My Viking Son’s Two Fathers

Chapter 25

I do not think. I run.

My wounds scream with every stride, blood seeping through hastily wrapped bandages, soaking the torn fabric of my tunic.

The gash along my ribs tears wider with each desperate breath. But the pain is nothing, less than nothing, compared to the terror clawing at my chest.

Bjorn. My firstborn. The boy with Ragnar's eyes who has been man of our small family since before he understood what that meant.

The eastern woods swallow me in chaos.

Pockets of fighting still flare among the trees—men who did not receive word of retreat, men too wounded to flee, men whose blood-madness has not yet cooled.

Bodies lie scattered through the underbrush, some wearing our colors, some wearing the enemy's, all equally still. The fog of battle hangs thick and disorienting, smoke and mist mingling until every shadow could hide a threat.

"Bjorn!" I scream his name until my throat tears raw, my sword cutting down anyone wearing enemy colors who stands between me and my son. "Bjorn, answer me!"

Only the groans of the dying respond.

I crash through thickets that claw at my armor, splash through streams running red with blood, check behind every boulder and fallen log. Each moment of silence drives the terror deeper.

He could be anywhere. He could be wounded, unable to call out. He could be…

I will not finish that thought. I refuse to finish it.

Leif finds me first, crashing through a dense thicket with wild eyes and bloodied blade. His copper hair is matted with gore, his face streaked with mud and desperation that strips away every trace of his usual charm.

"Where?" he demands, grabbing my shoulders. "Where was he last seen?"

"The eastern approach. Carrying a message to Hákon." My voice breaks despite my efforts to control it. "That was over an hour ago. He should have returned. He should have—"

"We will find him." Leif's grip tightens, anchoring me. "We search together. Systematic. Cover more ground."

We move through the woods in widening arcs, calling Bjorn's name until our voices crack and fail.

Every shadow could hide a small body. Every distant cry could be his voice. The not-knowing is its own kind of torture, worse than any wound I have ever suffered.

Ragnar joins us minutes later, his legendary composure finally cracked.

For the first time since I have known him, fear shows plainly on his face—raw and terrible in eyes that have witnessed countless horrors unmoved.

He has commanded armies, has ordered men to their deaths without flinching, has built a kingdom on a foundation of ice and iron will. But this is different.

This is his son.

"The search parties found nothing in the northern sector," he reports, his voice strained. "Hákon never received the message. Bjorn never reached him."

"Then he was intercepted." Leif's jaw clenches. "Somewhere between the command post and Hákon's position."

"The stream," I breathe, the realization striking like lightning. "There is a stream along that route. If he was wounded, if he needed to hide…"

We run.

The stream emerges from the trees like a wound in the earth, its waters dark and churning from the day's violence. And there, at the edge where moss-covered boulders create a natural shelter, we find him.

Bjorn stands with his back pressed against the largest boulder, his small sword raised in a guard position. Blood streams from a gash on his temple, painting half his face crimson.

His arms tremble with exhaustion, but his stance remains perfect—feet planted, weight balanced, blade steady.

Three enemy soldiers circle him with the patient menace of wolves cornering wounded prey. They are toying with him, I realize with fury that turns my vision red. Enjoying his defiance before they end it.

"Surrender, little prince," one of them croons. "Drop the blade and we will make it quick. Keep fighting and we will make it last."

"My father will kill you," Bjorn says, and his voice does not waver. "Both my fathers. And my mother. They will find me, and they will make you scream."

He has not broken. He has not surrendered. He has not begged.

He is nine years old, facing death, and he has not bent.

My vision narrows to a single, crimson point.

What happens next is swift and absolute.

Three parents descend upon three soldiers with the combined fury of ice and fire and a mother's wrath. Ragnar takes the first, his blade opening the man from shoulder to hip before he can turn.

Leif crashes into the second with a berserker's roar, bearing him to the ground and driving steel through his throat.

The third tries to run.

I catch him in four strides, my wounded body screaming protest I do not hear. He turns, blade raised, eyes wide with sudden terror as he realizes what hunts him. I do not give him time to beg.

My sword opens his throat, and I watch him fall without mercy, without regret, feeling nothing but savage satisfaction as his blood paints the snow.

When I turn back, Ragnar has already reached Bjorn.

The king drops to his knees in the bloody slush, pulling the boy into an embrace so fierce it seems to surprise them both. One hand cradles the back of Bjorn's head, pressing the child against his chest.

His eyes squeeze shut, and I see his shoulders shaking with something that might be a sob.

"Father," Bjorn whispers, the first time he has used the word willingly, without coldness or distance, and Ragnar's arms tighten until I fear he might crush the boy.

"I have you," Ragnar breathes against his son's hair. "I have you. You are safe. You are safe now."

Leif crosses to them, his own eyes bright with unshed tears, and wraps himself around both of them.

Then I am there too, my arms encircling all three, my forehead pressed against Bjorn's shoulder as relief crashes through me in waves that threaten to drown.

We cling together in the blood-soaked woods—four hearts beating as one, a family forged in violence and bound by love fiercer than any blade.

When we finally separate, Bjorn's ice-blue eyes are wet but clear. He looks at his fathers, both of them, with something new in his expression. Acceptance. Belonging. Trust.

"I did not break," he says quietly. "I wanted you to be proud."

"We are proud." Ragnar's voice is rough, cracked open in ways I have never heard. "We have always been proud. But you do not need to prove anything to us. You are our son. That is enough."

We carry him back to Skálholt as darkness falls, the battle won, our family intact. Bjorn walks between his fathers, their hands on his shoulders, and I follow with a heart so full it aches.

But at the castle gates, Solveig meets us with a face white as bone.

Her hands shake as she grips my arm, her eyes wild with a terror that drives the joy from my chest in a single, devastating instant.

"Astrid," she whispers. "She vanished during the fighting. She took servants loyal to her, horses, supplies." Her voice breaks on the final words. "And she took Ivar."