him. "Go there and talk to her. Peeta will help translate."

Thome ran a hand through his hair self-consciously. "Do you really think I should?"

"Just try not to buy her this time," Gæl joked.

Thome threw his friend a severe look as he ambled off towards Delly and Peeta.

Gæl shook his head, chuckling. "Wait until I tell Bristl."

Haymið appeared in the doorway.

"I hear you were almost defeated by an old man," the jarl said gruffly, addressing Gæl as he approached. Because of the negotiations, he did not have the opportunity to visit earlier.

"Thread killed my father," Gæl said. "I could not let it go unavenged. But it is difficult to defeat a man who is ready to die, when you yourself have every reason to live."

Haymið nodded, and turned to Margaretha. "We will begin preparations for your wedding at once," he told her. "People usually get married in the spring or summer, when there is enough honey to make mead, but—"

He broke off in mid-sentence when Margaretha threw her arms around him.

"Lady Coinn said Maysilleigh died in childbirth," Margaretha whispered. "I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me."

Haymið held her at arm's length, and stared at her in wonder. "Forgive you?" he asked incredulously. "There is nothing to forgive. In my dreams, you have always been my daughter. Now…" His eyes shone and his forehead furrowed in earnest. "Now I have awoken to find that my dream and reality are one and the same, and have been all along."

The jarl took Margaretha's hand, and Gæl's, and placed them on top of each other. "As I was saying, I have plenty of mead left in my winter stores, so you will not have to wait until spring."

"We are grateful, more than words could ever say," Gæl said humbly. He squeezed Margaretha's hand and looked Haymið in the eye. "I am honored to call you Father."

"Father," Margaretha echoed, savoring the word as it rolled off her tongue. It had been such a long time since she had occasion to say the word.

Margaretha looked at the man who would soon be her husband, and the man who had always been her father, and it was in this moment that she truly realized she was not an orphan, not a widow, not a thrall anymore.

"Father," she said, her heart full of light and happiness and love. "Take us home."

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When at last Ragnarǫk ended, and none of the gods were left standing save for Odin's youngest sons as well as Thor's, the earth split open to reveal gentle Baldur returning from Hel, leading his blind brother by the hand. Together, the last of the Æsir walked across Asgard, past the ruins of Odin's Valhalla and Freyja's Fólkvangr. Amidst the rubble they found the pieces of the table game they used to play. With no-one left to fight, nothing left to do, they sat down and played out their battles on the king's table, like Northern children do.

And out of a secret grove came a maiden and a youth, who had hidden inside a tree to escape the destruction that rained down upon mankind. Together, they stepped out into the light of a new day. Together, they would inherit the new earth, and their descendants would spread far and wide across a world that was better and more beautiful than the one that came before. The maiden's name was Lif, life, and the youth was called Lífþrasir: lover of life, or stubborn will to live.

~ENDA~

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A/N:

The final Clato scene was suggested by and is dedicated to The Knife Throwing Expert.

The Viking "honeymoon" was literally an entire month of the newlyweds drinking mead (made from honey) for fertility. I imagine this also involved them locking themselves up in the house and having lots of sex :P

Thank you for sticking with me every Thorsday/Friday! I'm so sad that this part of their story has come to a close, but I'm also excited now that I have time to write the modern "sequel", A Thousand Years; the short stories in May the Gods Be Ever In Your Favor; and, of course, non-Viking-Age fics. I love the Enthralled universe so much, and will never really leave it.

This fic would never have been completed without Belle453, who encouraged me when I was starting out and then yelled at me every Tyrsday so I could make my Thorsday deadline; Solaryllis, who gave me advice and talked me off a ledge whenever I was freaking out; epipole, who helped me with research, let me bounce ideas off her, and provided a Scandinavian perspective; hawtsee, who accepted my bride-price (!); and everyone who supported it, gave me feedback, and gave me inspiration, then as now.

So, so much love to you all.

With gratitude,
DDG