I stared down at the torn flesh in my left shoulder, swollen and angry. It looked far better than it had when Ivar first carved his name there, but the salve wasn't working as well as I would have preferred. I was using the catkins of a tree native to this island. I had chanced upon them as we had begun our trek through the forests northward, recalling a passage in one of Bald's large tomes on the plants of England. When compressed into a tincture or ground for a poultice, they could be used to keep away infection. Unfortunately, I hadn't had the advantage of a full apothecary at my disposal, so I'd been forced to employ alternative means of the tree's benefits.

Reaching up to pluck the bud from its low-hanging branch, I chewed and chewed until it was pliable and its innards were slightly exposed. Ivar looked back at my sudden movement and gave me a weary look when he saw me gnawing on the plant like a cow with cud.

"It's for the marking," I explained between chews, exasperation evident in my tone.

Ivar looked down to where the wound lay beneath my dress's neck line, and I drew it down for him to study. The corner of his mouth pricked up the slightest bit, pride shining through his cracks. It brought a warmth to my belly, and despite the urgency of our movement, I prayed for the end of the day's ride just so I could steal a few winks of his rest.

Ivar turned around to face front once more, and as soon as I placed the softened shoots against my skin, I slid my free hands around the lower part of his waist, threatening to venture down.

He stiffened. The sides of the cart were high enough to hide my ministrations from view, but to be doing such a thing out in the open was testing his nerve.

I leaned my head over his left shoulder to whisper in his ear as my hands moved closer and closer to the center, nearing the point of no return.

"Pay attention to the path," I said with a shove, releasing him from my hold.

He scoffed loudly and almost turned around, but kept his gaze forward instead. He turned his head slightly before responding, "After we rest next, you're riding in the front."

"Good," I quipped.

"Good?"

"Then you won't be able to look away."

Ivar looked to his left, doing his best to see me on the edges of his vision. Wordlessly, one of his hands moved back to grip my thigh and squeeze it once. I moved closer out of pure instinct, pressing my body against his back. The layers of leather, mail, and cloth between us restricted any real contact, but it was nice to feel the solid shape of him in front of me. Could the dagmarks not pass any quicker?

A few surprised shouts from the left flank of the file signaled an approach. I turned quickly to see what new threat had sprung a trap, but as the chorus died down, I saw the quick movement of black fur between the alder trees.

"Garmsen!" I shouted.

Ivar looked in the distance to spy the dog and sniffed in amusement.

"You knew he was here?" I asked, his lack of curiosity telling.

"I did."

"How?"

"How do you think?" he tested.

I racked my mind for a clue, and then it hit me. An open field, a battle lost, a figure in the distance.

"He helped you… with the Welsh," I trailed off.

Ivar grunted in affirmation.

How could he? The instrument of the Gods, my familiar on Midgard, had betrayed my safety? That meant the Gods themselves had led him to do it. Was I nothing more than a plaything to them?

Of course, that must have meant that the Welsh army's intercession on behalf of the North Men was fate. It had to happen.

I was certainly getting tired of all of this back and forth, the constant turning of the tide for the sake of 'destiny.' Would it never end?

One thing was for sure: I would never know where the outcome truly lie as the Gods were always at the helm. My efforts would be for naught if they deemed it so, and as far as I was concerned, they already had.

Another matter tickled the corner of my mind.

"Where is the prisoner who was meant to walk at your side?" I questioned.

Ivar chuckled, "He wasn't in a fit state to walk."

"What is your plan for him?"

"You will see," he said in a singsong way.

I had to stop myself from folding my arms and pouting, "Fine."

"Fine," he smiled. I wanted to smack the smugness off of his face.

"You know all of Wessex thinks him dead," I chided.

"Of course. I have seen his son riding into battle at the head of his army."

"They won't be terribly eager to enter into negotiations if you present the missing King in such a state," I reasoned.

"And I don't care what the Christians are terribly eager to do," Ivar shot back.

I huffed. Would he not see reason? A King was someone to be respected and cared for, prisoner of war or not. The Christians Ivar hated so greatly would not take kindly to seeing Æthelwulf in such a condition. Peace talks could be dashed before they had even begun if they saw him in his current state.

"Why not? Four thousand men is a force to consider," I said while putting a hand on his shoulder, hoping to communicate the gravity of the situation through touch, "This is not the band of a hundred that ran off through the swamps. Alfred will want vengeance, peace be damned."

Ivar shrugged my hand off, "Let him try. His father will be dead before he can throw the first spear."

I sighed in defeat, "Fine. I only hope you know what you're doing."

"I seem to recall a certain Daughter of Mischief asking for my trust," Ivar said offhandedly, "Would she not do the same in return?"

Shit. He was right. I had begged him for his trust. Frequently. And I had effectively refused to extend any unless I was forced to. Then again, he had almost killed me. Had I so easily forgotten my near-reunion with Hel? Love was a dangerous thing.

There was that word again.

I shook my head to rid myself of the thought, "She would."

"Good," he chirped, content with victory.

We fell into a comfortable silence, but my stare fell on Garmsen trotting alongside the procession in the wood line.

'What are your lot planning?' I wondered.

A harsh gale of wind burst through the dense trees, there and gone again.

A warning.

The line stood wearily upon the hill. A vast English valley flowed out before them like a grassy lagoon. In the distance—a couple of rôsts at least—an army prepared for battle along the walls of a fortress. They held two kinds of banners. One was blue with a golden cross, the other red with a golden wyvern. The last of the two great powers left standing in this foreign land: Mercia and Wessex.

Ivar panted as he took in the scene before him. They had only just arrived to the walls of Uffendon, expecting to find it completely unmanned and ripe for the taking.

But it wasn't.

It was brimming with Englishmen. He bared his teeth.

"They weren't supposed to be here," I breathed.

"Yes, but they are, aren't they?" he retorted.

"What was the last location the scouts reported?" I continued. He knew I was in disbelief that our plan had fallen apart so easily, but discussing it wouldn't change the fact that the English were here.

"Sigurd!" Ivar shouted, eyes remaining fixed on the forces before them. The men and women around him shifted in anticipation of the bloodshed to come.

Sigurd broke through the ranks and appeared alongside the cart with a grunt of acknowledgment.

"Take a band into the tree line to the west. Wait for my signal," he commanded.

Sigurd nodded, "And the prisoner?"

"Bring him to me."

His blonde brother nodded once more and was off, signaling to various individuals as he passed by and they fell into line. This contingency was merely that, a measure in place in case the boy King was too stupid to see reason. Ivar smiled wryly at the thought.

"So you're going to do it now then?" I chimed into his thoughts.

His smile wavered, and he shushed me. His crossed his arms in front of him on the rein mount. A few short moments later and I was descending from the cart.

"Where do you think you are going?" he balked, "We're about to enter into negotiations and you wish to leave?"

"What do you think I'm getting ready to do?" I snapped back. Perhaps he shouldn't have shushed me—I could be quite testy.

The crowd of warriors parted and the forgotten King of Wessex appeared atop the back of a large brown and black horse, doing his best to keep himself upright but failing miserably. The shield maiden at his side sighed disgustedly as she had to keep pushing him back upright in the seat.

I watched the exchange wide-eyed, turned to look at him, and then stepped off in the direction of the enemy's line.

"I'll be back then," I tossed over her shoulder.

"What?" he squawked.

I stopped and turned to face him with huff, "I said I'll be back."

"I don't think so," he retorted, "Not by yourself you're not. You will take some warriors with you."

I stared at him. He stared back.

"I'd like to get this over with today so if said warriors could maybe get a move on, that would be wonderful!" I shouted, irritation getting the better of me.

He cocked his head and smiled. I was hurt that he had brushed me off when one of my sound assessments had turned out to be a startling failure. The basis of our plans, Uffendon, was lost to us before we had even had the chance to fight for it. But he was Viking, and he knew that once the situation changed, it was better to accept it as soon as possible and move on. Wars were not won because of what could have been.

"Oh, what are you laughing at?" I seethed.

"Nothing," he smirked. With a glance to a few of the fighters surrounding him, they stepped quickly in my direction.

"Alright then," I concluded.

Our banter had caused him to forget. I was about to step off to meet with the King of Wessex, his sworn enemy. I could die.

His expression hardened in an instant. He didn't want me to go, but my interpretation skills were needed. That, and if he trusted anyone to initiate a meeting between the two armies, it was the Daughter of Mischief. Everyone had to do their part—especially me—otherwise the North Men would never accept me back as one of their own.

"Come here."

I felt weary all of a sudden, like a child who had been caught eating a sweet. I walked over slowly, watching him carefully for any signs of a misgiving, and paused at the horse's head.

"Here," he motioned to the side of his cart, still leaning back in the seat, a perfect picture of relaxation.

I stepped forward once more, coming to stand rigidly at the side of his cart and turned to look at him.

"I don't know what exactly you're think—"

I was cut off when his mouth captured mine in a kiss, one that caused the cluster of men and women around us to holler in approbation. I put a hand on the back of his neck to draw him even closer, any negative emotions lost in the muddy grass below.

He pulled back, but I kept our faces close before he could pull too far away. We would finish what we started after the day was done. I only hoped the outcome was in our favor.

"Come back," he whispered over my mouth.

"I will," I vowed. I reached up to peck him once more on the lips before turning and walking on past the line. The accompanying guards moved quickly past me to provide protection from the front.

'You had better,' Ivar thought to himself, 'I'll kill you myself if you don't."

"Do you want this to be done the easy way or the hard way?" I asked, a simpleton's smile all I could offer the English King.

Alfred sat back in his chair, bringing his hands to his mouth—he hadn't the respect to rise in the presence of a woman like his grandfather would have—and considered his next move. He sat unmoving for several moments, and with the entirety of the Heathen Horde at my back, I grew impatient.

I sighed loudly, "Let me speak plainly then. Your father, he is alive. You'll be wanting him to remain so, yes?" I cocked an eyebrow and waited, hoping the shock of the news would spur him into action.

Alfred straightened considerably and leaned forward to deliver his response.

"What proof have you that he's alive?" He was choosing to be skeptical then.

I saw no other alternative but to turn to the rear with a quick whistle. The head of Ivar's line were alert and waiting, and at the sound of my call, immediately parted to reveal the crumpled form of the missing King. His body was limp, held aloft by two strong warriors. The distance was bit far, but if one knew Æthelwulf, they could be sure it was him. And sure Alfred was.

"Heathen scum!" he hissed.

"Right," I agreed absently, more ready than ever to make an exit. "Now that we've gotten that sorted, are you prepared to conduct your negotiations with said 'heathen scum'?"

I was being entirely too familiar, and I knew it. This war had drained me of almost everything I had left to care for, leaving in its place nothing of the girl who had left Kattegat all those many months ago. I simply wanted peace, and it emboldened me.

"We will meet your leader," he conceded.

"Ivar," I stated, somehow feeling the need to assert dominance with the single utterance of his name.

Alfred sharpened. "Ivar," he agreed, mouth flat as the valley between the two armies.

They were joined for negotiations a short while later, Ivar riding up on his horse-drawn chariot and a small band of warriors in tow. They did not approach the tent fully though, as Ivar stopped the chariot with a loud ja and spit forcefully on the ground.

All parties settled a few short moments later, as soon as Ivar's chair had been set out and he had braved the distance with barely any aid of his metal spikes. I moved to stand behind him, brushing my hand over the top of his chair. He spared me a glance but did not smile.

Sigurd and a few other warriors took up their respective positions in turn, mirroring the opposing party. No one spoke. Each side seemed to be waiting for the other to capitulate.

I would not wait on men's prides.

"We are here to discuss the terms of peace," I began.

"Let it be known," Ivar interrupted in his native tongue, leaning forward in his chair with a glare, "that if an agreement is not reached, I'm afraid the day will not end so well for some." A tight smile slipped onto his face. Relaying the message in English, I watched how Alfred's eyes peered over his shoulder to Æthewulf standing some distance away. He understood what was at stake. May the Gods now bring him to see reason.

A dagmark had passed, and the majority of the terms had been set. Alfred and Magnus would maintain slightly reduced portions of their kingdoms in exchange for Ivar taking all of Northumbria with York as his new seat of power. North Men would be allowed to pass freely along the eastern and northern possessions, and the English would be allowed to maintain their armies.

I thought it perfectly fair despite understanding this peace was not meant to be lasting. It would only remain until the North Men brought reinforcements with which to bend the English to their will anew.

"We are agreed then," Alfred stated, peering over folded hands, "But I fear we may need reassurance, a gesture if you will."

"What gesture?" I asked, passing on the message to Ivar. He didn't move, but Sigurd looked perturbed.

"A symbol of goodwill," he continued. I stared at him blankly.

"Yes. What?"

"You."

"Me?" I scoffed, turning to Ivar, "He says me!" I laughed, a harsh and bitter sound.

Ivar didn't move, and I stopped abruptly.

"Ivar, he says me," I reminded him, "Tell him no."

He still didn't speak, and a part of me wailed. What was he doing?

"Tell him no," I whispered.

I could see his mind working, thoughts screaming through his head. We were essentially matched in manpower, though the North Men easily had more skill in fighting and more freedom to maneuver. The only trouble was Alfred had regenerated a force from nothing, and he hadn't even sent up a call for additional warriors through the many towns and villages of both Wessex and Mercia.

Then there was the question of the Welsh. They had fought for the Heathens but would turn the moment the English presented better prospects.

Ivar needed more men and women, and he wouldn't be able to get them until he made contact with Kattegat either in person or via envoy, and that would take time. Time they didn't have.

I hated that I understood him.

He looked up at me finally, a sad and blank stare on his face. He did not look away when he spoke next, "Yes."

Tears stung my eyes. I wanted to hit him, to choke him. To make him feel the pain that was beginning to seep into my chest and bones.

"I'll go," I spoke in English, refusing to look away. He would see what he did to me. I might have understood, but I wanted him to shake Alfred's hand one moment and turn to stab him in the back the next. Victory over all was his way—our way, the North Man's way.

Everything in him had looked as if he was going to throw the deal back in Alfred's face, push him to the ground, and strangle the life out of him. Like the last thing he wanted to do was allow me to remain here in this Godsforsaken place. He saw my heart breaking, and I saw his burn.

But he had given me up just the same.

Perhaps partial victory was better than total defeat. His warriors would have followed him to death. I would have followed him to death.

I did not remain for the signing of documents, figuring the royal advisors and warriors could piece together enough words to accomplish the deed. I made some excuse and departed swiftly.

I needed to pray. To understand somehow. To cast all my worries, fears, and lost hopes on Those who had sent me. My fate was their choosing, and maybe in communing with them I could receive some semblance of an insight as to why I was punished so.

I crashed loudly into the tree line just to the west, gripping each branch that dared block my path and shoving it harshly aside. I trekked for some time, each clearing seeming too exposed to host such an intimate convening with the Gods.

Pushing aside the bough of a larger evergreen bush, I peered into a circular glade overshadowed by a number of trees. The brush was far too dense to see in or out; it was perfect.

As I moved past the bushes, I was struck with an odd sensation of having been here before, but I couldn't place it. I looked up and around the opening, searching for clues of its familiarity.

Blood.

Pain.

Fear.

It was the circling of Ivar's dream. The one of my subjugation and flight.

And the Blood Eagle.

'What a fitting fucking place,' I thought with a wry look to the heavens. The Æsir were wily things.

I was reminded of all of the hate and anger that had laid between Ivar and I, all the countless days of fleeing and pursuit. All of the scheming and fixing for the sake of victory. The battles and lives lost. All of it had led me here. To this fucking clearing in the middle of a fucking forest in the middle of fucking England—my new home indefinitely.

Damn them. Damn the Gods!

A raw and guttural scream ripped its way from my throat, and I cried at the sky until my voice was hoarse. All of the training and laboring and utter bullshit for fucking this?!

A rustle in the wood line revealed Garmsen, present as usual the moment anything turned to shit. I loved that dog, but he was of Them.

"Fuck off!" I shouted at him, throwing a stick in his direction for good measure, "You have no place here among the damned."

The familiar backed up several feet, but his dark profile remained visible amongst the bushes.

I remembered that he was not the only gift of the Gods, no. There was more.

I couldn't control my breathing and heaved loudly as I reached into my dress to pull the Hel Stone from a hidden pocket. The mark of the Hulinhjálmur stared back up at me, and an unholy rage burned inside of me. Another instrument of control. A way to keep the girl coming back for more because it made her feel special. With a hack, I spit at the ground and wound my arm back to launch the stone as far as I could into the trees.

"Damn your pride," I whispered, though I didn't know who I was scolding.

A few weary breaths passed in the space of the clearing, and my eyes beheld nothing.

A flash of green glinted, separate of the trees. It was richer in color like something akin to an emerald. My attention was rapt, but I almost didn't want to approach the odd-colored object. Intuition spake to the depths of my heart—this was the meddling of the Aesir.

And where the Gods appeared, they also deposited a lingering temptation.

I took a tentative step closer, hating myself for it. I should have just let some things be, regardless of what ethereal wind brushed my cheek.

It was small, no larger than the size of my hand, and its shape was an odd, curving one. The green color was rich, the same color as only the most expensive dyed fabrics and tints from the Far East. Their traders were rare in Kattegat, but when they did arrive, they captivated every eye in the village with their wares. In essence, this piece was precious.

I stretched out my arm—whether to grab it or to measure the distance at which to keep myself, I wasn't sure at first—and touched the smooth surface. Once my fingertips made contact, a force ran through me, and I snatched it harshly from the branches of its resting place.

A snake. A small, carved snake.

My vision blurred, and I felt my legs give way. I must've fallen, but I felt nothing for I was surrounded by a devastating nothingness. Wind whipped at all sides and the smell of sulphur burnt my nostrils.

The drifting winds and empty space began to take form. There materialized the mouth of a cave at the base of a giant tree. And it was drawing closer. Closer, closer until I had dove straight in and was swallowed up whole.

Then I was falling. Past currents of emerald, ruby, and sapphire among the never ending darkness.

A cacophony of desperate cries reverberated in my ears. I wished I knew where my hands were to cover them against the pitiful, grating sounds.

"This one will bring about the beginning," a hissing whisper of a voice resounded in the empty expanse.

I was cold now. Around me, the streaks of color shifted and cast shadows here and there. It looks like endless caverns of light.

A long, thin shadow crept along the echoing walls, more solid than the rest.

"And the end."

A ghastly laugh. An icy blast.

"She is mine."

A woman's warmth.

A mother's knowing.

The crash of a tidal wave.

Nothing.

I sat up in the forest clearing, heaving and searching for any sign of what had just happened. The trees flowed gently on the wind, and the trampled leaves pressed back up against my pleading palms.

'So you remember nothing of the cave?' Floki's lilting voice floated through my mind, and I struggled to remember word for word what he had said all those months ago.

Of course, the cave! But…what had happened?

'Well, where did I go?' I asked loudly, the suspense of the story getting to me. Floki made a gesture for me to quiet myself down as if he didn't want the spirits of the forest to hear our words.

'That's just it. We could not find you until the ninth day when a woman gather berries found at the opening to a cave beneath the roots of an ancient tree. You were covered in dirt from head to toe, your clothes were all torn and turned to black, and in your hands you held a wooden snake.'

Funny, I wasn't holding the snake anymore. Had it ever really been there?

There it was, lying on the ground an arm's length away. I stretched forward to retrieve it but stopped when I noticed my hand was completely covered in dirt. And that my dress's sleeve had been torn in several places.

Glancing down, I saw the more of the same. My dress was torn here and there, and wherever there wasn't fabric to cover it, my skin was coated in a thick layer of dirt.

Echoing the bewilderment of the past, I couldn't but voice aloud, "Where did I go?"

But I knew.

I sensed what this was. The end of a cycle, and the beginning of another. I had completed what the Gods had set out before me and would now know peace. Except peace meant remaining here, the hostage of an unforgiving King in a foreign land.

I somehow knew that I would never return home again. Kattegat would remain a distant memory from which I would draw sickness and regret. I would never see Floki, or tiptoe through the forests I knew. The cold, comforting winters were gone, and I now had heartbreak in the dying summer.

Eternity yawned on before me.

I screamed.