My Viking Son’s Two Fathers

Chapter 23

The war preparations transform Skálholt into a hive of grim activity.

Weapons are sharpened on whetstones that sing through every hour. Armor is mended by smiths who work through the night, their forges glowing like angry stars against the darkness.

Horses drill in formation across the frozen fields, their breath misting in the cold air, their riders silent with concentration.

Warriors arrive from vassal holdings to swell the ranks—hard-faced men who have answered the call before and know precisely what approaches.

They bring their own blades, their own fears, their own prayers to gods who may or may not be listening.

And in the midst of it all, Bjorn seeks an audience with his father.

I watch from the doorway of Ragnar's study as my eldest son stands before the king, spine rigid, ice-blue eyes blazing with determination.

He has dressed in his finest tunic, as though presenting himself at court rather than making a request. The formality breaks something in my chest.

"I want to fight," Bjorn says. No preamble, no hesitation. "I have trained for years. I can hold a blade. I will not hide while others die protecting me."

Ragnar's expression remains unreadable, carved from the same ice that colors his eyes.

But I see the conflict beneath—pride warring with terror, the king battling the father. His hands rest flat on his desk, perfectly still, betraying nothing.

"You are nine years old," he says quietly. "Battle is not training. Battle is chaos and blood. What you have learned in the practice yard will mean nothing when steel comes for your throat."

"I know what battle is."

Bjorn's chin lifts, and I see Ragnar's own stubbornness reflected back at him.

"I have listened to every story, studied every tactic. I have memorized the formations, the signals, the ways men break and rally. And I am your blood. Would you have hidden at my age?"

The question strikes home like an arrow finding its mark.

Ragnar's jaw tightens, and I know he is remembering his own youth—the desperate hunger to prove himself worthy, the fury at being kept from glory while others earned their names. He cannot lie. Not about this.

I step forward from the doorway, my heart clenched with fear I cannot show.

"He is too young," I say, though the words feel like betrayal even as I speak them.

I see myself in Bjorn's rigid stance, in the determined set of his shoulders. The same fire that drove me to pick up a sword when I was not much older burns in him now. How can I deny him the right I claimed for myself?

"Mother." Bjorn's voice carries reproach. "You were fighting before you were twice my age. You told me yourself—you learned because you had no choice. I have a choice, and I choose to stand with my family."

"Choosing to fight and being ready to fight are different things," I reply, moving to stand beside Ragnar's desk. "I learned because survival demanded it. You have the luxury of time."

"Time?" His laugh is bitter, too old for his years. "An army marches to burn you as a witch. Time is precisely what we do not have."

Leif enters the study, drawn by our raised voices. His green eyes move between father and son with unusual solemnity, reading the tension that crackles through the room.

"What have I missed?" he asks, though his tone suggests he already knows.

"Your son wishes to join the battle," Ragnar says flatly. "He believes nine winters sufficient preparation for shield walls."

"I did not say shield walls."

Bjorn turns to face Leif, perhaps sensing a more sympathetic audience.

"I know I cannot stand in formation. But there are other ways to serve. Other ways to prove I am more than a child to be protected."

Leif is silent for a long moment, his gaze assessing Bjorn with the same intensity he brings to evaluating warriors twice the boy's age. Then he speaks.

"A compromise," he offers. "The boy does not fight in the shield wall—that is beyond discussion. But he serves as a runner, carrying messages between commanders. Close enough to prove his courage."

Bjorn's face wars between protest and acceptance. I see the arguments forming behind his eyes—this is not the glory he craved, not the warrior's place he imagined claiming. But it is something. It is acknowledgment.

He nods once, sharply. "I accept."

Ragnar releases a breath I suspect he did not know he was holding. His hand rises, settling on Bjorn's shoulder with a weight that speaks louder than words.

"You will stay close to the command position," he says. "You will run when told to run and hide when told to hide. And you will come home to your mother when this is finished. Those are my terms."

"I accept your terms, Father."

The word—father, not my lord, hangs in the air between them like a gift finally offered. Ragnar's composure cracks, just for an instant, and I see the raw pride beneath.

Erik bursts through the door moments later, having heard of his brother's victory.

"I want to go too!" His copper hair is wild, his green eyes blazing with the same fire that drives him toward every competition. "If Bjorn can serve, so can I. I am almost as good with a blade, and faster on my feet, and—"

"No." Leif's voice carries uncharacteristic firmness. "You are still recovering. Your body has not yet purged the poison's effects."

"I feel fine! I have been training every day, and—"

"No, Erik." Leif crouches to meet his son's eyes, his hands gripping the boy's shoulders. "This is not negotiable. You nearly died. I will not risk you again so soon."

For once, Erik does not argue. Perhaps he remembers the fever, the seizures, the days of darkness that nearly claimed him.

Perhaps he sees something in his father's face that brooks no defiance. He nods, swallowing his disappointment, and Leif pulls him into a fierce embrace.

Ivar makes no request at all.

Instead, I find him later with Solveig, the two of them bent over lists of supplies and bandages.

My youngest has found his own way to contribute—not with sword or shield, but with the quiet competence that has always defined him.

"The healers will need runners too," he explains when I question him. "Someone to carry water, to fetch supplies, to hold men's hands when the pain becomes too much. I can do that."

I pull him close, breathing in the scent of his hair. "Yes," I whisper. "You can."

***

The night before battle, the family gathers in my chambers.

No servants, no ceremony—just parents and children sharing food and stories and the unspoken knowledge that tomorrow may shatter everything.

We sit on furs before the fire, passing bread and cheese and dried fruit, speaking of small things that carry enormous weight.

Bjorn sits close to Ragnar, absorbing his father's quiet strength like a plant drinking sunlight.

Erik curls against Leif, listening to tales of legendary victories, his earlier disappointment forgotten in the warmth of his father's voice.

Ivar rests his head in my lap while I stroke his auburn hair, my fingers tracing patterns I have memorized over nine years of motherhood.

When the boys finally sleep, tangled together like puppies, I remain awake between my kings.

Ragnar's hand finds mine in the darkness. Leif's fingers intertwine with my other hand. We lie together watching firelight dance across the ceiling, three hearts beating in uncertain rhythm.

No one speaks of what dawn will bring.