Chapter Text
The candlelight flickered as Æinriði bent over the page, carefully adding another line of colored ink to the illumination of John the Baptist. He had been working on it for weeks now, trying to get it just right. It was one of his favorite poems, and he knew he could do it justice. The words were simple enough, but the artistry and beauty of the poem needed to be preserved. He had decided to add color to the image of the holy man, hoping it would help the poem stand out more. The brothers would be so proud of him!
Ever since they’d taken him in as a foundling some twenty-odd years before, Æinriði had become one of the most eager, devout acolytes housed within the monastery’s walls. He lived and breathed for his order. Given that they had given their all to him, he felt that he could do nothing less than give his all to their cause in return. They were all so humble, so kind and generous with their time and knowledge, and he never wanted to disappoint them.
It was on this day, in the spring of 853, that he finally felt like he had achieved something worthy of their praise.
He was lost in thought, admiring the lines of red and green he had added to the page, when he heard a sound from outside the small cell where he worked. However, it wasn’t the tolling of the bell, ringing to call himself and the rest of the brothers to their afternoon meal or evening devotion - it was a horn, low and loud, that pierced the peaceful silence. A sound for warning; a sound for battle. It was not unlike what he imagined the sound of a dragon breathing fire might be like, or a giant as it stomped around the forest outside. (Dragons and giants were for uncivilized men, of course, but the thought crept into his mind and settled there nevertheless.)
Æinriði froze. His eyes widened as he listened to the horn as it came again, and finally, the monk stood up from his work. He knew what that sound meant.
As he emerged from his cell and raced through the halls, he ran into Brother Wulfgar, who had been passing by at the time. Wulfgar looked confused and worried. "What is it, brother?" he asked.
"The alarm!" Æinriði said, his voice strained with panic. "An attack! They are coming! We must hurry!"
Brother Wulfgar nodded and beckoned Leofdæg along with him. In no time at all, the pair were running hard toward the chapel, where the other monks were gathered. Already, they could hear the sounds of shouting and guttural screaming from the shoreline as the invaders drew near. Warriors. Invaders. Vikingr.
Æinriði knelt with his fellow brothers and bowed his head in frantic prayer, pleading to Christ for protection and guidance.
***
The oars of the longship cut through the murky waters with ease, and all aboard grinned at the sight of the golden cross gleaming in the grey half-light. They had been several days without a good pillage, and Vígi was starting to grow restless. He longed for the rush of battle, longed to feel his blood thunder as he swung his hammer at a foe. The prospect of an easy victory thrilled him even more. These terrified monks in their rough sackcloth would put up little fight, he knew, and the gold crosses they clung to so desperately would be a more than worthy prize. (To say nothing of the veritable hoards of treasure he’d heard they kept locked away in their houses of prayer.)
Vígi and his men had heard tales of Ragnarr Lodbrok leading his own raids along the coasts, of course, and they had long desired to taste that fame for themselves.
The blast from their war horn sounded, mingling with the warning horns from the shore, and Vígi’s blood sang as he leaped over the side of the longship into the water. The Viking prince charged towards the shore, his golden braids flying behind him and hammer held high as he watched the frightened men in their robes flee before them.
He bared his teeth in a grimace that could have easily been a grin. He loved the clash and roar of battle. Men armed with shield and sword came to the defense of the hapless monks, and battle was joined - though it was fast and fierce. Geirr and the rest of the men had been too long without a fight. These guardsmen would not stand a chance.
Vígi brought his hammer down on the helmed head of one such foe as the battle grew to a fever-pitch and the warning bells of the watchtower rang through the air. Bells which drew the prince’s ear, and he managed to draw himself from the clash for just long enough to see the monastery doors slam shut just up ahead. He smiled to himself and broke away from the skirmish, heading up the log-lined path to the barred doors of the monks’ sanctuary. Wooden walls would not protect them long.
Vígi had always prided himself on his strength.
He knocked the doors wide after just a few strikes from his now-bloody hammer, and the wooden beams splintered easily beneath the assault. The viking strode inside the darkened monastery with nothing on his mind but gold and glory.
Inside, the group of monks huddled together, young and old, novices and respected elders - and all of them terrified. The first knock echoed through the sanctuary like a thunderclap, and more than one of them cried out to God in their fear.
Æinriði, though filled with the same fear as his brethren, had more awareness about him, and caught sight the old grate near the back, behind the altar of Christ. The grate through which the catacombs could be accessed, if one was quick enough and knew the way without aid from a torch.
“This way!” Æinriði hissed, motioning to Brother Wulfgar and those others whose heads were calmer, even in panic. The second knock made Æinriði‘s heart knock against his ribs. “Hurry! The catacombs are not far!” They could not be followed, if the vikingr did not know where they had gone.
With unanimous agreement, they moved as one, hurrying across the floor towards the grate as Brother Wulfgar fumbled to fit the key in the lock. The rusted iron groaned as it gave way, and one after the other, the brothers disappeared down into the darkness. Only Æinriði remained above with one hand on the grate and one on his belt at which hung a dagger. Not much, but it was enough, and it had Æinriði silently thanking God for the foresight to go about his duties armed.
On the third knock, the door collapsed and fell inward with a deafening ‘thud’ that resonated through the building. Æinriði‘s breath caught and he turned, inexorably drawn to the figure in the entryway. The viking stood, muddied and covered in blood and looking for all the world like the Norse Tyr come down from Asgardr to wreak havoc, with silver beads in his hair and red blood streaked across his face. Æinriði watched as the viking peered around the dimly lit sanctuary and from his position, saw the splintered remains of the locking bar (and the pews he’d wrecked alongside) scattered around him. Through the stained glass windows of the monastery, Leofdæg could see smoke rising from the other structures - smoke which warped the images of the saints depicted into demons before his very eyes. He realized with a sickening tension in his gut that the invaders would let the entire settlement burn to the ground without pause - and that it very swiftly would. He felt his mouth run dry, a cry - a curse - stuck in his throat that wouldn’t fly free.
Æinriði‘s hand tightened on the iron grate. He knew he could flee, now, and still have time to close it behind him to slow the brute’s passage…but he couldn’t move his feet. It was as if the viking had transfixed him and rooted him to the spot.
The viking smiled, in turn, a wolfish baring of teeth, and continued on, his blue eyes fixed on the golden cross at the back of the sanctuary. But, as he walked with hammer in hand, the viking prince caught sight of movement and heard the sound of frantic whispers that echoed in the vaulted structure. The creak of iron drew his attention down - down, to a grate-guarded passageway, and man with hair black as a raven’s wing, and clad in roughspun lingering in the doorway.
His eyes met the monk’s - a striking emerald green - and he saw fear shining in them. Yet, he did not flee before him, like his brethren had, and Vígi found that strange. A monk who was fearful yet who stood his ground Still, he strode across the rich, red rug spread across the stone floor, past the altar, and caught the iron grate in his grasp before it could be either opened or closed. Again, their eyes met, blue to green, and he pushed the grate shut with one hand as he stared at the strange monk who had stayed behind.
A thought rose in Æinriði then, something dark and slithering that coiled, snake-like, in his mind.
//Save yourself,// it urged. //Save yourself and let the rest burn.//
It was a hateful thought, but one that he could not help but consider as he met those blue, blue eyes.
Swift as quick-silver, Æinriði pulled his dagger free from its sheath and made to strike at the man-beast’s side, seeking to plunge his blade into the soft, weak spot he knew had to be there. Yet just as swiftly, the viking caught him up by his robes and hauled him back before he could plunge the blade into his flesh, moving so quickly that the gesture could have been a part of him as much as his hammer was.
As though he’d been stabbed in just the same manner before, and knew exactly how to stop it. Though, strangely, Vígi could never recall earning such a wound before in his life.
He held the monk aloft, inches off the floor, so as to bring them eye-to-eye as the fires began to spread to the sanctuary itself.
“You are different..” Vígi mused aloud in the tongue of his ancestors as he tried to piece together such a change from the song of battle to this moment of quiet. He hadn’t yet found the rumored gold and riches here - but he had found silver and emeralds, of a sort.
Æinriði grimaced as he struggled to free himself from the Viking’s hold, torn between the sight of the inferno creeping in and the fearsome man before him. He hurt to look at, burning bright and golden as the morning sun.
//Or maybe,// the thought came unbidden, //a mourning son.//
The thought fled him as swiftly as it had come, and Æinriði glared at the viking as he choked out a laugh, bitter as steel, as the smoke rose around them.
“And you’re not special at all,“ he lied through his teeth; lied as easily as breathing, in a tongue that wasn’t his yet felt as though it should be.
The viking beast might not have been bothered by the heat, but Æinriði could feel it racing closer on tongues of flame, and he tried again to free himself from that firm grasp. Even without the impending threat of death, he’d always preferred the cold. He aimed a kick at the viking’s ribs, his soft-shod toes digging in with the aim of causing the brute pain - or at the least, to be dropped in his surprise. Then, he might still escape and rejoin his brothers…
The viking doubled over - but only just. The kick didn’t render him senseless, though it did knock the wind from him and sent pain lancing along his side. In shock, Vígi dropped the other man to the floor and brought his hand to the place where he’d been struck, half-expecting to find blood there. Half-expecting a dagger, even more. His hand came away clean, however, and he regained his breath fast enough to grab at the monk’s robes again, now driven by a curiosity rather than a desire for revenge. He did not wish to bring his hammer down upon *this* man. Not when the familiar tongue had met his ears as easily as if the monk had been born to speak it.
Vígi narrowed his eyes as he dragged the other man back, away from the grate. “Your brothers are already dead. Is it your wish to join them?” A smile, then, sharp as the monk’s own as he pinned the man against the stone altar with ease. “No, I do not think it is. You wear their robes and speak the tongue of their god, but you are different. A good thing for you. You will not die today.”
An iron nail, wrenched free from the grate, disappeared up Æinriði‘s sleeve, palmed as easily as he had once stolen offerings as a novice, as he felt that heavy hand on him again, pinning him down, turning him away from the sanctuary hidden beneath. Away from what would surely be the final resting place of his brothers. Brother Wulfgar, who had been so patient and kind; Brother Godwine, who had taught him Latin as a boy, and who’d let him wander the gardens without guidance, Brother Ælred, who’d cared for him as if he’d been his own. Every single one here had been his family..and now he would be alone again.
Something about that rang familiar in his mind, but he didn’t dare dwell on it in that moment. Æinriði glared up into the face of the painful sun dressed as a bloodied savage man, and huffed a breath as best as he was able. Above them, the golden cross gleamed.
“Kill them, and you lose their secrets.” Æinriði lied, soft and pretty through a smile that was a glinting silver blade as much as the Viking’s was bloody promise. “Look around you, warrior. You’re surrounded by the ruins of the Romans— and you’ll never find what they had if you kill all the brothers, here.”
And for all Æinriði knew, maybe he wasn’t lying; the catacombs were vast, after all, and far older than the monastery.
The viking narrowed his eyes as he regarded the monk again, staring at him as if he sought to see past the expression he wore, into what lay beneath. The more he gazed into those emerald eyes and saw the flames dancing there just as merrily as the words he spoke, the more he knew this man for a liar.
“A living man has many secrets, silvertongue..but a dead man has none,” Vígi was quick to retort as he pinned the monk further against the stone altar with his forearm like an iron bar. He watched the way the man seemed to tense at the sight of the flames, and his grin grew even sharper still. Fire was an ally of his, just as the wind and rain were. Fire did not scare him… “Would you rather I leave you here to burn? Suppose I did, and simply took everything once you and the rest were dead?” A chuckle, then, as he hauled the monk upright and dragged him with him as he started not towards the iron grating and the catacombs below, but back towards the ruined entryway, caring little for the flames that licked all around. “But that would be a waste…you would fare no better dead than you would in chains..”
He moved with purpose, dragging the monk with him as he made his way out of the burning church and into the cool air beyond. He could feel the monk’s struggling, heels digging into the ground in an attempt to slow his progress and spared a glance for his new captive, whereupon he saw those emerald eyes fixed on the flames like a man bewitched. He wondered what it was the monk saw, what he thought as he gazed into them…but before he could even think to raise the question, the monk had gone slack in his grip. Vígi shook him then, and saw that he had not succumbed to the smoke and the heat, but had merely fallen into a stupor. Taking the sudden silence and lack of struggle for the boon it was, the viking prince hefted his new prize up over his shoulder as easily as if he’d been carrying timber and headed back towards the longship.
The sky above was clouded over by smoke and the red tinge of flames from the burning buildings all around, and in his blood, Vígi felt the rush of victory.