Chapter Text

BOOK ONE

darkness was over the surface of the deep

– Genesis 1:2

He had felt a sinister presence the moment their hunting party had entered the hollow and shady path lined by broad trees and dense shrubbery, the hairs on his neck rising. Scanning the forest for something that would betray an imminent threat, he ignored protocol and rode past the ealdorman in front of him, paying no mind to their flustered protests.

They were in Wiltonshire, where Uhtred had been forced to join in the spectacle that was Alfred’s appointment of a new Ealdorman. For all he knew, Wiltonshire should be safe, situated in the heart of Wessex as it was, but Uthred couldn’t shake the feeling of impending doom that had laid its black hand on his shoulder.

If he was looking to ambush a king, he thought anxiously, this would be the time and place he’d chose for it. If there were troops hiding in these dense woods, they had the high ground, and the king had nothing but a handful of servants and a dozen spoiled men, most of them old, all of them slowed by a life of luxury. When he reached Alfred, the king had already turned to look at him, alert to the commotion behind him.

“Uhtred” he said, much less surprised than dismayed. “This isn’t proper, you need to-“

“Shh,” Uhtred gestured for him to be silent as his eyes flickered back towards the trees. His horse had become anxious, and so had the others.

Too quick-witted to remain oblivious, Alfred’s expression changed. “Is something wrong?” he asked, his voice suddenly tense, courtly etiquette forgotten.

Uhtred knew they were coming seconds before they descended on them from the tree lines.

Cold dread seized his heart, a full-grown panic that send a crackling wave of shock into his limbs. This was an impossible position to defend, he knew it, but what was he to do? He grabbed for the handle of his weapon and, for a fraction of a heartbeat, looked at Alfred, who was looking back at him with wide eyes, pale and fragile, clearly unprepared.

Uhtred drew his sword.

“TO YOUR WEAPONS!” he shouted from the depth of his chest. “DEFEND THE KING WITH YOUR LIVES!”

Their attackers had reached them before Uhtred could draw his next breath.

In front of him, a man grabbed for the reins of Alfred’s horse, and Uhtred separated him from his arm. A second later, his own horse cried out in agony as it crumbled beneath him, a lance protruding from its neck, and Uhtred jumped before his horse could crush him, ramming his sword into the chest of the man who was responsible. He slashed another attacker and turned towards Alfred, desperate to get him out somehow, to get him to safety, yet his thoughts of breaking through the onslaught of men, to free the way for Alfred’s escape, were shattered when he saw the man’s steed already on the ground, its white coat bleeding red. For a terrible moment, he thought the king was dead, but then he spotted him, scrambling on the ground, his hands dragging through the autumn leaves as two assailants pulled him back by his cloak.

Uhtred let out a furious roar, killing and maiming his way towards them.

He saw Alfred’s Master of the Hunt, a skilled man by the name of Beorhtweald, defend him with an axe, and when he finally reached them, Beorhtweald had killed one of Alfred's two attackers, but he was heavily bleeding from his neck, and the moment Uhtred plunged his sword through the second man’s back, kicking his corpse towards the dirt-packed ground, Beorhtweald collapsed beside him.

There was no time to help him.

Instead, Uhtred quickly reached for wide-eyed Alfred, who was clearly disorientated, his movements frantic. To control him, Uhtred slung an arm around his neck and pressed the king to his chest, holding him still. With Alfred secured like this, he backed into a tree, trying to give them some form of protection.

By now, the battle had cleared, and what Uhtred saw turned his stomach, made bile rise in his throat. Around them, a dozen Danes were closing in, the lust of battle in their eyes, three Saxon servants dead at their feet. With them lay the ealdormen Leodbriht and Eadbald, noble in their end, but the others were nowhere to be seen, and neither were their horses.

Alfred said it before Uhtred had any chance to think it.

“I have been betrayed,” he whispered, disbelief and pain turning his voice rough with grief.

“I’ll get us out, lord,” Uhtred answered.

Alfred didn’t challenge him, but he made a sound somewhere between a mirthless laugh and a sob.

Uhtred hated that sound.

He didn’t know what else to say.

This couldn't be it. He couldn’t just accept this. If this was to be his fate, then the Gods had played a cruel game. All this fortune, all this progress, for what? And even if it was his fate, it definitely wasn’t Alfred’s. It couldn’t be.

As they watched the men approach, he felt Alfred tense against his chest. The king's head dropped back against his shoulder, as if he was trying to look towards the sky, and the hard metal of his crown bit into Uhtred’s skin. Alfred's hair was soft where it brushed against his jaw, his scent suddenly intimately strong between them, and again, Uhtred knew what was coming.

“I order you to kill me, Ealdorman Uhtred.”

He felt like he was going to vomit, his heart dull and heavy. This could not be his fate.

“I can’t,” he begged.

“I do not ask, it is an order!” Alfred’s tone was firmer now, familiar authority fostering his courage, and the Danes were right in front of them, grinning, reaching, Uhtred pressing his blade to Alfred’s neck, showing them what he would do if they didn’t stand back.

“You have not betrayed me today, Uhtred,” his king urged him, the staccato of his voice strong and demanding, a royal front to his human terror. “Do not betray me now.”

With a pained growl, Uhtred pulled Alfred harder against his chest, heavy blade unsteady at his neck.

“I’ll follow,” he promised, in an attempt to console him, and then he saw Alfred’s eyes close, felt his chest press against his forearm as the man drew in a deep breath.

His last breath.

Before his inner eye, Uhtred could see royal blood spray into the faces of their attackers, could see Alfred sag into him. Cutting a man’s throat wasn’t a pretty death, nor a quick one, and Alfred would suffer. Gurgling on blood, he would reach for the gaping hole in his throat, instinctively struggle against Uhtred's grip, and Uhtred-

Uhtred would have to keep cutting.

He would have to hold him down, fight him until the life left his eyes.

I-

I can't.

He dropped his sword.

Chapter Text

"No!" Alfred howled when Uhtred let him go, tense anticipation turning to red wrath in seconds. Desperate, he went for the hunting knife that was hanging from his belt, but Uhtred was quicker, seized his arm and pulled the knife out of its sheath and the king's reach. Half-turning, he threw it to the forest floor, where it joined his blade, and though Alfred was still in his grip, the king turned to him then, surging forward, and with surprising force, struck him with his gloved fist.

At first, Uhtred felt nothing but cool leather.

Then hard pain whipped into his nerves, winding around crunching bone, and he groaned and staggered backwards, letting go of Alfred's hand as he hunched over.

"Traitor!" Alfred roared, a wounded lion, eyes ablaze, his spittle spraying over Uhtred's hair.

Meanwhile, panting, with his hand pressed against his throbbing nose, Uhtred watched the forest floor spin beneath him. Warmth spread across his face while cold guilt settled in his stomach, red wetness oozing from the gaps between his fingers and dripping onto the dark earth at his feet. He gasped, a wet snort that was meant to clear his airway from the sudden stream of blood, and pain singed, tears shooting into his eyes. His nose was definitely broken.

Fuck.

Bastard.

Righting himself, Uhtred grabbed for Alfred's cape, wrapped his hand in it to pull him back towards himself. Immediately, the king went for another blow, enraged, but Uhtred was prepared this time, and so Alfred was soon subdued. Ignoring the blood that was running down his chin, the headache that was quickly brewing into a storm, Uhtred tried to clear his head and think of a way to escape, but he drew a blank. This wasn't something they could talk their way out of...

Bitter with thoughts of what was to come, he promised himself to kill the Ealdormen who had forsaken them if he got the chance, all the while holding Alfred at a distance, arm outstretched and aching. The king was struggling with surprising strength, still reaching for him, murder in his eyes, and still searching their surroundings for a way out, Uhtred was careful to avoid his burning stare.

Then he spotted a familiar face.

"Your king's an ill-tempered man, Uhtred!" the man mocked, amused at the amount of blood spilling from Uhtred's nose. "Better watch out or next he'll bite off an ear."

The scum around them hollered.

"Hæsten," Uhtred panted through the blood.

When the ugly warlord broke through the ranks of his men, Alfred stopped struggling, and so Uhtred loosened his grip on him, watched him point at Hæsten's burly figure. 

"You!" he cried, his rage bottomless."This was you!"

Hæsten chuckled, completely sure of his victory, nodding as he came to stand in front of them.

“Well, I can’t take all the credit,” he replied, coquettishly tilting his head to the side as if flustered by a compliment. His wild boar teeth dangled from his matted beard like shit on a hairy arse. “But yes, you might say this was me.”

Sensing Hæsten's confidence, Uhtred felt fear grow inside him. But fear was a liability, a weakness, and it could not be allowed. Not now. Instead, he churned it into hot-blooded anger.

“You don't know what you have done!" he raged at Hæsten, "This treason means death!”

“Nonsense,” Hæsten dismissed him, nonchalantly shrugging his shoulders, but Uhtred pressed on.

“If you are doing this for silver, understand that you’ll have none to spend once you are dead," he said, body shaking with the power of his anger, "This is a doomed plan! If you kill him, you’ll find no peace in this land!”

“You don’t know what I plan, you Saxon bitch, so shut your mouth!” Hæsten retorted, spitting at his feet, “Or should I say... what I planned.”

He sidestepped Beorhtweald's corpse, attention shifting away from Uhtred to take a look at the man who truly mattered. Greedy eyes ran over the fallen king, from his fine leather boots to the glinting crown on his head, and Hæsten licked his lips like a starved man, like a beggar gazing at a feast. 

Alfred met his stare, steel-blue eyes giving him nothing.

“The game is over,“ Hæsten mocked with sober coldness. He held up his hand in front of Alfred’s unflinching face and rubbed his thumb on his fingers, a gesture that could only mean one thing, “We have already been paid for you.”

At once, Uhtred’s stomach sank, fear closing her icy fingers around his throat. Rattled, he looked at Alfred, whose arm he was still holding, gripping fiercely, as if that could save him.

He had made a terrible mistake.

An unforgivable mistake.

“No!” he gasped, a cold sense of foreboding stealing his breath. “You are lying! If this was true, we’d be dead already.”

Hæsten laughed, and suddenly, Alfred looked forlorn between his enemies, his grey-silver tunic torn and bloody. A few moments ago, his face had still been flushed with battle fury and impending death, his hair disheveled under his crown, jaw raised defiantly. But now, clever as always, he had caught the implications of Hæsten’s words, and he was staring at the floor, frozen with dread. Uhtred watched as his hand opened and closed, aimlessly, a nervous tick he had last seen in the marshes…

Hæsten smirked, eyes gliniting as he turned back to Uhtred.

“Ah but you see, you aren’t dead yet, because I still need you, Uhtred,” he grinned at him with foul teeth, reveling in his confusion, enjoying that he had the upper hand for once. “And as for our most esteemed guest... well, that’s another matter."

With a mocking flourish of his hand, he turned to the king again, stepped forward and leaned in, his rotten teeth uncomfortably close to Alfred's unblemished skin. There he waited, patient in his cruelty, until the king raised his eyes to meet his gaze, and then a slow, terrible smile bloomed on Hæsten’s face.

“I’m sure you know that killing a king is a pleasure to be savored,” he said quietly, perversely gentle, and Uhtred saw how Alfred’s courage faltered, saw the proud line of his shoulders tremble with tightly wound despair.

Without thinking, he threw himself forward.

He hit Hæsten like a hammer, and the pig cried out as they crashed to the ground. Tumbling, they rolled down the leaf covered slope, came to a stop at the middle of the path, and Uhtred had Hæsten pinned beneath him in seconds, fleshy fists hitting him wherever they could reach. To him, adrenalin surging, Hæsten's blows felt like the squabbling of a child.

In a blink, he had wound his hands tightly around Hæsten's neck, pressing down without mercy nor sense as his world drowned in black wrath. His hands tightened like iron chains, and he watched happily as Hæsten's face turned pink. Uhtred's blood was a roaring battle cry, so loud and all-consuming that he barely felt the storm of boots and fists that rained against his back, half a dozen hands prying at his unmoving grip. Dimly, beneath the thunder of his blood, he heard Alfred call out to him, heard Hæsten’s thick-tongued gargle in response, forced from lips that were rapidly turning blue.

“How about this, Hæsten?” Uhtred spat, more wild beast than human, crazed with wrath, “Are you savoring this?”

Hæsten didn’t answer, he couldn't. Instead, he tried to push his thumbs into Uhtred’s eyes, desperate to escape his grip. But Uhtred raised his chin, kept his eyes barely out of reach, and Hæsten’s fingernails burned bloody furrows across his cheeks as he tried to gain purchase. From behind, an arm pressed against Uhtred’s throat as someone tried to choke him back, and Uhtred grinned, demented. It was useless. Their attempts at stopping him were laughable. Why would he breathe when the only need he had was for revenge, hatred burning, feeding him. Uhtred didn’t need air, no, he needed to see Hæsten’s eyes pop out of their sockets. He needed to pull his tongue out by its root.

Beneath him, Hæsten was purple now, his eyes blood-shot, unfocused, and Uthred knew it was only a matter of seconds until he’d shit his pants and croak.

Then, as sudden as it had appeared, hatred bowed to the only thing more powerful.

A cry of pain cut through the air, through all other cries, Uhtred's dark turmoil. He ripped his head to the side and saw Alfred, eyes wide with shock. He was panting, clutching at someone with one white-knuckled hand; a Dane with tattooed cheeks, built like a tree trunk and towering above him. He had seized Alfred’s forearm and was pressing a knife to his wrist, blood already dripping; a dark red stain on pale, trembling skin.

“Let him go, or I cut it off!” the giant shouted, pressing the blade deeper into the king's wrist.

Uhtred watched in horror as Alfred cried out, in pain and unconcealable fear. He tried to yank his arm away, but the tattooed man was huge, unmovable, and when he couldn't escape him, couldn't writhe from his cruel blade, Alfred sank to his knees and begged for his hand. 

"No, please! Please —"

"LET GO, SAXON!"

Uhtred let go, just as he had before.

Suddenly, he felt every kick, every bruise on his skin, hands beating down on him from every side. Dizzy, he saw how Hæsten’s groaning body was quickly pulled away from underneath him, and then, just as he tried to stumble onto his feet, to reach Alfred, something heavy smashed into his temple, and his world crashed into unfeeling darkness.

He woke to the rattling of a shit cart on shit roads.

His body was aching, every jolt hurting the sensitive bruises that covered his skin. Soon, all sorts of noise started filtering in, people laughing, talking, the sound of wheels creaking, of hooves stomping on packed earth.

He groaned. How he wished that he could close his ears...

His head felt like the anvil of an overzealous blacksmith, his brain pounding against his skull. The dull pain at his temple was accompanied by a sharper pain behind the bridge of his nose that pierced like shattered glass every time he took a breath. A lingering gift of Alfred’s wrath, no doubt. A righteous one.

When finally, he managed to pry open his eyes, blinking furiously, the world was a kaleidoscope of broken-up colors and agonizing lights. Slowly, lights tangling, colors overlapping, he managed to piece it back together. The dark-blue field before him was a sky, slashed with bright wounds of red where the sun was setting behind the horizon.

When he turned his head, dizziness threatened to overwhelm him, and he feared he’d vomit and choke to death, but then it slowly abated, and he saw that he was indeed lying in a cart. Or rather, he was bound to its wooden frame, spread out indignantly, with his hands and feet tied to its corner posts. On his legs, arms and chest, sacks of supplies made it hard to move and harder to breathe, heavy weights on his battered body.

“We thought it was best not to take any chances,” croaked a coarse, jagged voice beside him. Uhtred didn’t need to turn his head to know who it belonged to, but he did so anyway, satisfaction easing his pain at the sight of Hæsten’s swollen and discolored neck.

“Where is he?” Uhtred asked, dehydration slowing his tongue more than he would have liked.

Hæsten sighed.

“Gods, you truly are a simple-minded dog, Uhtred Ragnarson,” he muttered, clearly displeased by Uhtred’s question. “Alfred, Alfred, Alfred. So dull! If he didn’t have a beard, I would think your king was a woman, the way you slobber after him.”

“Fuck you," Uhtred mumbled, too tired for strong rage or smart jibes. He was heavy with exhaustion, felt defeated. But his nagging mind wouldn’t let him rest until he could be sure. Sure that there was hope. That there was life.

“Where is he?” he asked again, his voice surer this time, more solid.

Hæsten rolled his eyes, clearly losing interest in their conversation. He haphazardly gestured towards the back of the troop, and Uhtred collected the last of his strength to lift his throbbing head from the rattling, wooden floor.

There, following the cart only feet away, Alfred sat astride a black horse, and behind him, dwarfing him, sat the tattooed man Uhtred would definitely kill, reins in hand. The king was looking out into the landscape that Uhtred couldn't see, but for only a moment, he turned his head and met Uhtred's gaze, eyes as hard and unfeeling as ever.

The sight of him sparked dark amusement, lightened Uhtred's anxious mind.

Somehow, he thought, despite everything, this impossible man managed to look regal, yes, almost statuesque. Stiff as a board and with the blazing sunset behind him, the colors of his throne room reflected in the metal of his crown, Alfred appeared like the king of kings, unmatched, unearthly even, and Uhtred had no energy to worry about anything.

When he woke next, it was dark, and he was lying on something soft, frosty winds licking at his skin. He wasn’t in as much pain as before, and he thanked the Gods for it, still groaning slightly as he sat up. Thinking was much easier without an anvil for a head.

Trying to take stock of his situation, Uhtred felt more than he saw. His hands weren’t bound with mere ropes but shackled, an iron chain linking him to a tree beside him. He stared out into the night, and it was then that he noticed he wasn’t alone, that another figure sat across from him, shackled to another tree. It took a while until his eyes got used to the darkness, but once they did he could just about make out the silhouette of the man he had hoped to see.

The king was crouched against the cold, knees tucked to his chin.

“Ah,” he observed, somehow both emotionless and dripping with raw contempt, “The traitor has woken from his nap.”

Uhtred sighed. He deserved this. He knew he did.

But he felt empty.

As much as he hated the idea of Alfred dying in battle, as much as he knew he could never have harmed him, the idea that Alfred might be tortured that Alfred might be…  it made him dizzy. He hated himself for his weakness more than the king could ever hate him. And yet, Alfred’s hatred plunged deeper, scalding, gnawing, like a poisoned blade.

“I couldn't do it,” Uhtred admitted reluctantly, because there was nothing else to say. He bit his lip, shame rising inside him. “Forgive me, lord.”

A bitter huff was all he got for it.

“I will most certainly not forgive, nor will I forget, Uhtred,” Alfred spat viciously, slicing through the darkness between them, accelerating with every biting word. “In fact, if we should, by the will of God, survive this, I will personally ensure that your head ends on a spike before you can do so much as kiss your children goodbye.”

Uhtred laughed, mirthlessly, because it was either that or cry. Despite his best intentions, righteous defiance was rising inside him.

“Maybe if you had led with that, lord, the task would have been easier,” he retorted, incensed by the unfairness of it all. “As it turns out, you certainly inspire plenty of your Ealdormen to wish you dead.”

“Enough,” Alfred ordered, cold as ice.

Uhtred knew he shouldn’t press on, but he couldn’t stop himself, the piercing hollowness in his chest egging him on.

“It’s a pity they didn’t stay for the ambush, one of them could have killed you for me.”

Uhtred regretted the words as soon as they had left him, selfish, fleeting gratification turning to ashes in his mouth... The silence that followed was deafening, and as minutes passed, he felt more and more like he was choking on it, drowning in it, dark, muddy waters pouring down his throat.

Desperate to hear something, to end this strange torture, Uthred jangled his shackles as he rubbed his hands over his face. He sighed into his palms. There was a monstruous headache building behind his eyes. Why did it have to be so unfair? Why could Alfred say anything he wanted, why could he batter him like a misbehaving hound and the moment Uhtred bit back, the moment he defended himself, he proved himself to be the dog Alfred had branded him as?

It was unfair.

But this silence, he thought, this silence was worse than insults or anger. He couldn’t stand to feel Alfred’s presence withdraw, to feel him retreat into the swirling darkness of his thoughts. Alfred’s mind, fast and agile as it was, had rarely taken to optimism, but right now, that was all they had.

Reluctantly, he cleared his throat.

“To steer God’s will into the right direction,” Uhtred sighed, hoping to strike a conciliatory note. “We should probably make a plan for how we get my head on that spike, lord.”

“No Uhtred,” Alfred jeered sarcastically. “There is no guards in hearing distance, but I am so glad that you checked.”

It was ridiculous, and Uhtred felt relief wash over him. Acutely aware of his unstable emotions, he couldn’t help but smile in the dark. What a life, he thought, shackled to a tree in the pitch black, absolutely trashed from head to toe, and being heckled by a king.

His king.

Whose pride he had feared would not allow them to speak another word tonight... but if Alfred could still bark, then he could still bite, and Uhtred didn’t have to worry about his spirits. Instead, he listened to the familiar rhythm of his speech, a deep comfort somehow, despite its contents.

“There is no plans to be made, Uhtred, no heroic exploits to add to your collection." Beneath his criticism, Alfred sounded tired. He'd probably been up all night, thinking. "We find ourselves teethless and abandoned. We are bound, we have no weapons, we have no information about our enemies nor our whereabouts and-”

“We are on our way to Lunden,” Uhtred interrupted him, regretfully breaking his monologue.

“And you know that how, exactly?” Alfred asked.

Uhtred bit his lip.

“The trees tell me,” he answered.

Immediately, he heard Alfred’s sharp inhale, and now he really couldn’t stop grinning from ear to ear, imagining the face he was making.

“The trees tell you, Uhtred?” the king asked, absolutely exasperated. “The trees?”

“They do, yes...”

His answer was followed by a long pause, but then Alfred spoke up again.

“Lunden wouldn’t make any sense,” he protested, already thinking it through. “It is ruled by Æthelstan. Who is Christian. Who we have a peace with.”

Though no one could see him, Uthred rolled his eyes and shrugged.

“The men who betrayed you were Christians," he reminded his lord. "They were Saxons from Wessex. The truth is that in order to plan something as big as this, to feel confident enough to do it, you need to have a lot of silver and a lot to gain. Who would profit from a headless Wessex if not Guthrum? It would explain why Hæsten bothers taking us there, too, when he’s already been paid. Guthrum is powerful enough that he fears his revenge.”

He could hear Alfred’s mind working, his thoughts whizzing through the air around them.

“Except Wessex would not be headless for long,” Alfred finally replied, and Uhtred knew that that was as close to an agreement as they would get. “I am sure Æthelred is making eyes at the throne right now, or Æthelwold. Frankly, I do not know which would be worse...”

“None of them could ever rule the country as you have, lord,” Uhtred finished his thoughts for him, knowing that Alfred would be too humble to do so. “Wessex would be weak. It would fall to the Danes.”

For a time, they kept quiet again, but it wasn’t the oppressive silence of before. Gazing across the clearing they were camped in, Uhtred watched the flickering fires of the Danes, counting the guards and the sleeping bodies beneath them. Fifteen. Fifteen wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t good either. He could see the outline of Hæsten’s belly at the middle of them. How he yearned to push those hog teeth into his traitorous eyes…

Thinking of pigs, his thoughts circled back to the Lord of Mercia.

“What about Æthelred?” he asked.

“What of him?” Alfred replied.

“If he’s involved in this, Æthelflaed is in da-“

“We’ll not talk about my family,” Alfred interrupted him. “It will not help us with the matters at hand.”

This was an order, Uhtred knew it, but he was too confused to obey.

“Why?” he questioned. “Is it not your family that we can trust beyond all others?”

“We’ll not talk of them.” Alfred’s voice was icy, simultaneously cutting and brittle, and instantly, Uhtred recognized it from the marshes. He wasn't tricked by it, though, so he spoke softly, as if to calm a wild beast. 

“Do not worry, lord, they’ll be fine. I know it.”

“How, Uhtred?" Alfred asked him bitingly. "Did the trees tell you?”

What was meant to sting, sounded broken, Alfred’s breathlessness betraying his armor of words.

“For all that we know, they might be dead as we speak,” he added, almost whispering.

“That's nonsense, lord," Uhtred countered, meaning it. "Aethelflaed is in Mercia, with Aldhelm, who I know will protect her to his death, regardless of which side his lord has taken. And the people of Mercia are loyal to their lady. She’ll be safe.”

He listened to Alfred’s breath, unsteady still but slowly evening out.

“And Edward…” Alfred murmured, not asking, but still hoping for Uhtred to soothe his torment. It was an unspoken plea of mud and tears, of endless reeds and no horizon.

“Edward is with Steapa,” Uhtred reassured him at once, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. “Steapa would never betray you. He knows where to take him at any sign of trouble.”

Across from him, Uthred could see the outline of Alfred’s head rise from the gloom, red-eyed in the shadows.

“To Coccham?”

“Yes, lord.”

For the first time, Alfred sounded hopeful.

"And your men will protect him?" he asked.

"My men stand with me," Uhtred answered. "And I am for Wessex."

Chapter Text

When Uhtred woke up to the bird song above him, opening his eyes to a circle of cloudless blue sky, Alfred was already awake and praying. Groaning, Uhtred sat up against his tree and circled his wrists, trying to relieve his sore skin from the pressure of his fetters.

Alfred didn’t move.

Statuelike, he knelt in the grass across from him, light dancing over his cheekbones where his face met the sun. Illuminated like this, the specks of grey in his beard shone bright, like white strokes of a fine brush. It seemed even age, the great bane of all beauty, could not defy his dignity, and with nothing else to do, Uhtred leaned back to watch him.

Rough bark scraped against his back, dug into abused skin, but he didn’t make a sound, wasn't willing to disturb the king in his prayer, nor to rob himself of this momentary peace. Instead, he continued to observe him; his back straight and shackled hands folded tightly, brows drawn in deep concentration. As Alfred mumbled words in a language that Uhtred did not understand, his brown hair fluttering in the wind, Uhtred couldn’t think of him as anything but ethereally beautiful.

This had to be what pious meant, he thought, a word Beocca liked to use every time Alfred’s name was even remotely mentioned. Another word Beocca used was god-fearing, but the gentle reverence with which Alfred now raised his eyes towards the sky suggested that he didn’t fear his God at all.

He looks like he’s enchanted, Uhtred thought.

Like he’s in love.

“It's rude to stare at those in prayer,” Alfred admonished, motionless, his eyes still pointed at the sky. Quick to avert his gaze, Uhtred wondered how he'd know.

“I wasn’t staring, lord,” he lied. "I was thinking."

Now, from the corner of his sight, he saw that Alfred was turning his head towards him, acknowledging him.

“And what is it you were thinking about?” the king asked, sounding lighter than the night before, less burdened.

Nevertheless, Uhtred could see that he looked exhausted, deep rings under his eyes that made Uhtred wonder if he had slept at all.

“How is your hand, lord?” he asked, evading Alfred’s question.

Perplexed, Alfred looked down at the wound he had apparently already forgotten about. Even from a few feet away, Uhtred could see that the cut had begun to heal. It had formed a dark, ugly scab on Alfred's slender wrist, the skin around it red and tender.

“It is fine,” Alfred declared, circling his wrist as if to test the truth of his statement.

Scrutinizing the wound for signs of infection as best as he could, Uhtred frowned.

“Is it your writing hand?” he asked.

“It’s fine,” Alfred repeated, not answering the question. His tone was suspiciously dismissive.

It is, then, Uhtred concluded, and hummed in response. He knew from experience that wounds which looked as if they were healing could still fester, suddenly, from one day to the next, and he had seen too many men lose their limbs to gangrene not to doubt Alfred's assessment.

“We’ll have to make sure it doesn’t get infected,” he remarked, trying to convey the risk.

It was the wrong thing to say.

“Stop mothering me,” Alfred bit, flicking his hair out of his face in sudden annoyance. “I’m not a child.”

Uhtred rolled his eyes upwards, matching his irritation. He was getting tired of Alfred’s temper, and he shook his head in a gesture of exhausted frustrated.

“Why must you be like this?” he questioned, too exasperated to hold his tongue.

“Like what, Uhtred?” asked Alfred, his jaw tight, teeth grating around Uhtred's name.

"Unreasonable," Uhtred complained, openly defiant now. "You keep scolding me, when my intentions are nothing but pure!”

The muscles in Alfred’s jaw tightened. He inhaled shakily, clearly trying to keep his composure.

“I am angry at you, Uhtred, because you obsessively” he stressed, looking up at Uhtred as if he was speaking to a child, “break every law I pass, disobey every command I give you. And now, because of your incapability to serve, I’ll be tortured to death by heathens, not knowing what will become of my country.”

Uhtred was seething inside, repeated injustice chipping away at his sympathy. He couldn’t stand it any longer. Beautiful or not, he hated this man and the hard blue stare that was drilling into his soul.

He shook his head, clenching his jaw.

“You wouldn’t have known what came of Wessex-“

“Of England!” Alfred interjected, lips practically throwing the words at Uhtred.

“- if I had ended your life in the ambush!” Uhtred continued, refusing to be cowed. “It makes no difference!”

“It makes the difference of torture!” Alfred hissed, red with rage. “You’ll have me tortured!”

“All I wanted was to save you!” Uhtred shouted, grief filling his mind like black tar. He could feel its weight, its burning, all-enveloping sludge. In the distance, Danes turned to watch them, their commotion attracting unwanted attention. Alfred saw it and nodded, a false calm washing over him.

“Exactly,” he said quietly, “it was all you wanted.” He looked away from Uhtred, eyes piercing into the distance, head shaking with disappointment. “What your king wants does not matter to you.”

Uhtred used the silence that followed to blink the unnatural dampness from his eyes. He wouldn’t show his weakness, wouldn’t show Alfred how much his words affected him. It seemed like he and Alfred were condemned to eternal bickering and bitter silences, no matter how many times they tried otherwise.

When Alfred finally spoke up again, he sounded deflated, talking more to himself than to Uhtred.

“I pray that my strength will not leave me,” he admitted, the lines of his face tense with sorrow. “That it won’t be written that Alfred, king of Saxons, begged for his death.”

Uhtred wanted to scream.

Torture. Death. He couldn’t stand these words. He wished Alfred would stop saying them, stop giving them power. The peace he had felt at the sight of Alfred’s prayer, just minutes ago, was already a distant memory. Icy tendrils of despair were wrapping around his chest now, squeezing, sucking courage from him like the greyish skin of his murdered father, the dark wet earth of Gisela’s grave.

Drowning, he held on to the Gods. To fate.

“You don’t know what will happen,” he denied, holding on for dear life, “They might not even want to kill you.”

“Hæsten said it himself.”

Uhtred shook his head.

“Danes will say anything to scare their prisoners and break their spirit.”

“No,” Alfred disagreed, certainty written in the thin line of his lips, the ink of his tired eyes. “No, if that was so, he would have said more, he would have embellished it.” He nodded, sure of his own judgement. “No, he was precise.”

“Then why haven’t they killed me?” countered Uhtred. “Why keep me with you? If their plan is your death, then keeping me here is nothing but an unnecessary risk to them.”

Again, Alfred looked at him as if he was a thoughtless child, too dull-minded to figure it out on his own.

“Your very public insolence - your ambiguity towards my crown - is well known to all Ealdorman in the country, Uhtred,” Alfred told him, without vitriol this time but no less patronizing. “They could not let you rot in Wiltonshire, because you are the scapegoat. You are the man that will be blamed for the attack.”

Uhtred stared at him.

The explanation made sense. He had to admit it. Suddenly, he felt parched, and his tongue dry and useless in his mouth. It stung to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat, speech seemingly impossible until a glimmer of hope came to his mind.

“It can’t be that. If it were that, I would still be dead by now,” he voiced his doubts. “They would have buried me in an unmarked grave miles ago.”

Alfred knit his brows, but before he could say his turn, Hæsten appeared in their periphery, quickly making his way towards them. His short and swollen neck had become more discolored during the night, dark purple bruising clashing with the dirty yellow of his beard. Unfortunately, he looked to be in good spirits as he shuffled forward, hands splayed on his fat belly and grinning from ear to ear.

“Good morning, little lambs!” he cackled, throwing a slice of bread at Uhtred’s head when he was close enough to hit him in the face with it. It fell into Uhtred’s lap, where he promptly ignored it, hungrier for pride than bread.  

He glowered at Hæsten, noticing that his hands carried no more food.

“Where’s his portion?” Uhtred asked impatiently, nodding in Alfred’s direction.

Hæsten's grin widened. 

“Dead men don’t need feeding,” he sneered nastily.

Disgusted, Uhtred stared at him with brimming hatred, at the foulness of his purple neck, wishing he wasn't shackled. Beside him, Alfred merely watched, stoic, as if he’d expected nothing else. Though when Hæsten turned to him, he looked down at his folded hands.

“I do hope that you are well rested, lord king,” Hæsten mocked him in a false, subservient singsong. “It’s going to be a long ride today.”

Alfred didn’t look up nor answer. Instead, Uhtred decided to swallow his anger in search for answers.

“Will we be arriving in Lunden today, then? Or tomorrow?” he asked, arrogantly raising his eyebrows to show Hæsten that he had outwitted him.

Hæsten merely scoffed.

“We’ll not be going to Lunden,” he corrected. He bend down, supported his weight with his hands on his knees while he looked at Uhtred with an exaggeratedly sweet smile. “So you can stop worrying your pretty little head about it!”

Uhtred watched as Hæsten straightened, readying himself to leave. Desperate for information, he decided to throw subtlety to the wolves.

“Where are we going then?” he demanded, careful to sound bored. “I am tired of this game, Hæsten. What do you have to lose in telling me?”

Not stupid enough to answer a direct question, Hæsten looked down at him with the condescending arch of an eyebrow, but he didn’t turn to go, seemingly torn between his common sense and his need for boasting.

“Is it because you’re scared that I’ll escape and best you once again?” Uhtred tried, hoping that provocation would trick Hæsten into talking a little while longer.

As simple as it was, it worked. He saw it in the way Hæsten’s eyes darkened, the way his eyes flickered to Alfred.

“You won’t best me, Uhtred,” Hæsten grumbled, trying to save face in front of the king he’d just tried his best to degrade, “nor have you ever really bested me, when I’m so clearly the final victor between us.”

Grasping for clues and with a sinking feeling in his stomach, Uhtred voiced a terrible suspicion.

“Are we riding to the coast?” he asked.

“That was a guess!” accused Hæsten, resentful of big and small victories alike, and impulsive enough to show it. Waiting, Uhtred didn’t say a word, so that after a while, Hæsten huffed scornfully, too vain to hold his tongue now that his secret had been spilled, and too eager to regain the upper hand.

“But if you must know, we are going to Dunwhich, where I’ll bind your precious King of Nowhere to a mast and ship him straight to Niflhel.”

At the mention of ships, Alfred exhaled slowly, too slowly, and Uhtred couldn't help but notice.

They’ll be taking him away from me, he thought, and felt grief claw at his chest. He didn't let it in. Instead, battling his feelings into submission, he tried to keep his attention on Hæsten.

“You’ll not be going with him then?” he asked.

“No, and neither will you,” Hæsten confirmed his fear, “Because your brother has promised to pay me a good amount of silver for your unsevered head.”

Hæsten pointed at Alfred.

“Once we get rid of him in Dunholm, I’ll take you to Ragnar and collect your ransom.”

Uhtred felt nausea overcome him. Speaking became impossible when he couldn’t keep his emotions at bay anymore, when wave after wave of panic crashed against his heart, drowning him in sorrow.

“Where exactly will I be going?” Alfred interjected, somehow still dignified, still collected.

Hæsten sneered.

“Dead man don’t need answers, either,” he taunted, clearly revelling in Alfred's humiliation. Wild with sorrow, Uhtred spat at him, narrowly missing his boots.

“You’ll regret this!” he promised Hæsten, willing it with all his heart, but his words rang hollow nonetheless. Why did he have to be so helpless? Right now, there was nothing he could do, no action he could take that would somehow spare Alfred from this nightmare. And Hæsten knew it.

The grimy bastard shrugged, unperturbed.

“I think not... In fact, Uhtred, you should probably be thinking about whether you will be regretting this.” He nodded at Alfred’s bowed head. "Soon he’ll be dead and you’ll be Uhtred Ragnarson, the Great Kingslayer…”

Uhtred’s breath hitched as Alfred’s theory was confirmed. The man thinks, Leofric’s words echoed in his head, and his thoughts started racing.

Hæsten noticed.

“That’s right, Uhtred,” he confirmed. “We'll blame this on you. So, you’ll have to make a decision, because you’ll be hated and searched for by Christians in all of Wessex and beyond.”

Uhtred the Kingslayer.

He wanted to vomit.

“Do you want to face these Christians alone, destined to be killed as an outlaw, a death without glory or reputation,” Hæsten rattled on, not fazed by the obvious revulsion in Uhtred’s expression, “or do you want to face them with people who share your Gods, with people who’d revere you for the slaughter of a Christian king?”

Uhtred felt numb.

He was no longer in the mood for talking. Because none of this felt real. All of it felt like a terrible nightmare, and he prayed for a bucket of ice water and a lecture from Hild.

“What are you saying?” he asked, impatient to end the conversation.

Hæsten looked at him with something akin to pity.

“I am saying that you should think of your own life now that his has ended. I’m saying you should join us.”

Uhtred snorted contemptuously. He looked at his feet, not wishing to see Hæsten’s bloated, ugly head for a second longer.

“I will not,” he whispered angrily, just loud enough for Hæsten to hear.

As soon as he had said so, however, Alfred’s head swiveled around to face him, bitter eyes not quite looking at him, his mouth stretched into a regretful smile.

“You might as well,” he advised coldly, stealing the last breath from Uthred's lungs. "You've already betrayed me, after all. This seems like your best option."

Uhtred felt like he was choking on air.

He didn’t understand how these words could wound him more than all the others, how they could pierce him more deeply than threats of execution, but they did. They made his body grow cold, crushed his ribcage, made his chest feel as if it was caving in on itself.

Maybe it was the certainty with which Alfred expected his own end, maybe that he thought Uhtred capable of abandoning him when all hope had faded. It didn’t matter. His heart felt broken.

“I will not.” Uhtred repeated, his voice as broken as Alfred’s was emotionless.

Hæsten didn’t really care either way.

“Think on it,” he said, and gestured for a guard to ready them for travel. “Ragnar will be waiting for you. And he'll be paying for you - fettered or not.”

Uhtred spend the rest of the morning on horseback, with a Dane who gave his all to get a rise out of him. But after what Alfred had said, there was nothing left in him that could have been pulled to the surface.

The king himself rode with the tattooed Dane from the day before. Their horse trotted alongside Uhtred’s most of the way, and yet Alfred’s gaze didn’t once stray towards him. His profile stared straight ahead, head held proud as his body swayed to the drum of hooves. While Uhtred would normally admire Alfred for his poise, the very thing now seemed to punish him, to mock what he had thought to be an understanding between them.

When the midday sun rose above them and Hæsten finally gave his command to rest, Uhtred was still feeling numb. Once the horses came to a hold, he was unceremoniously pulled from his sattle, barely managing to land on his feet. He shot his Dane a dirty look, knowing that the man had mishandled him on purpose. Before he could say something, though, Uhtred heard first a dull thud, and then a breathless groan from behind him. He turned and saw that Alfred had hit the dirty ground and was lying on his side now, protectively curling into himself as Danes laughed around him, pointed at him with grimy fingers. The sound of their taunts and jeers shattered Alfred's stoic composure, his poise momentarily forgotten as he tried to catch his breath.

Down on the ground, searching for something to hold onto, Alfred found Uhtred’s gaze, his pale eyes a soundless plea beneath the dark strands of his hair.

Uhtred said nothing. Did nothing.

Pain and grief were powerful paralyzers, and even if he had overcome them, he couldn’t have helped. If anything, any attempt to help would have made this spectacle all the more appealing to Hæsten's men, two of which were already grabbing Alfred by his shoulders and setting him on his feet, patting him on the back as if all of this was nothing but a scuffle between friends.

Still, this renewed insult to Alfred's dignity, the fleeting way they had made contact, was enough to shake Uhtred's mind from its petrified slumber. He couldn't give up, no matter what Alfred said to him.

They needed a plan.

Around him, the Danes began to rest and eat, and soon, he was chained to yet another tree, Alfred right next to him this time. While Uhtred’s lunch consisted of an apple and another slice of bread, as before, Alfred wasn’t given anything. Unlike before, they were left alone, their guards leaving them for pouches of ale and raucous gambling, and jumping at the opportunity to reach Alfred, Uhtred knelt down beside him, setting the food down at his feet.

“Here, lord,” he said, trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible. “You look like you are going to faint.”

“It wouldn’t make a difference,” Alfred mumbled bleakly. He tried to look impervious, but his growling stomach betrayed him.

“Eat,” urged Uhtred, willing him to be reasonable.

After what felt like an eternity, Alfred finally broke off a piece of bread and slowly chewed it, involuntarily exhaling with relief. After that first bite, it didn’t take long until all of the food had vanished, and when he was finished, Alfred reluctantly gifted Uhtred a small nod.

“Thank you..."

“No matter,” Uhtred acknowledged, suddenly uncomfortable. Quickly, he changed the topic. “Are you hurt, lord? You took a bad fall.”

“I am fine,” Alfred claimed, not sounding fine at all.

It's not his body that is hurting, Uhtred thought, and quickly scanned the waving field that they were camped on. When he'd reassured himself that the guards where a good distance away, he looked back at the king.

“I have thought about how we’ll be getting out of here.”

Alfred didn’t say anything to that, but he waited, impatient for Uhtred to continue.

“You were right. They are blaming the attack on me, but I think there is a chance in that. We just need to bide our time and- ”

“Was I?” Alfred interrupted, throwing an inquisitive glance at Uhtred. “Right, I mean?”

“Of course, lord,” Uhtred reassured him. “Hæsten said so himself.”

Alfred hummed and nodded in agreement, but something about the way he looked didn't feel right. The king's expression had darkened, the rings under his eyes more pronounced now than just seconds before, and he was anxiously kneading the palm of his hand, bruised knuckles turning white under pressure.

“I feel like there have been too many coincidences for it to remain unquestioned,” he said quietly, his gaze distant, as if he was talking to himself.

Meanwhile, Uhtred felt like he had lost the thread completely.

“For what to remain unquestioned, lord?” he asked.

The distance in Alfred’s eyes lifted as they suddenly bore into him, his pale face as impenetrable as marble.

“Are you playing a game with me, Uthred?” he asked, waiting for an answer as if his question made sense.

But it didn’t make any sense at all.

“What?” Uhtred aslked, instinctively searching Alfred’s face for signs of madness, for something that would reveal his mind had cracked under the pressure of its burden. But Alfred remained unmoved, tilting his head to the side as if he was considering something, all the while studying Uhtred’s face, his eyes missing nothing.

When Uhtred didn't say anything, Alfred pushed forward.

“First you don’t kill me, then the Danes do not kill you,” he listed, as though reviewing facts at a trial. “You somehow know exactly where we’re going and you converse about the future of your reputation-”

“Lord-“ Uhtred tried to interrupt him, but Alfred would not have it, raised a hand while he continued.

“-your reputation with my enemies. But you do not abandon me when I push you away. No, on the contrary, you feed me when I'm hungry, seemingly at your own expense, and ten you continue to talk of your plans to escape... yet somehow all you come up with is us biding our time.”

Uhtred clenched his jaw. This could not be happening. Not again.

“Lord,” he warned, feeling his patience crumble, familiar pain slithering into his vains.

The king didn't falter.

“They call me a dead man, but I'm sure it wouldn’t do for me to die at my own hand before I arrive wherever they want me to arrive. There needs to be a spectacle, after all.”

Alfred’s thoughts turned from one subject to another so quickly, Uhtred felt dizzy.

“Lord, I do not understand,“ he tried again, but Alfred had reached his point of no return, the festering root of his distrust, and he would not be stopped, his index finger violently tapping against the royal insignia of his ring as he voiced his terrible suspicion.

“Are you here to keep me calm Uhtred?” he questioned. “To manage me while I am nearing slaughter?”

Uhtred was speechless. He was losing his mind, anger hitting him like a shield wall.

“You cannot think that!” he growled, giving Alfred one last chance to withdraw his words.

Again, Alfred said nothing. He just waited, staring. Like a lion stared at prey.

“I should've just killed you,” Uhtred cursed between clenched teeth.

Considering his suspicions confirmed, Alfred smiled, his cheekbones sharp as knives.

“And yet we both know you didn't do that,” he lectured, disdain plain in the lines of his face. "I wonder why."

Uhtred decided to fuck it.

“HÆSTEN!” he roared so loudly that Alfred couldn't help but flinch, “BRING ME ALE! I AM TIRED OF THIS CHRISTIAN WORM!”

Chapter Text

Uhtred stood up as Hæsten came over to them, two of his warriors following closely behind him. The king had returned his eyes to the floor, and looking down at Alfred’s seated form, Uhtred couldn’t make out his expression, a sweeping curtain of hair obstructing his view. He imagined it to be one full of disgust, but he didn’t care. Uhtred’s very real anger was still pulsing through him, he could feel it in every beat of his heart, and he had decided to use it as an ally in his fight for their freedom.

He’d have preferred to let Alfred know about his plan beforehand, but the king was clearly not trusting him, paranoid in his grief for himself and his country, and Uhtred doubted that telling him would have made a difference.

Maybe it was better this way, Uhtred told himself. Maybe it was more convincing.

Are you here to keep me calm, Uthred?

But it hurt.

When Hæsten reached them, his guards threw curious looks at the pair of prisoners in front of them. Uhtred and Alfred looked like night and day. One clearly a warrior, broad-chested and standing tall, furious, his dark and metal studded armour emphasizing the violent energy that was radiating from him. The other, clad in a silvery-blue leather vest over a fine but muddied linen shirt, kneeing on the floor with an air of apathy, meekness even, but with a crown on his head.

“What is this?” Hæsten asked, taking in Uhtred’s angry eyes and clenched fists, Alfred’s icy stare into the distance. He sensed a change in the air, Uhtred could see it.

Hæsten grunted.

“Have you come to your senses, then?” he asked, mustering him. “You will join us?”

“I will,” confirmed Uhtred, tightly nodding at Alfred, and tried to sound nonchalant. “He can burn in hell for all I care.”

Hæsten laughed, though doubt was still prominent in the lines of face.

“Except the hell he'll go to won't be hot, because he'll go to Niflhel,” he corrected with a glance towards his royal prisoner. “And I’m warning you, Uhtred, so will you if you try to trick me.”

“Does this look like it’s a trick?” Uhtred asked, gesturing into the painful space between himself and Alfred. He made sure to put all of his bottled-up anger into his words. “I’ve had enough of this ungrateful bastard.”

Trying not to think about it, he spat at Alfred’s feet.

Alfred looked up then, too shocked to keep his composure. His steel-blue gaze was hateful, but to Uhtred’s horror, there was something else in his eyes, too. It was a redness that couldn’t be explained by hatred, and with all of his remaining strength, Uhtred schooled his face into a cool mask, willing the king to understand his next words.

“We would never have escaped anyway”, he said offhandedly, looking back at Hæsten. “There is too many of you. A true Dane knows when to push and when to yield.”

At first, Hæsten only looked at him, his expression unreadable, but in the end, he was too treasonous himself to doubt Uhtred's disloyalty. A slow, foul-toothed grin spread over his dirty face.

“Well said!” he cried in triumph, clapping Uhtred’s shoulder as if they were brothers. “That is true!" He pointed a grubby finger at Uhtred's head. "So you admit that I defeated you?”

Reluctantly, Uhtred put his hands on his hips and shrugged.

“This once I guess you did, Hæsten,” he admitted.

The Dane laughed again, his belly shaking with it.

“Alright,” he said, but then he squinted, and his eyes grew wary for just a moment longer. “You won’t get your weapons until we arrive at Ragnar’s. I won't take any chances.”

Uhtred shrugged.

“That's fine with me,” he agreed easily, “As long as I get all the ale I want. And a woman to warm my cot on the way.”

Hæsten bared his teeth to him, apparently amused by his words.

"You'll like Dunwhich,” he remarked cheerfully. "It has the cheapest whores in all of East Anglia." Swiftly, he motioned for one of his warriors. “Free him," he ordered. "And make sure he gets food and drink before we go.”

With that, Hæsten turned to go back to his men, calling over his shoulder while he walked away. “You’ll share a horse, Uhtred. I won’t give you your own. And if you try anything stupid, my men will kill you.”

Uhtred watched him go and nodded in agreement, unperturbed by Hæsten’s words. Eager to be free, he glowered at the young warrior who’d stepped closer to him, obviously hesitant to free Uhtred from his fetters.

“What are you waiting for?” Uhtred snapped at him impatiently. “Do you need me to kick you in the arse or will you move on your own?”

The younger man gave him a nasty look, but he began to fumble with his shackles, and soon Uhtred was flexing his hands, relieved to gain back circulation. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, and without so much as another glance at Alfred, he made his way towards the camp of rowdy Danes and ale.

Hours later, he was still tired but well-fed.

The sun was beginning to set as Uhtred jumped of the white mare he shared with a Dane called Aleifr. He had spent the entire way studying the land around them, looking for anything that would tell him how close to the coast they had already gotten.

By now, they were far from Wiltonshire, and Uhtred had to admit that he hadn’t often been to this part of the land, that he didn't recognize any of its landmarks. The only thing Uhtred could say with certainty was that they had chosen a difficult path. It lead them over high terrain, horses grunting as they lugged their human cargo onto steep hills. In the cold rough winds, nature’s richness turned more barren around them as they climbed, the ground soon covered with nothing but yellow grass and dirt.

Hæsten seemed to have chosen a remote route. A smart move if he wanted to avoid detection.  

Aleifr, his unwilling companion, hadn’t spoken to him much at all during the ride, but Uhtred was still glad that he would finally get some time to himself. He needed to be on his own so that he could think. What was he going to do? With his newfound freedom, he could walk around their captors’ camp, but he was watched closely while he did so. In fact, with his weapons still kept under lock and key and no chance to scout and plan in peace, Uhtred was questioning whether his ruse gave him any advantage at all. Should he have stayed with Alfred, where he could at least have provided some sort of comfort?

Are you here to keep me calm, Uhtred?

No, he told himself, he wouldn’t have been much of a comfort at all. The only way out of this nightmare was forward, and if not for his temporary insanity, Alfred would have agreed with him on that.

Uhtred's thoughts were rudely interrupted when Aleifr threw a bundle of furs into his arms, telling him to set up their place for the night where he could see him. Soon after Uhtred's release, Hæsten had told him that the Dane was to be his shadow, a fact that made sneaking around considerably more difficult. Resigned, Uhtred scanned the arid hilltop they had chosen as their campsite. The only trees here stood to the far end, right before the hill began to level off again. It was a small group of about two dozen ash trees and oaks, densely huddled together, as if the trees were seeking comfort in each other. He could see a guard escort Alfred towards them now, and he started to move into the same direction, careful not to look as if he was following them.

Unfortunately, his handler didn’t miss it.

“Why are you going there?” Aleifr grumbled suspiciously and pointed in Alfred’s general direction, his beady eyes narrowed. “Why not somewhere else?”

Although he felt his pulse quicken with anxiety, Uhtred outwardly kept his calm, looked at him as if he was an idiot.

“Do you see any other trees around?” he asked him and spread his arms, sarcastically inviting him to take a look. “I do not know about you, Aleifr, but for my part, I do not wish to freeze my bollocks off in these winds when I already have to suffer you snoring in my ear.”

Aleifr growled reluctantly.

“Don’t get too close to your Saxon king,” he warned, ill-tempered, still mistrustfully eyeing Uhtred over the back of his mare.

Uhtred dismissed it with an irritated grunt.

“He’s not my king anymore,” he objected as he turned and started walking, the foul words rotting on his tongue as soon as he said them.

He could see that Alfred had already been chained to an old oak near the middle of the trees, and he quickly fixed his gaze on a spot that was just far enough away from it to not raise suspicions, yet still close enough to keep an eye on him. Once there, he put down the furs and quickly fashioned two beds from them, careful that his furs weren’t too close to those of Aleifr.

While he was kneeling over his makeshift bed, he sought out the king with a careful glance to the side. Alfred was several feet away from him, leaning against the tree he was fastened to, but even from this distance Uhtred could see that he was ghostly white and shaking in the cold. His typically fine hair was plastered to his forehead and grief-shallow cheeks in lank, damp streaks. Their darkness formed a stark contrast to his clammy skin.

If Uhtred wasn't mistaken, Alfred hadn’t eaten anything but an apple and some bites of bread for more than a day and a half. Naturally delicate as he was, his body now evidently failed to muster the energy it took to keep him warm. There were no furs for him in sight.

The sight of it made Uhtred feel sick, a noxious pressure rising in throat that he couldn't seem to swallow.

Whether they want to or not, they’re going to kill him like this.

Beds made, he turned to find Hæsten in the crowd, finally spotting him beside the tattooed Dane. He was overlooking his men as they set up camp, and unwilling to waste another minute, Uhtred started walking, sidestepped the working Danes as he made his way towards him.

The huge, tattooed Dane that he had promised to kill was fittingly named Njal - which meant giant. Uhtred had overheard men talk about him, had heard them boast about his strength. It was Njal who had once again ridden here with Alfred, his arms around the king so uncomfortably close to an embrace that Uhtred had felt the cold flames of rage lick at his guts. He didn’t like the way these men handled the king, touched him as if he were an ordinary man, as if touching him was an ordinary thing.

Uhtred had almost never touched him.

The two exceptions to this had been extraordinary times of great despair; a sick ætheling, a captured king. Outside of emergencies, there was no situation in which courtly etiquette allowed for simple warriors to touch the king. Not even when Uhtred gave his oath had Alfred and he touched.

He didn’t mind this, of course, but it was an unspoken law.

No one touched the king just because they wanted to, they touched him when the king needed them to do it, when he ordered them to do it. The casual way the Danes took Alfred by the shoulders, pressed into his back, gripped his waist to lift him onto a horse… it made Uhtred’s blood boil.

He shook his head, clearing away his thoughts before he came to a hold.

Hæsten looked up at him with disinterest.

“What is it?” he complained, licking his chapped lips as he studied Uhtred’s dirt-streaked face. “I have things to do.”

Uhtred considered him, the only still form in a sea of working hands, and smirked, blatantly looking around at the bustling men surrounding him.

“Clearly…” he mocked, but his captor wasn’t in the mood for it.

“Spit it out.” Hæsten grumbled impatiently, folding his arms and tapping his fingers on his biceps.

Uhtred straightened, his hands on his hips.

“You’re killing your prisoner,” he stated, his voice gruff as much to play his part as to let out some of his actual frustration.

“Yes, I know,” acknowledged Hæsten irritably. “That’s the plan.”

Uhtred sighed, shaking his head, tired of word plays and games.

“No, I mean he’s half dead already. You need to give him food and furs or he’ll freeze to death during the night. He looks half frozen as it is.”

Hæsten’s eyes flashed spitefully from their dirty caves. “What is it to you? I thought you didn’t care for him.”

“I don’t,” Uhtred assured, feeling the skin of his neck crawl with invisible insects. “But if he dies before you put him on a ship, you’ll fear the wrath of whoever paid you for him,” he pointed a finger at Hæsten’s chest accusingly, “and then I have to follow your fat ass to wherever you run to hide from them.”

Hæsten snorted.

“I am already an outlaw of Wessex and probably Mercia,” Uhtred finished, “I have no interest in further enemies. I want to reach Ragnar as fast as I can.”

Looking across the camp to the ghostly heap of pale cloth and paler flesh that was Alfred’s body, Hæsten seemed to think about it. For a while, he searched Uhtred’s expression for a lie, then he rolled his eyes and jabbed his fist into Njal’s chest.

“Get him some furs and bread,” he ordered his right-hand man. “Be sure it’s not too much. We want him alive, not comfortable.”

Njall grunted something Uhtred couldn’t quite make out and trudged away, leaving Uhtred behind as the uncomfortable pressure in his throat lessened.

At least for tonight, Alfred was save.

Just as he began to relax, a commotion made him raise his head. The men around him were lifting their fists, calls of elation erupting in the air. Hæsten was joining them, turning to watch the stretching lands behind him.

To his horror, Uhtred soon saw why.

There, at the foot of the hill, half hidden in the twilight of the falling night, horsemen were quickly nearing. At least thirty of them. They were waving their axes and swords as they neared, reciprocating the triumphant calls of the Danes around him.

Uhtred’s stomach plummeted.

What did this mean? Where they here to take Alfred? Was he going to be separated from him earlier than they had expected?

Panic gripped his heart.

“Who are they?” he wasted no time asking, and Hæsten turned back to him, smirking.

“Reinforcements,” he beamed and smacked Uhtred’s shoulder triumphantly. “In case we are seen on the road.”

The clopping of hooves grew louder and Hæsten had to raise his voice.

“They should have joined us yesterday already,” he shouted over the blustering cries of his men. “At least now we don’t have to climb these bastard hills anymore.”

The horses had reached them now, swarming the camp like a breaking wave of noise, but Uhtred didn’t wait for Hæsten to greet them, didn’t stay to inspect the men. He knew the boasting that followed Viking reunions, the displaying of treasure, and he hurriedly made his way back towards Alfred, knowing that soon, all of this chaos would focus on him.

The king was already looking at the new men when Uhtred's gaze found him, but his eyes weren't wide with dismay like Uhtred's. He wasn't shocked, scared or confused, not overwhelmed nor angry. Neither was he displaying the stoic but attentive composure that Uhtred admired so much about him, or the analytical sharpness with which he collected information about his enemies - his strength in troubled times.

Instead, Alfred's eyes looked half dead, empty, as if there was no recognition in them at all. No fear or sorrow, but nothing else either. His hands were folded as if for prayer, yet his back wasn't forming its usual, elegantly curved line, but he was hunched, like a sack of grain. Alfred wasn't even shaking anymore.

Before him, in the meagre grass, lay a grey fur and a loaf of bread, untouched.

Uhtred hurried, took long strides, all the while perusing the camp around him for his pesky guard. As he had suspected, he spotted Aleifr cheering alongside the others, not paying him any attention at all.

Could this be their chance to escape?

He dismissed the idea as soon as it had formed in his mind. Still, two men guarded Alfred, their hands on the hilts of their weapons, and even if he overcame them and somehow freed the king from his shackles, where would they go? They had no horses, and there was nowhere to hide. Running wouldn’t get them far, and as Uhtred was nearing him, he doubted that Alfred had the strength to run at all.

“Oi!” One of the guards shouted at him, metal glinting in the sunset as he moved to pull his sword from its sheath. “Keep away from the prisoner!”

Uhtred gave him an angry look as he strode past him.

“I’m here on Hæsten’s orders, you dimwit,” he lied easily, voice so firm that the young man stepped back, suddenly unsure of what to do. Quickly, Uhtred picked up the bread and fur as he crossed the remaining distance towards Alfred.

With a one smooth movement, he knelt down and draped the fur over Alfred’s back, pulling it tight around his shoulders. Alfred looked up, startled. The dark blue, almost black skin under his eyes made him look seriously ill, but nonetheless life momentarily returned to his features as he recognized who had disturbed him.

“Get your hands off me,” he snapped, recoiling, but Uhtred ignored him.

While, with one hand, he kept the warm fur snug around Alfred's shoulders, he used the other to grab for Alfred’s own, touching him for the third time, and again because of an emergency. Uhtred inhaled sharply, shocked by the iciness of Alfred’s skin. The king felt even colder than he had suspected.

“Hold this,” he commanded and pressed Alfred’s hand to the fur around his narrow shoulders.

Alfred let go immediately.

“I will not,” he hissed, his anger giving him strength, and the fur immediately slipped from his shoulders. Reflexively, Uhtred grabbed for it, but before he could reach it, Alfred had hit him in the chest with a cold, hard fist.

“Ugh!” Uhtred grunted, surprised at the assault.

The punch hadn’t been very hard, Alfred clearly lacked the strength for it, but the surprise of it had been enough to make Uhtred fall back on his arse. He hadn’t expected so much resistance, but then he really should have known better. Alfred was nothing if not iron-willed, and Uhtred somehow found himself simultaneously worried for and proud of him, helplessly admiring the feverish resolve that made him larger than life.

I would follow you everywhere, he thought desperately. Like an idiot.

But he couldn’t say that.

“You are so stupid,” Uhtred growled instead, not caring to mince his words anymore as he aired his frustration, his ass and pride hurting.  Even though he knew that Alfred wouldn’t take it, he threw the bread at his lap like a petulant child. “At least eat this.”

Defiantly, Alfred raised his chin, sneering, hard dark eyes in a haggard face.

“I will not,” he repeated bitterly.

The king had decided to die, and Uhtred wanted to slap him.

“You need your strength!” he growled, low enough so that the guards wouldn't hear him, quickly looking over his shoulder for Hæsten. The traitor was still conversing with one of the new men, but Uhtred knew they’d soon be making their way over to them.

Alfred didn’t yield.

“Eat!” Uhtred tried one last time, but to no avail.  

The king stayed silent. Something was churning in him, writhing underneath the surface, ocean-blue eyes condemning Uhtred's very existance. With another growl, Uhtred took the bread from Alfred’s lap and stood up. He knew it was hopeless, knew Alfred wouldn’t budge, and so he decided to at least keep the food, if not for Alfred, then for himself.

After all, when the time came to escape, there was a good chance he’d have to carry him.

Chapter Text

Unsurprisingly, Aleifr was snoring.

Uhtred didn’t resent him for it. After all, his snoring made it easier to know if he was sleeping.

It had been hours since Uhtred had gone to lie down on his furs, and even longer since the horsemen arrived at their camp. He’d been right, though. Hæsten had made a spectacle of Alfred only minutes after Uhtred had returned to his bed. No insult had been left untouched, his men contorting with laughter. They’d mocked Alfred’s frail figure, his narrow shoulders and soft skin. One of them, a Dane of average stature with fiery red hair, had called him a rassragr and pinched his cheek, had made jokes about the end of his lineage that made Uhtred’s blood boil. Uhtred had studied his face closely, committing it to memory, and mourned the absence of his weapon, his sword hand twitching by his side.

He wanted to gut them all. Make their intestines flutter in the wind and soak the dry earth with their blood.

Fortunately, and to Hæsten’s chagrin, Alfred had endured it all without so much as a blink, forcing the Danes to tire of their cruel game eventually. Before Hæsten’s entourage of cutthroats had trudged away to fill themself with ale, however, he’d taken Alfred’s crown for his own. The worm wore it proudly, as if he’d earned it. His troop of men had bawled songs and emptied ale pouches, Hæsten in their middle, waddling around as if he owned all of England. The precious metal looked ridiculous on his head, gleamed in the firelight like a pearl on top of shit.

Now, only a few guards were still awake, most other men deep in their ale-fuelled dreams. Even Alfred had sagged against the tree behind him, and Uhtred hoped he was at least able to sleep, unconsciousness a poor protection against the cold, the abandoned grey fur still unused beside him.

As he waited for Aleifr’s snoring to even out, Uhtred couldn’t help but think about Alfred as he’d looked in better times, in the times before Wiltonshire. He thought of him in his hall, surrounded by his witan, long red robes falling elegantly around him, flowing over stone as Alfred sat for prayer. He thought of long lashes lowering in contemplation, of hard eyes turning gentle as Alfred looked at his children... of the smell of his hair, the weight of him against his che—

Stop, he thought, annoyed with himself.

What was wrong with him? Why did this always happen, why did his thoughts stray to Alfred and become so... strange. Especially at night. It should have been enough that he served his king during the day, but since they’d won the battle against Bloodhair, since Gisela’s death, Alfred seemed to invade his dreams as well. The king was giving him no rest, always there, always demanding. Yet it seemed the more attention Uhtred gave him, the more he gained power over him, his presence growing stronger every night. Sometimes, Uhtred asked himself if Alfred was a sorcerer himself, a Christian shadow walker. But he knew Alfred would have scoffed at this idea, would have rejected it as pagan nonsense.

It was just his head, playing tricks on him because he hadn’t slept.

Beside him, Aleifr was still snoring.

Studying his slumbering face, Uhtred slowly, very slowly, put pressure onto his elbows, soundlessly straightening his arms until he was sitting up on his hands. Once there, he stilled again. Afraid to wake his Danish shadow, he didn’t dare to move, his breathing shallow, waiting for anything that would signal Aleifr’s sleep had lightened. But the man just snored on beside him, and so Uhtred pushed himself further forward, and onto his knees, gradually pushing upwards until he was on his feet, crouched in the darkness.

He’d decided to search the woods for a sharp branch or a stone that he could use as a weapon, mainly because it felt like the only thing he could do at this point. The arrival of reinforcements had left him desperate. Killing all of their captors was no longer a possibility, Uhtred knew that, but he still didn’t have a comprehensive plan to get them out of here, and he was quickly losing time.

If all else failed, a voice in his head whispered without his consent, he might need to fulfil Alfred’s wish.

Uhtred told it to fuck off.

Under the cover of darkness, with only the stars to light his way, he carefully made his way towards the treeline. He tried to watch were he put his feet, avoiding dead leaves and torn branches, but nonetheless, every step he took felt incredibly loud to him. When he was only a few steps away from the protective shield of branches and leaves, a particularly loud twig snapped through the elusive silence around him.

Fuck.

Uhtred froze and listened for the shouting of guards that would surely follow, convinced that the whole camp had heard him. But it was only his oversensitive nerves making him crazy, taunting him; no guards shouted, no one moved, and Uhtred relaxed to the sound of Aleifr’s unbothered snoring behind him.

When he'd finally reached the relative protection of the trees, Uhtred lost no time scanning the floor for something that could be used as a weapon. He needed to find something heavy yet short enough to hide it underneath his leather vest. A sharp branch would be best, but if he couldn’t find that, he’d use a heavy one as a club. For a time, he darted around in the dark, searching. Even beneath this sparse of a canopy, the diminished moon light made the task harder than Uhtred would have liked.

Soon, he realized that there was nothing to take.

Most big branches had been taken by the men collecting firewood, Uhtred realized, sighing with frustration, and the skinny, half-rotten twigs at his feet mocked him with their uselessness. Desperate for something, he reached up to one of the lower hanging branches and carefully tested it with his weight, thinking about breaking it off. The loud rustling of its leaves made him realize his foolishness. There was no way that the splintering, creaking wood wouldn’t be heard, and even if by a miracle he succeeded, then he’d still have to strip it of its offshoots.

Slowly despairing, he directed his gaze back to the floor. There was a bigger branchlet to his right, old and mossy, and Uhtred considered if it could be useful once he stripped it of its rotten parts. Unimpressive as it was, it was also the best thing he’d found so far, and Uhtred knew he’d soon have to return to Aleifr’s side. He took a step towards it, crouching down to take it.

“Nah, you couldn’t kill a rabbit with that thing," a voice directly behind him said dryly, and Uhtred spun around as fast as he could, heart hammering in his throat, ready to fight whoever had caught him.

It was Finan.

He couldn’t believe his eyes, knees almost buckling under the weight of his relief.

“Finan!” he half-exclaimed, elated but trying to keep his voice down, excitement glowing in his eyes. He crossed the distance between them in less than three strides and pressed his friend into a desperate hug. “I can’t belief you’re here!” he said, squeezing Finan’s shoulders before he took a step backwards to look at him.

Finan looked tired but fierce. He gave his lord a small nod, good-spirited as always.

“Neither can I, lord,” he answered. “It’s a miracle that I’ve found you, really.” He grinned cheekily. “I must be the luckiest bastard alive.”

His grin vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Quickly, he scanned Uhtred’s body with practiced eyes.

“Are you hurt?” he asked and raised his eyebrows. “When I found the camp, I didn’t expect you to be walking around, lord. I must admit.”

“I am fine,” Uhtred assured him, knowing that they didn’t have much time. He gestured towards the Danish camp. “I told Hæsten that I’d join him and he let me go free.”

Finan knit his brows, old wood groaning above them, leaves fluttering in soft nocturnal winds.

“But you’re not doing that,” he said.

Uhtred turned away, finding Alfred’s distant silhouette through the jumble of branches. How small he looked. It made his breath catch in his chest.

“Of course not," he muttered. "I’m just biding my time until I can get Alfred out of here.”

Like Uhtred, Finan turned his gaze towards the flickering lights of the camp, assessing it’s size.

“Is the king well?” he asked, “I’ve not seen him move once in the hours I’ve been here.”

Uhtred sighed, throwing Finan a telling look. Then he shook his head.

“He’s not,” he admitted, his heart heavy, steadying himself against the trunk of an oak. “He thinks that I’ve abandoned him and refuses to eat or to keep himself warm… I fear that his spirit is broken.”

Finan nodded uncomfortably and ducked his head down, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite get himself to say it. Uhtred mustered him impatiently.

“What is it, Finan?” he asked. “Come on, spit it out. We don't have much time.”

“Nothing, it’s just…” Finan paused, choosing his words carefully, “They’re blaming this on you, lord. There’s people in every alehouse talking about how Uthred Ragnarson captured the king,” his gaze darkened, “They’re calling for your death.”

“Hæsten already told me,” Uhtred agreed, then hesitated before he spoke again, “...but Alfred knows the truth.”

Finan frowned, nervously scratched the side of his head. “But you just said that he thinks you’ve abandoned him, so how would h-”

“It doesn’t matter what he thinks as long as we safe him,” Uhtred interrupted, trying to sound confident. “Then he’ll know the truth.”

“Hm,” Finan hummed, not really convinced.

It didn’t matter. Uhtred tried to concentrate on what was important.

“You need to ride back and get help,” he implored Finan.

“Of course, lord. I’ll tell them where to find you. Lady Æthelflaed has raised an army, she has send men all over the land to find her father.” He winked at his lord, smirking boyishly, “You better thank your Gods it was me who found you, or you might be dead by now - killed by a vengeful arrow or something.”

Uhtred shot him a sad smile, but he was too distracted for banter, his head full of questions that needed to be answered.

“What of her husband?” he enquired.

“Her rat of a husband is a traitor, he’s escaped with the few men who are loyal to him,” Finan scoffed, antipathy plain in his voice as he continued. “He’ll be meeting up with the other lords who’ve betrayed you in Wiltonshire. Steapa drove them out of Winchester when they tried to take the city, even killed one of the fuckers.”

Finan shook his head, raising an eyebrow. 

“They really fucked it up if you ask me… what a shite rebellion,” he muttered to himself, “It was this Æthelhelm, the prick Alfred had just appointed. And Æthelred an-“

“Æthelwold,” Uhtred finished for him, but his confidence was proven wrong.

“No, it seems Æthelwold is not involved,” Finan corrected him, shaking his head as he watched genuine surprise spread across Uhtred’s face.

“What?”

“I know!” the Irishman agreed, grinning from ear to ear. “I was shocked as well.”

They beamed at each other and for a moment, it felt as if everything was going to be okay; as if all this was just another risky adventure and everything was not on the line. But the feeling didn’t last.

“What are those bastards going to do now?” Uhtred asked broodingly, watching Finan chew his lip.

“There’s talk of a deciding battle. Edward - well, I guess Steapa - has raised the loyal fyrds of Wessex and most of the Mercian army will join them.”

“And the numbers are in our favor?” Uhtred inquired, burning with renewed spirit.

Finan weighed his head from left to right, clearly undecided.

“Truthfully? It’s hard to tell, lord,” he admitted, “I’m not sure how many men will turn up for battle on either side. I reckon many will wait for a winner before they choose a side.”

“Snakes!” Uhtred spat, but he knew they didn’t have time to worry about it now. They had their own battle to fight. “Hæsten’s plan is to put Alfred on a ship at Dunwhich,” he explained, his voice coarse in the oppressive darkness. “If that happens, he is dead, so we need to stall them until Æthelflaed’s men come to our aid.”

Finan nodded pensively, but he looked worried.

“From here, you’ll reach Dunwhich in less than two days, I believe. I don't think that's enough time for Æthelflaed to get there.”

Uhtred nodded to concede the point, but he had a different worry.

“And even if it is, Alfred will have killed himself by then,” he frowned, only half-joking.

Finan looked back out to the camp, not knowing what to say to that. He fixed a spot beyond the fires.

“So what’s the plan then?” he asked into the silence.

Uhtred thought about it for a moment.

“Could we kill the horses?” he asked.

“What all of them?” Finan shook his head and laughed, shakily. “I like your confidence, lord, but there’s no way the two of us can kill forty horses before someone notices. Those fuckers don’t exactly die silently.”

Uhtred knew that was true. For a moment, he considered driving them off, but Finan was right, they’d never be quick enough, never quiet enough. Once again, he felt despair stretch out its icy fingers. If only the reinforcements hadn’t come, he thought, then they might have managed it. Now, they had no fucking chance…

“What about fire?” Finan muttered beside him, still staring at the fires ahead and knitting his brow in concentration. “What if we do what you did in Cynuit?”

“And fire the ships?” Uhtred replied, leaning a little towards Finan. “That could buy us time… But you would need to prepare something to fire them with, and then you would have to ride back fast enough for Æthelflaed to attack in time. Do you think you can you do that?”

Finan bit his lip, hesitating.

“I’ll have to, lord,” he decided eventually. “I’ll ride through the night. Buy a second horse.”

Uhtred nodded, relieved that they at least had a plan now, albeit an incredibly difficult one.

“Then first you ride to Dunwhich and prepare something to light on fire and throw,” he commanded. “After that, you try to intercept the Mercians on their way.”

“What should I prepare?” Finan questioned.

“Take whatever cloth you can find and make bundles from it. Then soak those in grease and hide them in a carcass of some sort,” Uhtred explained his tried and proven method. When he saw Finan scrunch his nose in disgust, he added, “It’ll keep them from drying out and it’ll let me know where they are. Put the carcass near the ships there, so I know where to look.”

Finan shrugged as the wind picked up around them.

“Aye. That’s disgusting, but it’s a good plan,” he summarized, his voice low in the gale, and embers of hope began to glow in Uhtred’s chest, until he thought of a problem that he didn’t have the answer for, and they lost some of their warmth.

“What do I do if the ships are ready to sail when we arrive in Dunwhich?” he aired his doubts, his hair fluttering in the breeze.

“They won’t be,” Finan reassured him, something certain in his voice now as his fist closed around the cross that was hanging from his neck. “It’s Alfred we are saving. God fucking loves the bastard.”

Chapter Text

Despite the hope that sung a siren call in Uhtred's mind, the next two days were gruesome. 

On the morning after he had watched Finan vanish into the night, Uhtred felt like shit. Sleep had evaded him for many reasons. One was the fact that he'd been pumped with adrenaline, excited by the encounter and the promise of escape, another that his body felt raw. He was anxious, yet exhausted, and his body was sorer than it had been the days prior. The bridge of his nose still sparked with pain every time he took a breath, and then there were the countless scrapes and bruises he'd earned by choking Hæsten. One in particular, sitting low on the right side of his rips, hurt like hell, pulsing in dull agony.

Uhtred suspected that the rip there was broken.

Finan had asked him if he should bring him herbs to chew on to manage his pain, but he'd declined. They had no time for such things. Any minute spend on silly comforts was a minute they needed to save their lives, and so Uhtred had send him on his way.

He almost regretted it now.

Most importantly, though, sleep had evaded him because he'd been too busy worrying about Alfred. With swollen, itchy eyes, Uhtred had peered into the darkness, tense next to Aleifr's snoring form, watching Alfred tremble in his sleep.

That morning, Alfred looked half dead.

Uhtred had seen him wake up, had been praying that he would. When Alfred had opened his eyes, his faint shivers had faltered, then picked up again, but the man hadn't moved. His hands were curled with coldness, and Uhtred noticed that he didn't protect them, didn't hide them in his sleeves or hold them close to his chest. They probably pained him agonizingly, dreadfully white as they were, yet Alfred didn't budge. He numbly stared forward from his position on the ground with empty, glazed eyes that had sunken so deep in their sockets and were stained so darkly that Alfred's face appeared like the structure of a skull.

Most dramatically, though, his skin was no longer ghostly pale, but grey. It was a colour Uhtred hadn't often seen on living men, and when he had, they hadn’t lived for long.

By now, even Hæsten was worried.

Uhtred watched him hover around the spot where Alfred lay in the damp, cold grass, watched him circle his captured treasure with a scowl on his face.

When after half an hour, Alfred hadn't moved a muscle, Hæsten stepped to one of his men, growling an order Uhtred wasn't close enough to hear. He didn't need to wonder about it for long, though, because only moments later two burly warriors took Alfred by the shoulders and hauled him onto his feet, where they held him while a third man bound his struggling body with layers of cloth and fur, trapping his hands, until only his head and legs could be seen. Knowing that Alfred was safe from the cold, Uhtred felt relief wash over him, but he could see that Alfred was furious, and once again he marvelled at the man's discipline.

He’d actually tried to freeze to death.

When they had finally packed up camp and began to ride, Hæsten led his men back to lower grounds, still wearing his stolen crown like the turd that he was. Behind Uhtred, Aleifr carefully steered their horse down the steep hillside as the rising sun dispersed the morning fog in the valley beneath them, and further down, where their troop followed a turn in the track, Uhtred could see Alfred, a small bundle of furs against Njal's towering torso. The horse he sat on was beautiful, a black, well-muscled steed with a light mane and a steady gait, it’s fur a stark contrast to Alfred’s eery skin. His colour had improved, though he still looked pale and clammy. Underfed as he was, Uhtred suspected that his body struggled to muster the energy it took to warm him. If he thought about it rationally, Uhtred knew that a man couldn’t starve in the course of two days, even one as slightly build as Alfred. But he also knew that the king accomplished almost anything he set his mind to, and so, against his better judgement, Uhtred was worried.

While Alfred grew weaker with every passing hour, the tense atmosphere around him had changed significantly. Hæsten was still proudly boasting in front of the new arrivals, his voice roaring over the heads of the riders behind him. His talk of glory and reputation made his warriors giddy with impending triumph, and if Uhtred hadn’t already known about it, he would have recognized the closeness of their journey’s end by the elation that was spreading through the men around him.

Even the weather was joining them in their good spirits, the warmth of a treacherously beautiful day caressing excitedly chattering heads. As they climbed down from their perilous mountain track, enough men now to take the main road regardless of possible conflict, the land around them changed as well. More and more trees sprang up from the ground, and the earth beneath them greened with every clatter of hooves, every mile travelled.

When around noon, under the heat of the midday sun, Alfred fainted and nearly fell from Njal's arms, Hæsten's mood soured, and his worry turned to cruel action. He signed for them to stop, and after Alfred had been laid out on the ground, after men had checked for signs of life to the tune of Uhtred's hammering pulse, after they had shaken him awake, Hæsten called for a pouch of water.

Alfred pressed his lips together with spiteful strength, but he was weak, and doomed to lose the fight.

When they held his nose shut, he lasted so long that Uhtred thought for a moment he would prevail, that he'd get his wish and suffocate, and breathless fear mixed with grief-blackened pride in his chest. But then Alfred fainted again, and his mouth opened on its own.

He didn’t stay unconscious for long, because when it began, he started struggling.

Ironically feeling as though someone was choking him, Uhtred couldn't watch when they forced the water down Alfred’s throat. It looked too much like torture. He fixed his eyes on the mane of his horse, trying to drown out the sounds of Alfred's struggle, of his raw gurgling and violent coughing, his wet gasps for breath. When it was over, Alfred face was soaked in water, spit and blood, and Uhtred felt traumatized. He kept his head bowed, hiding his face as his eyes brimmed with tears.

Of course, he himself wanted Alfred to drink, needed him to reach Dunwhich if he was to save him. But for the first time, he truly realized what it would mean for Alfred to be tortured to death, intentionally and for hours, maybe even days on end. He couldn't bear to know that he would suffer this extremely, couldn't stand the thought, much less the reality of it... yet over the course of the next two days of their travel, the disgusting ordeal repeated itself another three times. For Uhtred, witnessing it became progressively worse the closer they came to the port, acute suffering tangling with thoughts of the horrors that might lie ahead if he failed.

The last time was the worst of them.

He and Aleifr rode next to Hæsten, and when Hæsten decided that it was time to force Alfred to drink again, he asked Uhtred to hold him down. With no other choice, and unwilling to endanger his plan, Uhtred obeyed, absolutely sick to his stomach. In a perfect nightmare come to life, Alfred stared at him through the whole of the ordeal, and when it was finally over, he spit a bloody, watery mess at Uhtred's face, bared his teeth and called him a coward. Uhtred didn't say a thing in response, but his hands burned from the warmth of Alfred's shoulders, shook where he clenched them at his sides.

Outwardly, he attempted to look indifferent, as if Alfred's pain didn't matter to him, as if he had no stakes in the game. Inwardly, however, he was weeping, raging, and he spend the rest of their journey fantasizing about the brutal deaths of their captors.

Finan had given him his dagger before they parted, and it was now hidden beneath the studded leather armour of Uhtred's chest, wrapped metal warm against his skin. It was a small thing, little more than a hunting knife, but the knowledge of being armed, the knowledge of having teeth again, was enough to make Uhtred’s heart sing with vengeful bloodlust.

He wasn’t helpless anymore.

And he had a plan.

Aside from anxiously worrying about the possibility that Hæsten might put Alfred on a ship as soon as they arrived in Dunwhich, Uhtred thought that his plan might actually work. If he succeeded in this, if he fired the ships, Hæsten’s man would be stranded, disorientated. The fat fuck wouldn’t see it coming. And even if they caught him while he did it, the worst they could do was kill him. Uhtred smirked grimly, careful to look down at the reigns in his hands to hide the signs of his erupting temper.

The threat of death didn’t faze him.

If he had to go, he’d die with a weapon in his hand and with the knowledge that Alfred would be saved. Even if his ships were burning, Hæsten wouldn’t touch the king when he didn’t even know that his position had been compromised, not with Alfred so valuable, worth a thousand times his weight in gold. If Hæsten was working this hard to get Alfred on a ship, there had to be a promise of more wealth, or of terrible revenge for a job left undone.

Either way, he wouldn't dare kill Alfred.

Then Æthelflæd would come.

Yes, Uhtred thought, if he was discovered and push came to shove, he was ready. In his most satisfying fantasies, he managed to goad Hæsten into fighting him, just as Ubba had fought him, man to man. He knew it was unlikely. Hæsten was a coward, who didn’t give a rat’s ass about his honor. But then again, even cowards got angry enough to do stupid, reckless things. 

Oh, how he hoped he’d get the chance to kill him.

It wouldn’t be an honourable death, like Ubba’s had been. No matter Hæsten’s pleading, Uhtred would take the weapon from his hand like Ragnar had taken it from Kjartan. He’d make sure that Hæsten knew exactly where he was going before he plunged his dagger into the leather scales of his armour. Odin would thank him for it, too. Gutless snakes like Hæsten didn’t deserve to feast and drink under the golden roof of Valhalla.

But whether or not he’d get a chance to kill Hæsten, if he was caught destroying the ships, in the raging fury of vengeance that would surely follow, he'd take as many men with him as he could. After all, the less men there remained, the easier Æthelflæd’s battle would be. He could see it now, clear in his mind, a proud spearhead of riders clashing into the pathetic bundle of Hæsten’s remaining men. Uhtred imagined their terrified, hopeless screams as they crumpled underneath a tidal wave of blue, a wrathful maelstrom of Mercian armour and spears, its gold-crossed flag in the sky above them as they fell.

It would be a bloodbath.

A bloodbath Alfred would emerge from, victorious and unscathed, Hæsten’s pitiful betrayal nothing but another story for his chronicle... and afterwards, Finan would take care of Uhtred's body. He’d tell Alfred the truth.

He’d tell him that Uhtred of Bebbanburg stayed loyal till the end.

Of course, Uhtred knew that this shouldn't have been so important to him, that it shouldn't have been part of his fantasies. Alfred knowing about his fealty, his faithfulness, it shouldn't have mattered. Like Odda the Elder, he should've been focused on doing right by his honor, regardless of Alfred's opinion of him. But the king's approval mattered to him, and he couldn’t deny it. His younger self would have scoffed at this display of obedient subservience, would have called him crazy for abandoning his ancestral home to die for a Saxon king… but something had changed. He couldn’t say when it had begun or where - was it when he had agreed to be a Saxon hostage? At the battle of Cynuit? Of Ethandun? Had it been when Alfred placed Edward into his arms or before, when he’d decided to stay in the marshes despite just hours before fighting for his life under Alfred’s unfeeling glare.

Uhtred couldn’t say.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t want to survive this. Of course he did. He wanted to see his children again, bath in Stiorra’s sweet smile, ruffle Uhtred's hair. He wanted to hug Beocca and Thyra, to see Hild again, to drink and laugh with his friends. But he knew that from the moment of first contact, eyes meeting across a sunlit courtyard, Alfred had changed him, had seized him like the wet earth of the marshlands, devotion seeping into him so slowly, so softly, that Uhtred hadn’t noticed until it was too late. Like a sceadugenga, loyalty had crept into his mind, until the thought of abandoning his king, of breaking comitatus to save his own life was ridiculous, unthinkable.

No, he was Alfred’s man, and he wanted him to know.

If he couldn’t have anything else, he’d have his reputation. And if he died for Alfred, if he made sure that Wessex was safe, he would at least know that his friends and family were safe as well.

It’d be a good death. A death no warrior could fear.

When finally, Dunwhich appeared on the horizon, the first thing Uhtred noticed about it was that it was fortified by a wall of stone, and his stomach sank. When they passed through the main gate, thick and reinforced by iron, he thought of Æthelflæd's army, and wondered how her soldiers would breach these walls, even if they arrived on time.

Once inside, most of Dunwhich's houses looked to be made from wood and clay, just as the houses of Winchester. There were a few more stone buildings, too, though most of them were incomplete. Their walls and roofs were full of holes that were fixed with clay and reeds, and they seemed to be scattered around the town's paved centre, which itself was a marketplace the likes of which Uhtred had seen only once before - in Lunden.

Dunwhich, he realized, was an old Roman settlement.

Uhtred soon noticed that there were more Danes than Angles, or at least those were the people he saw out on the streets. As their horses trotted into the square, they multiplied like rats, crawled out of adjacent streets and buildings. Most likely, Hæsten had send them to infest the city in preparation for his arrival, and now they were seeing victory, cheering as their men rode by. They raised their fists to the sky triumphantly, chanting Hæsten's name while they leered at Alfred who by now looked weaker than he had ever before. He sat before Njal, silent and motionless, but with his head raised defiantly… though his eyes gave away his hidden fear, a fear any man would feel at the sight of this murderous crowd.

The locals here were just as scared, that much was apparent.

Their pale faces stole glimpses at them from behind tattered curtains and half-opened doors, eyes wide and full of skittish nerves. Given the size of the town, Uhtred suspected that there had to be more locals here than Vikings, though he doubted that they'd be of much help. Christian or not, most of them were farmers and fishermen who feared for their families, and though they might have harboured sympathies for him, Alfred wasn't their king.

When all of their horses had come to a stop, Uhtred's stomach was churning. He felt faint and dizzy, because he knew the deciding moment had finally come. Alfred's life lay in the hands of fate now. If the ships weren't ready yet, Uhtred would try to execute his plan, but if they were...

He laid a hand on his stomach, feeling the hard handle of Finan's dagger. Looking towards Alfred, he wondered what he could say to him. Hæsten he'd simply tell that he wanted a last word with the king, the fat fuck had never been able to pass up an opportunity for petty drama, and he'd surely grant him his wish out of sheer curiosity. Knowing now what awaited the king if he failed, Uhtred wouldn’t hesitate again. Once he was close enough, he would pull out his dagger and free Alfred from his burden. But what could he say to him in those last few seconds? What would comfort him the most?

Your children live, he thought. Wessex lives. I would never betray you.

Uhtred felt his eyes fill with tears, and he quickly blinked them away, scared they'd be noticed. Fear and anticipation made it hard for him to think, made it hard to breathe, but he didn't have to worry much longer because at that moment, there on the dusty Roman market place, was were Hæsten received the bad news.

"The ships aren't ready, lord," Uhtred heard a trembling voice confess. He had never heard anything sweeter.

"You had one job!" Njal growled beside him and slapped the master of ships across the face. He was a small, pudgy man, and he staggered under the force of the assault. Scared for his life, he hurried to talk about unusual weather conditions, about late arrivals and necessary repairs.

Maybe Finan is right, Uhtred thought, maybe there is a Christian God. Maybe he is partial to some, like Odin, and Alfred has his ear.

Whether by God's hand or through dumb luck, Uhtred saw in Hæsten's face that he was deeply unhappy. He looked as if he had bitten into something sour, though he tried to play it off in front of his men.

Turning his horse to face them, he grinned.

"It doesn't matter!" he proclaimed with false indifference, turning his words into a badly improvised, mocking singsong. "Tonight, we'll feast! We'll drink, and gamble, and whore... and tomorrow, we put little Alfred on a ship and I'll give you some more!"

His men cheered their terrible bard, unaware that Uhtred was planning to have every last one of them slaughtered. He was already thinking of ways to lose Aleifr after nightfall, but returned to the present when he heard Hæsten give orders to throw Alfred in a cell. With calm confidence, Uhtred called his name, and Njal and Hæsten looked back at him expectantly.

"Yes?" Hæsten asked, impatient to begin his night of drinking.

"Make sure there isn't anything in that cell that he can hurt himself with," Uhtred said sincerely, "He wants to take the easy way out, and I don't trust him."

When he met Alfred's stare, the king’s expression was one of bottomless hatred.

Chapter Text

It turned out that Uhtred needn't have worried, Aleifr was doing his best to get rid of himself.

“You cannot be serious,” Uhtred told him, genuinely surprised when they came to a stop in front of what could only be the local whorehouse. They had turned away from the main street and into a dark side alley, but it was full to the brim, drunk men uncomfortably close to women whose bare thighs left no doubt about their profession.

“Shut up,” Aleifr mumbled, bad-tempered as always, “A man has needs… and you aren’t exactly my type.”

“So then I guess I’ll wait outside?”

Aleifr grinned unkindly. “Nice try, Saxon bitch. Follow me.”

Uhtred did what he was told, too thankful for Aleifr’s cock-fuelled stupidity to protest. This was his chance, he thought, a better opportunity would likely never arise.

He followed Aleifr's dirty blonde head through the crowd, swerving around drinking groups of men and evading women who stretched their arms out after him. For a moment, he thought about running, but he dismissed the idea quickly. Alarms would be raised, men would be on the look-out for him and all of it would make his task even more impossible than it seemed already.

He didn’t protest when Aleifr led him into the smallest of the three brothels, a run-down shithole by the looks of it. Though the street and the brothel itself were full of people, Uhtred saw two cockroaches and a rat as he made his way through the crowded hallway that cut the building in two. The whole house stank like sweat, piss, vomit and herbs, the latter no doubt a desperate attempt to try and mitigate the stench, yet only making it more pungent.

The smell was almost surpassed by the noise. Moaning, shrieking, laughing and grunting sounded through every door that they passed. Echoing in the hallway, all of it melted into a human concerto of vices.

Sensitive guy that he was, Aleifr took the first door that was open.

“Can I at least wait in the hallway?” Uhtred asked, halting his step, but without much hope.

In response, Aleifr grabbed him by the arm and pulled him right into the room, kicking the door shut behind them.

With only half a dozen candles or so, there was significantly less light here than in the torch-lit hallway outside and once again, Uhtred thanked the Gods for Aleifr’s many faults, his stinginess in particular. Sex wasn’t the only immoral pleasure that darkness lend itself to.

Scanning his surroundings, Uhtred saw that the room was rather empty. There was a bed, a simple thing with a straw mattress, an old cupboard to the side of it, and in the corner, he saw two buckets. They were filled with water, and Uhtred saw a piece of cloth hanging from one of them, so he presumed that they were used to clean up after the deed was done.

The most interesting thing about the room was a small window above the bed. It was there for airflow, no doubt, though Uhtred thought that it might just be big enough for him to squeeze through. It seemed to lead to the back of the brothel, too. A quiet street that, from the looks of it, nobody frequented.

“How much?” Aleifr growled, and it was only then that Uhtred noticed the woman in the corner.

She was slight, slight and short. Shorter in fact than most whores Uhtred had seen, and with a glance towards Aleifr’s hulking frame, he instantly pitied her.

“It's ten pence for the hand, twenty for the mouth,” she answered routinely and stepped out of the corner, into the candlelight, mustering Aleifr with apprehensive eyes. “Thirty for everything.”

Fucking hell, Uhtred thought, that’s less than I’ve paid for some chickens.

Aleifr grunted dumbly.

“Let me see your tits,” he added, always the poet.

The woman wore nothing but a dirty dress, and pulling it over her head was a quick affair. Uhtred averted his gaze, incredibly uncomfortable with the situation. Murder he could deal with, but this? This was torture. It made his fingers itch for the hilt of his blade, but he knew that it was too risky still, that he needed to bide his time and wait for the right moment.

“Alright, thirty, then,” Aleifr decided next to him, and he turned to Uhtred, pulling a piece of robe out of his pocket. When Uhtred played dumb and gave him a questioning look, Aleifr gestured at his hands.

“Oh come on, don’t tie me up!” Uhtred protested naively, “She can just lock the door! That way you'll be sure that I won’t run away.”

“How about I tie you up and she locks the door?” Aleifr countered stupidly and jerked his head, motioning for her to do just that.

That’d be almost perfect, actually.

Almost.

“Wait, I… “ Uhtred writhed theatrically, as if something was plaguing him but he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

Aleifr groaned, impatient to get on with it.

“What? Spit it out!” he snapped, and Uhtred grimaced.

“Leave me one hand?” he asked, sounding pitiful, and gave Aleifr a meaningful look, “I'll pay her the thirty pence, I've still got some money. It’s just… look, you're right, a man does have needs and- it’s been weeks for me, too.”

For a second, Uhtred thought that Aleifr might hit him, but then the ugly bastard grinned.

"Yeah," he said, clearly satisfied that Uhtred had given up the moral high ground, and probably thinking about the money he’d save. "Yeah, see... but you better be quiet about it."

"You won't even notice me," Uhtred promised him eagerly.

You won't see me coming.

Actually stupid enough to 'tie someone up' like this, Aleifr fixed Uhtred's right hand to the handlebar of the freshly locked door. Uhtred watched his every move, couldn't tear his eyes away from his hands, his chest, his jugular. By now, anticipation was thrumming in his veins, building a tension that craved to be released.

The naked woman was now hovering close to the bed, and Aleifr unceremoniously pulled his cloak from his shoulders, then fumbled with his belt.

A moment later, it dropped to the floor, weapons and all, and was closely followed by his trousers. When Aleifr pushed the whore onto the bed and got on top of her, too impatient to bother with his shirt, he was simultaneously facing away from Uhtred and blocking the woman’s view of him.

Uhtred couldn't believe his luck.

Careful not to make any sudden movements, he pulled Finan's dagger from underneath his vest, the sounds of sloppy kissing masking the rustling of his clothes. And even if it hadn't, he wouldn't have worried. Aleifr expected there to be some rustling of clothes, after all.

The rope that tied him to the door wasn't particularly thick and Uhtred had cut himself free in a matter of seconds. Already, Aleifr was grunting, his face pressed into tits, and he didn't pay attention to Uhtred at all. By now, Uhtred’s whole body was tense, and he felt the bloodlust curl in him like a snake in waiting, ready to strike.

He didn’t wait for long.

Leaning back towards the door to gain momentum, he took one large step and jumped onto Aleifr’s back, who had just enough time to raise his head from the body underneath him before Uhtred's hand pressed against his mouth and hard iron sunk into the soft flesh of his neck. When Aleifr screamed into his hand, warmth flooded Uhtred's veins. It bloomed in his chest, lapped over his hand in wet spurts of crimson, and he craved more, needed more.

Pulling the blade out of Aleifr's neck, he plunged it into the left side of his back, where he knew his heart lay hidden, and he thrust and thrust and thrust in waves of vengeful furry, until Aleifr took his last, shuddering breath and his body sagged into the girl beneath him.

Finally sated, his blade still buried to the hilt, Uhtred sighed, breathing heavy.

Then, the whore started screaming.

He cursed and scrambled to grab her, clamping her mouth shut with forceful fingers. It was loud in this brothel, but her screams rang different than the others, and the last thing he needed was attention. Pressing her into the mattress with one arm, Uhtred kicked Aleifr's body away from under him and placed a knee on her stomach, dagger pointing at her heart.

Of course, he knew what needed to be done, but he hesitated, uncomfortable with the practicalities of it. She was helpless, and she hadn’t done anything to him. In fact, she had nothing to do with any of this. Undecided, he stared into wide green eyes that were quickly filling with tears, muffled sobs dampening his hand.

Sacrifices had to be made, Alfred would tell him. What was one innocent woman in comparison to Wessex? In comparison to the slaughter that would take place if Wessex fell into chaos?

Nothing.

She was nothing.

But Uhtred couldn’t do it.

He sighed, looking to the heavens in annoyance. Why did he have to be such a soft-hearted fool? This was suicide. What he was about to do was an absolutely unnecessary risk that could cost him, Alfred, and countless others their lives.

“Are you a Christian?” he asked the petrified whore.

She nodded against his fingers, eyes still fixed on the bloodied blade in his hand, scared to death.

“Right,” Uhtred said, and decided to lie, “I am, too... I am a Christian from Wessex. I was his prisoner.” He nodded to Aleifr’s open-mouthed carcass where it was stretched out next to her. “So you can believe me when I promise you that I’ll not harm you if you do what I say, alright?”

The woman nodded frantically.

"I’ll take my hand from your mouth and you will be quiet,” he implored her, “You’ll not scream for help, do you understand?”

Another nod.

There better be a Christian God, Uhtred thought, because I’ll need his help with this.

He sighed again. Then, he took his hand from the woman’s mouth. She watched him with huge eyes, but she stayed silent.

“Good,” he praised her, already trying to win her sympathies. “What’s your name?”

“Modthryth.”

Uhtred tried to smile. It felt unnatural with how tense he was.

“Modthryth,” he repeated. “Strength of mind. That’s a beautiful name... it fits you."

When she didn’t say anything, staying motionless beneath him, he charged onwards.

“I am called Uhtred. I am an ealdorman of King Alfred. Have you heard of him? The Christian king that was captured?”

Modthryth nodded again, her eyes unceasingly switching between watching him and watching the blade that was still pointed at her bare chest. Uhtred decided to lower the knife.

“Sorry,” he said. “I forgot.”

“Please let me go," she begged him at this first sign of kindness, her eyes filling with tears once more.

“I will, I promise," he tried to calm her, "But you need to listen to me first, Modthryth. Will you do that?”

She nodded again, clearly desperate to tell him whatever he wanted. Uhtred feared that she would bolt the moment he let her off the bed.

“Before I let you go, I’ll put on his clothes and push him under the bed and then I’ll leave through that window there," he paused, quickly thinking about his instructions,  "After that, you need to do exactly as I say. You’ll stay here and you’ll not open the door. If someone wants to come in you’ll make the necessary noises and you’ll say that we are still busy here. Do you understand?”

She looked confused, but she nodded.

“Good… Now listen to me. Later tonight, something will happen. Something big. It’ll make the Danes very angry and very, very busy. When you hear them leave, you'll wait a few minutes and then you'll go as well and yo-“

“But they won’t let me,” Modthryth interrupted him, then she gasped and clasped her hand over her mouth, terrified of what Uhtred would do to her for interrupting.

He shook his head, trying to look unthreatening. As unthreatening as one could look when covered in blood and on top of someone's naked body.

“No, it’s alright. No one will stay here. You’ll be able to leave, I promise," he assured her, "Nobody will ask you where you’re going, and even if someone does, you’ll just tell them that you want to see what the commotion is about, that you’ll be right back.”

He watched her carefully, thinking he might have been too quick with his words, but she seemed to hang on his lips with reluctant curiosity.

Modthryth indeed.

Thinking about how uncomfortable this had to be for her, he got up from the bed, careful to remain between her and the door.

"You can get dressed," he said, eyes glued to her face.

Once she had pulled the tattered dress over her bloodied body, Uhtred continued.

“Do you have a home, Modthryth?” he asked, thinking that he needed her to hide somewhere.

“No, I live here,” she said, and seeing his expression turn doubtful, she hurried to explain it. “I’ve lived here since they killed my parents.”

“The Danes?”

She nodded numbly and a dark suspicion pulled at Uhtred’s heart.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“I’m fifteen,” she replied, as if that wasn't the worst thing she could have possibly said.

Fuck, he thought, she’s a child. You almost killed a fucking child.

“Right.”

For a moment, he didn’t know how to proceed, didn't know how to deal with so much suffering, but then he pulled himself together and refocused on the plan at hand.

He frowned, thinking quickly. “If you don't have a home, do you at least have someone you can trust?”

“Not really," she replied, and Uhtred thought he could’ve probably anticipated that.

“Someone who hates the Danes then? Who wants to see them dead?”

She laughed, surprising him.

“Dozens,” she agreed grimly, “It’s harder to think of people who don’t.”

There was hardness in her, a cynicism that didn’t fit her age. It would help his cause.

“Then you’ll go to one of them. Go to the person that is most likely to help you. Because that is the most important thing I need you to do.”

“What thing?”

“I need you to relay this message: An army will arrive here, sometime in the next few days. A Christian army from Mercia that’ll rid your town of the Danes. But they must be let in, do you understand?" he asked her, willing her to commit his words to memory, "Someone has to look out for them and open the gate.”

“But the gates are guarded,” Modthryth protested, frowning.

Now it was Uhtred’s turn to nod.

“Yes, men will have to die, there is no way around it,” he confessed. “Which is why you need to find someone who really hates the Danes, someone who can convince others to follow them.”

He didn't seem to be that man, because she didn’t look convinced by any of what he had said. No, she looked fearful.

Uhtred tried again.

“I know this is scary, but, you and me…” he hesitated, not used to Christian pep talks, "...and God? If we pull this off, I promise that you’ll never have to live like this ever again. You’ll have wealth, Modthryth. And you’ll have vengeance for your parents.”

That last bit seemed to do it. Consciously or unconsciously, she found her courage, squaring her shoulders.

"Alright," she said.

"Good."

Not taking his eyes from her, Uhtred took Aleifr's belt from the floor and fastened it around his waist. It held a seax and a sword, and he examined them quickly, judging them both to be well made.

At least the bastard didn't try to save silver on his weapons, Uhtred thought.

After he’d secured the belt, he fastened Aleifr's cloak around his shoulders, thankful when he saw that it had a hood. He’d spend enough time with Hæsten’s men that they would recognize his face and being able to conceal it made his task a lot easier. It was only when he pushed Aleifr’s body underneath the bed that he noticed his blood-coated hands. It was obvious that they’d draw attention, and so he stepped to the buckets in the corner and quickly washed them, trying not to think about the fluids that might have mixed with the water by this point in the night.

Lastly, Uhtred took Aleifr’s purse and Finan’s dagger and offered them to the girl that had watched his every move, frozen to the spot. Aleifr’s seax was bigger than the dagger he’d used to kill him, and now that he didn't have to hide his weapons anymore, he decided to keep it instead.

“Come on, it can’t hurt to have some silver and a weapon,” he told Modthryth, shaking the items at her when she didn’t move.

She took them, albeit hesitantly. From the feel of it alone, Uhtred knew there was probably more silver in Aleifr’s purse than she made in a month.

“Thank you,” she said, genuinely surprised by his kindness.

It made Uhtred hate this next part even more.

"There's one more thing," he said, his tone grave, his eyes boring into hers. "Should you betray me-"

"I won't," Modthryth said quickly, "I swear, I won't."

Uhtred waited for her to stop talking before he continued.

"Should you betray me and I get captured, then I'll tell them that you helped me kill the Dane for silver." Uhtred nodded at the bed, at where Aleifr lay hidden. "I'll tell them that you cut me loose after he fell asleep."

Modthryth stared at him, jaw slack with fear and disbelief.

"They will kill us both, they don't care about the truth... You know that," he said, seeing in the trembling of her lips that she believed him. He shook his head sadly. "But I don't want you to die. You seem like a sweet girl. So don't betray me, alright?"

Secretly, Uhtred knew he would never be able to go through with his threat. Not when it wouldn't change anything anyway, not when she was nothing more than a child. But Modthryth didn't need to know that.

"Yes? Talk to me Modthryth."

"Yes," she whispered.

“Good,” Uhtred said, and because he was uncomfortable with threatening her, he tried to end their conversation on a lighter note, “I’ll be on my way. If nothing happens before the sun goes up, you’ll see me at my execution.”

He jumped onto the gory bed and from there lifted himself up to the window, ready to pull himself through and into the street beyond. But then she called him back.

“Uhtred?” she asked, and when he looked back from his position above her, she looked incredibly young, looked every bit the small and scared child that she was.

He didn’t know how he hadn’t seen it before.

“If I help you, will God forgive me for this? For what they made me do?” she asked, gesturing at her tattered dress, at the bloody bed, and it broke Uhtred’s heart. He wanted to tell her that there was nothing to forgive, but he couldn’t afford to tell her the truth, not yet.

“He will,” he said instead, and pulled himself into the darkness.

Chapter Text

Someone was watching him.

Some higher power. It had to be so.

Uhtred kept his head down, face hidden by the hood of Aleifr’s cloak as he passed unnoticed through streets and streets of cheerful Vikings, of celebration and debauchery. No stranger to shadow walking, he stepped swiftly - but not too swiftly - and took care to swerve slightly from one side to the other, blending in with the drunken mob.

And yet... It felt too easy.

Entirely unnoticed, he passed through thick crowds that seemed to part before him, and it was as though nobody paid him any attention. Not one Dane gave him so much as a single curious glance, an unbothered brush of eyes. Instead, they looked at everything but him; the floor, their cups, some tits.

No, tonight it felt as though he was invisible, and the feeling was eery. It was as though he had become darkness itself, as though everyone was blind to him, and it made him wonder whether something unearthly had laid a charm over him.

Where the Gods watching him? Had they taken a gamble on his fate?

Or was it that other God… the one without a name?

The thought made Uhtred’s hair stand up on the back of his neck. He thought of the things he’d said tonight, of the times he’d spoken in God’s name and claimed to be a Christian. Was this particular God angered by such things? Uhtred couldn’t say for certain.

He didn’t know enough about him.

And he hated the idea of having to deal with a God he knew nothing about. But then, what had he expected? That Alfred’s God would abandon him, would let Uhtred attempt to rescue him all on his own? Unsupervised and scrambling? No, Finan was right, if the Christian God existed, one thing was clear: Alfred was loved by him.

So of course he’d be at play here.

But then maybe it was nonsense, maybe his closeness to Christians was making him paranoid. Alfred's constant praying, Finan's confidence in divine intervention, the girl in the tattered dress with her desperate focus on her God's forgiveness… these things pressed on him. They stained his mind like ink, insisting on his attention. Too invasive was the memory of Alfred kneeling in the breeze, hair fluttering as he turned to the sky, the way he'd looked as if he was in love…

As if his God is the only one he trusts to save him.

The only one he needs.

Nonsense.

Uhtred tried to shake it off. He tried to stop thinking about Gods, fickle or merciful, manyfold or one and true. This was useless. Spiritual crises weren’t what he needed when he had a very human enemy to fight.

Now was not the time to be jealous of a God, real or imagined.

And yet it seemed that whatever lurked in the darkness stayed at Uhtred's side, because when he reached the sea gate, Hæsten's guards were dull-minded buffoons. Uhtred watched the pair drink and gamble for a while and when they'd finished their game and started arguing, blaring about the silver they owed one another, he knew his time had come. He saw one of them grab the other by the cloth of his collar and used that distraction to swiftly slip by them, cloaked and silent as the night.

Now, he stood on the dark and scrubby slope outside the city walls, looking down on the well-lit scene below.

The very well-lit scene below.

Shit.

How were there still so many people?

At least, the ship that was meant for Alfred was easy to spot. It was fastened to the main dock, and while other ships lay half-concealed in darkness, this one was alight with torches. Half a dozen workers crawled all over it like ants, busily climbed on and off the ship, hurrying to do whatever needed to be done.

The sight made Uhtred sick to the stomach.

Searching his mind for a solution, he found no way to accomplish his mission. Not while they were still working. There were simply too many of them. If he tried to kill them, some would run, some would fight him, and others would scream for help. It would be a disaster.

Could this really be what would do them in? That Dunwhich had too many people working in its harbour? 

Uhtred couldn't accept that. He thought about Alfred, waiting in his cell. Thought about how the king had to feel utterly abandoned, had to be terrified.

Similar to how he'd seen him before, he now imagined Alfred on his hands and knees, praying through the night with deep rings under his eyes, preparing for a terrible end. He knew that if he couldn't find a way to do this, to fire the ships and buy them time, he'd have to break into Alfred's cell before first light. He would have to face him, to look into his pain-dulled eyes and explain what he had tried, how he had failed at it, and then he’d have to...

He had to fire the ships.

Determined to get on with it, Uhtred began to scan the wide incline below. He crept from one spot to the next, knowing it had to be there, that hidden carcass, somewhere in a bush or a ditch.

What he had hoped would take a matter of minutes, took him almost an hour.

When he found it, in the end, he discovered it near the place he’d started searching. By that time, he was already half-insane with spiralling anxiety. He couldn’t believe he’d overlooked the carcass so carelessly, and he cursed himself for his stupidity, his mind battering him with one insult after another. During his time-consuming search, he’d feared that Finan hadn’t made it to Dunwhich, had somehow been found out or been stopped on the road. Images had pressed upon his mind that he didn't want to contemplate; of Alfred, abused and bleeding, crying out for mercy, alone in a sea of jeering enemies.

But now there it was, the body of a doe, and he wondered why he hadn’t found it earlier by its smell alone.

The stench was horrible, a vomit-inducing mix of rancid fat and decaying flesh. When he opened the pre-cut belly, flies buzzing around his head in a revolting cloud, he saw that it was filled to the brim with oil-drenched bundles of cloth. Maggots were crawling all over the fatty, cream coloured linen, but thankfully, it hadn’t dried out, and so he carefully took one bundle after the other and laid them onto the grass beside the carcass. Afterwards, he wiped his slick, gory hands on his trousers as well as he could.

He counted twenty bundles, and then he turned, counting the ships.

Thirteen. Some of them bigger than the others.

Not much room for error.

Although Uhtred had lost valuable time, there was an advantage to his hour long search; the main ship had apparently been readied for tomorrow’s journey, and most of the workers had gone. Once more, Uhtred asked himself if Alfred’s God had stalled him, if he had hidden the carcass and its stench from his senses, not trusting Uhtred to wait for the workers to finish.

I wouldn’t have tried anything stupid, Uhtred thought sullenly.

I know he’s too important.

Again, Uhtred realized that in the best case scenario, he was talking to himself like a crazed man, and in the worst case scenario, he was competing with a God... so he stopped himself, tried to simply be grateful for the absence of workers.

The four guards that remained, however, where clearly armed. They sat on barrels near the pier, playing with dice, though they weren’t unwary. One of them especially, the oldest man, regularly let his gaze wander the dark plane above them, and Uhtred was grateful for the dense shrubbery that kept him well hidden.

Frowning, he looked back to his rotten treasure, trying to think of what to do next. It was then that he spotted a thing in the darkness. There, in the bushes above the carcass, lay something else. When Uhtred crept closer he saw that it was another bundle of cloth, clean this time, and when he pulled it out of the leaves, unfolded it in his hands, it took a moment to realize what he was looking at.

It was a bow. A bow and a quiver with seven arrows.

Excited, Uhtred's hands followed the smooth wood of its limbs, heart jumping in his chest. Of course, the situation was still nowhere near perfect, but this definitely made things easier. Finan had to have seen how busy the harbour was and sought to help him with his task. If he survived this, he’d have to buy him rivers of ale.

Not wanting to waste any more time than he already had, Uhtred quickly fastened the quiver to his belt. He then packed the twenty bundles into the cloth that the bow had been wrapped in and slung the self-made sack over his shoulder. After he’d taken up the bow, he slowly stole closer to the ship and its four guards, careful to remain unseen.

By God’s intervention or without it, Uhtred had a plan.

Surrounding the guards and enabling their game of dice, were four torches, fastened to the railings of the pier, and Uhtred intended to use one of them to ignite his missiles. Before he could do that, though, the men had to go, and so he tip-toed further and further, until he didn’t dare to take one more step, too close to the circle of light around them. There, he laid the sack into the grass again and crouched down into the bushes, waiting for the right opportunity.  

After what seemed like an eternity, his patience paid off.

The old man, the one that was more watchful than the others, stood up and excused himself. Slowly, feet catching on the thickened underbrush, he made his way towards the darkened slope where Uhtred was lying in wait. His experience meant that he wasn't stupid enough to leave their circle of light, and so the man stopped right at its edge. There, he started busying himself with his fly.

But right when he began to piss, an arrow whooshed passed his head - and one of his friends dropped to the floor like a falling sack of grain. Still pissing, the old man turned, trying to comprehend what had happened, but before he could make sense of it, another arrow sped past him. Open-mouthed, with his hand around his cock, he watched a second man fall from his barrel, an arrow in his heart, and when finally, he turned in panic to see where the attack had come from, Uhtred stepped into the light and rammed a seax into his throat.

He sputtered blood, gripped Uhtred’s hand where it pushed the blade into his flesh, and for only a moment, their eyes met, man recognizing man. Then his fingers slackened and he too fell to the floor.

By now, the fourth man was running up the hill as if the devil was chasing him, screaming from the top of his lungs as he followed the path that led to the gate. Briefly, Uhtred considered to take up the bow again, to try to stop him, but he discarded the idea. Already, the man was almost out of range, must have been heard by a dozen men, and Uhtred’s time was ticking.

Decision made, he grabbed the sack of fat-soaked cloth and ran towards the pier, ripping a torch from its mount as he passed it on his way to the main ship. He threw the sack aboard and climbed after it, grunting as he heaved himself over the railing. His pulse thrummed in his neck as he opened up the sack to take up the first jumble of oil, linen and maggots.

The sweet tension of impending relief was almost unbearable.

Without time to think, he lit the first bundle with the torch in his hand and threw it onto the deck. It landed about fifteen feet away from him, yet he didn’t stop to worry about its proximity. Instead, he did the same with several more bundles, determined to destroy this ship in particular.

Then, with Alfred’s death sentence burning around him, he started to fling his bundles onto the ships that were further away, working quickly. Though he contented himself with one hit for each ship, time was chasing him. With twenty pieces of cloth and thirteen ships, he knew he didn’t have the luxury of aiming carelessly, especially since he’d used the first three bundles on one ship alone. Even focused as he was, his task was difficult, so difficult in fact that when he saw the reinforcements descend from the gate, heard the echo of horns and panicked shouting, there was no time to run.

Well, where are you now? he thought petulantly. Is my life not good enough to save?

He was tackled seconds after he’d thrown the last ball of fire.

Pressing him into the ground, his attacker wasted no time before he punched him in the face, Uhtred’s already broken nose flaring in pain. With his eyes pressed shut in a grimace, he grabbed the man by his shoulders and rolled them over, pinning him under his weight. They fought like this for a while, wrestling on the burning floor, until Uhtred found himself beside the crackling fire, flames reaching for him. The Dane above him snarled, pushing him further towards the blaze, and in the folly of wild instinct, Uhtred headbutted him and pressed him into the flames, hissing as the skin of his own hand melted in the heat.

Cursing, he jumped up and away from the flames, listening to the man’s ear-splitting screams of agonized death. His heartbeat throbbed hotly in the raw flesh of his hand and he spun around, but there were no more attackers waiting for him. Instead, he saw panicked men scurry along the dock, yelling for buckets as they watched the ship go up in flames around him.

As they watched all ships go up in flames around him.

For a moment, Uhtred lost himself in the euphoria of it, in the sight of blazing skies and masts that looked like torches, but then his aching skin and the heat around him brought him back. He needed to get off the ship or he would burn with it. Spinning, there was only one way he could see through the flames, and he took it without hesitation, jumping to safety.

When he hit the water, it flooded his hand with liquid pain.

Under the surface, the world above him turned into a muffled dream, deafening noise nothing but a distorted melody in the calmness of the sea. Above him, the water was an orange dance of lights and shadows, and Uhtred would have liked to stay, felt soothed by it even. But his lungs were screaming for him to take a breath.

When he breached the surface, the Danes had almost reached him, wading towards him with wrath-filled eyes. He thought for a second about trying to escape by swimming out into the sea, but before he could make a decision, hands had grasped him and he was pushed underwater, hurrying to hold his breath. From here, it was a pulling and shoving, an undignified scuffle of fists that left him heaving for air, seawater burning in his throat and nose. At first, he fought two of them, then three, and when they dragged him from the water, half-drowned like a rat, they were six already.

He was dumped onto the sandy shore, and his glorious fantasies of slaying Danes died a sudden death when the onslaught came from every direction, boots trampling his limbs, his head and chest. His attackers didn't leave him time to breathe, to cry out or to moan, much less to fight. Soon, direction wasn't a concept anymore, nor were the parts of his body. He didn't know where his legs began or where his arms ended, it was all just pain, agony melting him whole, and desperate to escape, he curled around his mind’s enclosure, trying to shield it from the raining fire.

Before, at last, the anguish tore his mind apart, his last thought was one of triumph.

But when they threw him into Alfred’s cell, he hit the floor without a sound and didn’t stir.

Chapter Text

Uhtred opened his eyes to the sight of Alfred, pale and frowning. Behind him, the orange-red sky stretched its fingers through a small, barred window, and the king's silhouette looked as if it was on fire. The unusual perspective and the unnatural tint of the light around them made Uhtred feel disoriented. His senses were bombarding him with throbbing pain and loud noises, sounds of panicked shouting and heavy boots on cobbled ground. His whole body ached, especially his chest, and his nose was filled with blood, so that breathing was a burden.

Against the backdrop of the sky-high inferno outside, Alfred looked like an angel of vengeance.

Thoughtlessly, Uhtred felt that he had died, that this was the unimaginable, unending agony Beocca had always spoken of when he'd wanted to scare him. But then Uhtred suspected his pain wasn't yet terrible enough for that, and besides, Alfred was there. Flames belonged in hell, Uhtred was aware of that, and Alfred did not, and so there was only one answer.

"I am alive?" he asked, listening to the pained whistle of his breath. 

Above him, Alfred rolled his eyes, already irritated by his slow thinking.

"Of course you're alive. What kind of question is that?"

Uhtred didn't answer. He didn't know what kind of question it was. He was still trying to assemble himself into a person. Slowly, he managed to locate his limbs, noticing that they were alone together, and as Alfred watched him with sceptical eyes, Uhtred quickly shuffled through his memories. Though when he couldn't think of how he'd gotten here, he stopped to try. Instead, he took Alfred in with hungry eyes, soaking up his appearance like ale after a lengthy battle.

Because the battle was won, wasn't it?

"I've done it," he whispered, elated in spite of the state he was in.

"What does that mean?" Alfred asked impatiently, scowling. "What is happening outside?"

Uhtred knew that Alfred was smart enough to answer his own question. Yet apparently, he needed to hear it from Uhtred's mouth, needed him to confirm it. Perhaps he'd suffered too much to jump to hopeful conclusions.

"I burned their ships," Uhtred rasped proudly, happy to tell him. "I did the exact same thing I did at Cynuit, and they didn't even see it coming!"

When, just like that, Alfred's face slackened with uncontrolled relief, when he made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob, Uhtred's joy couldn't be contained. He laughed with him, quickly wincing in regret when the pressure of it caused his head to explode, pain momentarily blinding him with its intensity. He grimaced and whimpered, clutching at his forehead with bruised hands.

Limitless relief and acute suffering didn't mix well.

There was too much intensity, too many instincts kicking in at the same time for him to stay sane. He wanted to cry with joy, to curl up into a ball and protect his aching body; and he wanted to run, knowing full well that Hæsten was going to kill him for this.

"Are they all burning?" Alfred asked in amazement, turning his head to watch the blazing sky through that tiny, barred rectangle.

When he looked back, Uhtred nodded slowly, hands still pressed against his head and unable to speak. He'd hoped the movement wouldn't hurt too much, but it did, his pain almost unbearable now that his excitement was fading. He felt as though he was going to vomit.

"I'm going to vomit," he gasped, and rolled onto his side just in time, a viscous goo of bread and bile burning his throat as he regurgitated it onto the straw-covered floor. It tasted as acidic as it felt, looked disgusting and smelled even worse. Heaving and spitting, Uhtred felt a sharp pinch of shame at the thought of being seen like this.

But Alfred was shifting beside him, and soon, a hand supported his chest, another gripping his shoulder to hold him steady.

"Sorry," Uhtred groaned, shame surging, and vomited again.

Alfred said nothing, but his hands stayed where they were, and when Uhtred was done, when his stomach was empty, Alfred turned him back on his back and pulled him further to the side, away from the mess. Uhtred's body screamed where Alfred tugged at it, and the rough ground dragged painfully against his battered back, but he didn't complain.

"I'm really sor-"

"Hush, be quiet."

Still mortified, Uhtred barely managed to stop himself from apologizing for apologizing. He tried to sit up, ignored his pain in a desperate bid for dignity, but Alfred wouldn't have it.

"Stop," he ordered. Fed up with Uhtred's antics, he pushed him back down with a decisive hand on his shoulder. "Just stay still. You look half dead."

Uhtred obeyed, sighing, and it was then that he noticed it.

"Where is your tunic?" he asked, surprised by the sight of Alfred's bare skin. When Uhtred's mind traced the form of Alfred's chest, captivated, it was the king's turn to sigh.

"I tried to strangle myself with it," he said, looking just a little bit sheepish. "So they took it away."

Uhtred exhaled, the closest thing to laughter he could afford.

"Unbelievable," he blurted, and saw how the corners of Alfred's mouth twitched bitterly. "How stubborn you are when you..."

It happened almost at the same time. Uhtred stopped to speak, and Alfred's face changed.

As they realized how closely they had avoided a tragedy, Uhtred's amusement dissipated as quickly as it had arisen, and the mood between them changed. This stung, Uhtred realized. He couldn't believe how determined Alfred had been to end his own life, how hopeless he had been. It meant he had truly believed that Uhtred had abandoned him. It meant he didn't trust him at all. Sadness dulled Uhtred's mind, and he wanted to close his eyes, to forget the pain.

But, self-righteous as always, Alfred looked pissed, radiating anger that couldn't be ignored, and Uhtred's weariness got the better of him.

"You know, serving you feels like treading water sometimes," he told him, not caring to hide his frustration.

"Well, Uhtred," Alfred spat, full of bitter fury, "I had limited options."

Uhtred opened his mouth, but Alfred shook his head, incredulous as he spelled out what had nearly come to pass, "I almost killed myself because you were too self-absorbed to talk to me."

"You did not let me, lord! You doubted every word I said!" 

"Of course I did," Alfred countered, "How was I to trust you after you had failed me so bitterly?"

"Inability is not disloyalty," Uhtred protested, but it was in vain.

"Inability?" Alfred repeated, Uhtred's choice of words clearly angering him. He was practically trembling with fury. "You were unwilling!"

Pain flared as Uhtred instinctively squirmed, grimacing. What was he supposed to say to that? He knew it was true. But he couldn't very well explain his reasoning... if one wanted to call it that.

"I did apologize, lord. I thought there remained a chance!"

"What good is an apology when you throw your king to the wolves?" Alfred asked, though it was less a question than an accusation. "When you leave me to be brutally mur-"

"What good is it?" Uhtred interrupted him in disbelief, tired of these same old accusations. "You are alive now! You are saved!"

"Saved!" Alfred echoed it sarcastically as he rolled his eyes. "Until they procure another ship perhaps. I don't exactly see you repeating this stunt."

It was only then that Uhtred realized that Alfred had no idea why he deemed him safe. In fact, Uhtred had been so elated that he'd forgotten to tell him. No wonder they were arguing in circles.

A stupid grin spread across Uhtred's face, then another wince of pain.

"I don't need to," he said after the throbbing had subsided and waved Alfred to him with his good hand. For all their privacy, he didn't dare to speak this part aloud, half paranoid with the nearness of Alfred's triumph. "Come here, lord, I want to whisper in your ear."

He saw the impropriety of his request in Alfred's eyes, saw that the king was still fuming and growing more indignant at Uhtred's indelicate demand. But his curiosity was an all-consuming need.

Annoyed, Alfred bend down until his face was next to Uhtred's.

They hadn't been this close since Uhtred had held a blade to Alfred's throat, and the unique fragrance of Alfred's skin and hair returned with force now, refreshing its dimming traces in Uhtred's memory. What was it about odours that made them so emotional, so personal? For years, Uhtred had watched Alfred without a trace of shame, yet smelling him felt forbidden, felt brazen and shameless. More importantly, Alfred's scent rewarded Uhtred's mind with warmth and solace, soothing it like a warm blanket. He wanted to breathe Alfred in for the rest of his days - fresh air was deeply overrated.

In their position, Alfred's hair had fallen over his cheeks, and some of its soft strands brushed against Uhtred's nose as he pulled him even closer, unable to lean in himself.

"Your children live," he whispered, and felt how the king's shoulders lost some of their terrible tension. "They know where we are. Æthelflæd is on her way here with an army. It'll take two more days at most."

He heard Alfred swallow, heard his shaky exhale.

"We’ll be saved?" he asked as if in trance, breath warm against the crook of Uhtred's neck. "After all this, we’ll be saved?"

"You will be," Uhtred told him, stating facts without bitterness, "I doubt I'll see the sunset."

He let go of his shoulder, and Alfred straightened to look at him. For a while, the king said nothing, grey clouds swirling in his eyes.

"They might not want to kill you," he tried. It was a sweet gesture, though Uhtred was sure that he knew better.

"We'll see," he replied politely, and they could both hear the truth in his voice.

Alfred shivered then, and the sight of his thin, trembling frame made Uhtred realize how thoughtless he had been; Alfred had to be freezing. Determined to do what he could, Uhtred tried to sit up again, breathing through the pain, but Alfred stopped him instantly with a hand against his chest.

"Will you stop it?" he snarled, still angry; perhaps at Uhtred, perhaps at his own impotence. The press of his bony fingers grew painfully insistent against Uhtred's vest. "What is the matter with you? Is it truly so difficult to lie still?"

Even for Alfred, that was an excessive amount of rhetorical questions, and so Uhtred knew that he had to be suffering.

"Take my cloak, lord," he said, ignoring both Alfred's temper and its cause. "If you stay cold like this, you'll catch your death, and I'll die for nothing."

Alfred scowled at him, but after a moment of further shivering, his stiff hands busied themselves with the clasp at Uhtred's throat, cold knuckles bumping against Uhtred's chin. Finally, he succeeded, and with a few awkward tugs and stifled groans, they managed to pull the cloak from underneath Uhtred's body.

Once the fabric was freed, Alfred gazed at the pitiful remains of Uhtred's sleeves, at the wretched sight of his body, and Uhtred saw the question in his eyes before he spoke it.

"Will you be warm enough?" he asked.

"No," Uhtred replied calmly, "but I'm not the king."

Alfred shuddered, either at his words or due to the cold. "That is true," he admitted wearily, and at last wound the cloak around his snow-white shoulders. "Thank you."

After this, they didn't say much for a while.

Uhtred lay still, yet Alfred seemed agitated. He turned his head from one side to the other, restlessly surveying the empty cell as though there was something there to see. When he found nothing that his eyes could busy themselves with, he fiddled with the fabric of Aleifr's cloak, its green dye intense against the paleness of his skin. Now and then, his eyes strayed towards Uhtred, but he averted them as soon as Uhtred's gaze threatened to meet his.

Uhtred smiled sadly, realizing how well he knew Alfred's face, how he knew to interpret the twitch of his brows and the press of his lips. Over the years, their tumultuous acquaintance had unconsciously taught him to read all these signs, and now he knew that Alfred's mood had changed. Maybe it had been the news of his impending rescue, or maybe the offer of warmth, Uhtred couldn't say for certain. But he knew that for the moment, Alfred had stopped to worry about himself, about England.

"I don't think they'll come tonight," Uhtred confessed quietly, addressing Alfred's unspoken worry, and their eyes finally met. "They're too busy with the fire... they'll come in the morning,"

"To kill you?" Alfred asked, as if there was another option.

Uhtred nodded, and the honest sadness in Alfred's expression echoed in his heart. For the first time since he'd woken, Uhtred felt the vines of fear twine around his insides.

I'm going to die.

"Is there nothing we can do?" Alfred asked bleakly.

Uhtred shook his head.

"I cannot think of anything, lord," he said, surprised when Alfred's mouth twisted.

"To hell with them," he cursed, and the intensity of his anger took Uhtred by surprise, made his fear crest into full bloom. He tried to keep his breathing in check, to calm his galloping heart and halt his spinning head. It was funny how fear could appear like that, could surge so intensely from one moment to the next, but then Uhtred supposed he'd hoped for Alfred's sharp mind to reassure him, to come up with a plan that changed his fate.

Instead, Alfred's anger seemed to solidify it.

Self-absorbed emotion that it was, fear directed Uhtred's attention to his own body, though he'd rather have directed it anywhere else. At the moment, his body was an uncomfortable place to be. His limbs ached, and he could feel his face swell by the minute, felt the pressure of his bruised, blood-filled skin against the bones of his left eye.

This is nothing compared to what is still to come, his fear whispered. You'll wish for death, with empty hands, and then the torture will begin.

Uhtred swallowed, gaze rigid, dizziness threatening to overwhelm him. Looking for an anchor in a sea of dread, he thought of Alfred's bold attempts to die and remembered an expression he was fond of, one that Beocca had often recited as well.

A good king must be brave in battle, wise in council, just in judgement.

Although Uhtred hadn't initially come under Alfred's kingship voluntarily, he would by now undoubtedly have chosen him. Facing an undignified and uncertain end, Uhtred felt small, was in dire need of bravery, and so he sought comfort in the king's authority. He exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself.

"I doubt that they'll give me a weapon... when the time comes," he said to Alfred, looking at the blank ceiling. To his horror, he sounded every bit as scared as he felt. "I fear that I'll be lost in the icy mists of Niflhel..."

"You won’t be, Uhtred,” Alfred denied at once, soothing him just as Uhtred had hoped for. “Niflhel doesn’t exist.”

"Then what will happen to me?" Uhtred asked him, clinging to the strength of his voice. 

“You’re baptized. If you die here, it will be martyrdom," Alfred said. "You’ll go to heaven.”

“It'll be what, lord?”

“Martyrdom. It means you'll die for the glory of God," Alfred explained patiently.

Uhtred paused, thinking.

“So, like a sacrifice?" he asked when he'd considered it, looking at the king to confirm his theory.

Alfred gave him a sad smile, reluctantly amused by the pagan comparison. “I suppose, in a way, yes.”

Nodding, Uhtred returned his gaze to the ceiling. This he could understand. The Old Gods were bloodthirsty too, what was battle-death if not a death for the glory of Odin and Tyr? Alfred's words made sense, but nevertheless, Uhtred needed to make sure that he'd understood him.

"So, if I can't enter Valhalla," he asked, hurrying to finish his question before Alfred could rage against the primitivity of pagan sky-halls, "This means I'll go to heaven?"

"Yes. All martyrs go to heaven," Alfred said, and Uhtred could tell by his tone that it took all he had not to comment on the rest of his question. Uhtred smiled, still looking at the ceiling.

"Then we'll meet again?" he asked curiously. "In heaven?"

"Yes," Alfred replied, though he sounded surprised by the question. "I’ll see you when I get there. If I get there."

Uhtred hummed. He didn't doubt that Alfred would go to heaven, and the thought of meeting him there gave him comfort. After a while of staring at the ceiling, he had another thought.

“Gisela was baptized,” he said, carefully neutral.

“Yes,” Alfred agreed encouragingly, smiling at Uhtred’s realization, “She's rejoicing in heaven as we speak."

The certainty with which Alfred said it gripped Uhtred's heart. It moved him to tears. He pressed his lips together to suffocate his threatening sobs and cried silently, from the corners of his eyes, salty wetness burning against his swollen skin.

"If you wished it, I could have your children baptized, too,” Alfred said into the prolonged silence, unaware of Uhtred's pain.

In the past, Uhtred would have bristled at his suggestion. The idea of baptizing his children had been hateful to him. But through Alfred, Christianity had lost some of its feebleness, that distasteful softness, and what harm was in a bath when it gave him such comfort? Uhtred cleared his throat, blinking away the last of his sorrow.

“I think I’d like that,” he said.

He woke when the first light of dawn came through the window.

After Alfred had comforted him, even with the depth of death looming over his head, Uhtred's body hadn't been able to stay awake much longer. Similarly, Alfred had fallen asleep in the hay next to him, exhaustion taking him against his will.

The king was still dreaming now, with curled fists and softly twitching lashes, and if Uhtred ignored the insistent throbbing of his many abrasions, the stabbing pain in his chest, lying next to him, listening to the rhythm of his breaths… it felt nice. It felt peaceful. He savoured the feeling, trying to memorize it for his last moments.

Unfortunately, it didn’t last for long.

A loud noise crashed into their peace, something booming outside, and Alfred startled, sitting up with panicked speed.

“It’s nothing,” Uhtred tried to calm him, “Just a noise outside.”

Alfred’s eyes shot to his, and he nodded, but his heart was obviously still racing, eyes wide with fright.

"How do you feel?" he asked him, trying to cover up his fear, and Uhtred merely grimaced in response.

The truth was that he could barely move. Every muscle in his body had seized up during the couple of hours he'd slept, had glued itself into a lump in an attempt to repair the damage done. On his arm, where his tunic hung in shreds, Uhtred saw great purple welts, and he didn’t need to ask Alfred how he looked to know that his face was as swollen as they were. He knew it because he could barely see out of his left eye, and because his jaw felt like it was twice its original size.

Besides his nose, he was sure that at least two of his ribs were broken... not that it mattered.

He was going to die.

Alfred laid a hand on his forehead, divine coolness against Uhtred’s brows.

“I think you have a fever,” he said, sounding worried. And wasn’t that funny?

"If it kills me, will I still be a martyr?" Uhtred asked jokingly. It was a sorry attempt to dispel the tension from Alfred's expression, but the king remained serious.

"Yes, you will," he reassured him, knowing instinctively that Uhtred's question hadn't been as factitious as it appeared to be.

Uhtred avoided his gaze, nodding around the lump in his throat. What followed was an uncomfortable silence. It was heavier now than it had ever been between them, burdened with much more than simple awkwardness.

After a while, Alfred broke the spell.

"Is there something you wish?" he asked, frowning. "Something I can do?"

Uhtred wasn't sure he understood the question. "Like what?" 

"Anything," Alfred said with eyes that were curiously wet. "Some land for your children... something else..."

"You would grant them land?" Uhtred asked, genuinely surprised.

"I would."

Uhtred smirked half-heartedly, nerves and fondness making him giddy. "What for, lord, when I am but a traitor?"

"Don't, Uhtred, there isn't much time," Alfred chided him, denying him this absolution despite his generosity.

Uhtred sighed then and closed his eyes. He tried to order his thoughts, to make a wise decision. What was there that truly mattered, yet wouldn't be too much to ask for? It occurred to him quite quickly.

"If you survive, there's a young girl, her name is Modthryth. She has Finan's dagger. She helped me burn the ships and she'll help even more. She-"

"Modthryth?" Alfred asked, making sure that he had the right name, "Like King Offa's wife?"

"I don't know," Uhtred answered. He didn't know much about Saxon kings. "But I promised her that she'd be rewarded. That she'd be wealthy."

"She will be," Alfred promised easily, and Uhtred felt a weight fall from his shoulders.

"And I wish that my sword reaches my son," he said. "I want him to know that our fate remains with Bebbanburg, that he needs to take it back."

Alfred nodded. "With some support, perhaps," he added.

Uhtred met his eyes, touched by his offer. He knew a promise when he heard one.

"Yes," he said, "Some support would be helpful."

Alfred hummed in agreement, and there it was again, that haunting silence. Motionless, the king stared at the bloody straw beneath Uhtred's hand. When finally, he stirred, it was because he winced terribly, pressing a pale hand to his stomach.

"I wish I could do more," he said, and when he grimaced, Uhtred saw how the guilt gnawed at him. He couldn't stand it.

"You need not be upset," he told him, hoping his lies would serve their purpose. "I'm not opposed to a swordless death if martyrdom is real... Though I'll hold you to that promise." The next words he said were true, and he needed Alfred to hear them just the same; maybe even more so.

"It has been..." Uhtred's voice failed him, but he collected himself, trying again. "It has been an honour to serve you. I do not regret it."

When the king's hand found his, cool against his burning skin, Uhtred wondered how a man could look so strong and so fragile at the same time. Eyes brimming with tears, Alfred squeezed his fingers and Uhtred squeezed back, but just as Alfred opened his mouth to answer him, the door to their cell flew open.

Hæsten charged towards them like a bull.

"There they are," he cried, and his ugly voice resounded from the bare walls. At his entry, Alfred had quickly pulled his hand from Uhtred's, but Hæsten had seen it nonetheless. He grinned, theatrically clucking his tongue. "What a lovely couple," he said, bitterness poisoning his forced levity. "I hope I'm not intruding on a special moment."

Uhtred ignored his taunts.

"You look like shit, Hæsten," he observed matter-of-factly, and it delighted him to see Hæsten's grin die on his soot-covered face. The fat Dane was covered in a slimy film of blackened sweat, the bruises around his throat an ugly green by now that made him look like the toad he was. "Bad night?"

Next to him, Alfred snorted, and childish joy spread through Uhtred's mind, dissolving his fear for a time.

"SHUT UP!" Hæsten boomed, fragile self-importance driving him to fury despite his position of power. His loud curse was amplified by the echo of the cell and Uhtred couldn't help but groan, closing his eyes against the pain. In response, Alfred took his hand again and Uhtred's heart sung at his touch.

"I might have had a bad night, Uhtred, but you are going to have a really, really bad day," Hæsten promised him, seething. "Because you've been a bad boy and I don't think you deserve to see your brother again."

Uhtred glared at him contemptuously.

"Huh," he said, trying to sound unimpressed. "And here I thought you'd need his money... now that I've burned all your ships."

"What I need, Uhtred, is to see you on your knees, begging me to kill you. And it's what I'll get - today," Hæsten answered, eyes blazing. His mouth twisted into an ugly smile, lined with crooked, yellowed teeth. 

The words confirmed the prolonged suffering Uhtred had feared and for once, his courage waned. He couldn't think of a retort. It was difficult to remain defiant when he was literally immobilized with pain, feeling utterly beaten. But he wasn't alone - he had help.

"Well, he can hardly move," Alfred deadpanned beside him, "So good luck getting him on his knees. Never mind the begging."

Uhtred laughed, and Hæsten exploded.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" he shouted, spittle flying, and slapped Alfred across the face.

Instinctively, Uhtred surged, and against all odds, he managed to get to his feet, only to immediately fall when his knees buckled beneath him. With a dull thud, he hit the hard, unforgiving floor, barely breathing through the blinding pain. Next to him, Alfred held his stinging cheek.

"Bastard," Uhtred cursed at Hæsten, his cheek still pressed against the dirty straw. "You'll fucking regret this."

Hæsten smiled, watching him where he was curled up on the floor.

"Why, Uhtred?" he mocked, "Will you make me? Will you crawl all the way here and make me cry for what I did to your itsy-bitsy king?"

Struggling against the weight of his own body, Uhtred grimaced, pure hatred raging through him, but his limbs didn't obey him when he told them to move. His muscles felt as though they were made from stone.

Hæsten spat down at him, a glob of warm saliva hitting Uhtred's cheeks. "You know, Uhtred, I used to admire you," he said. "I used to want to be like you. But now I know how pathetic you are." He stepped closer, nudging Uhtred's shin with an ashy boot. "You could have been Uhtred the Kingslayer, but you chose to be a rassragr, didn't you? A rassragr for a weak Saxon king."

We'll see who the rassragr is when you are penetrated by Mercian spears, Uhtred thought, but said nothing.

"Tell me," Hæsten urged him, "Does it feel nice when he sticks his cock in you? Do you moan for him, like a good little whore?"

"Fuck you," Uhtred said, but it sounded weak. He was too distracted by Alfred's presence next to him. The king had tensed up, clearly taken aback by the direction of Hæsten's insults.

"Anyway, you are in luck, Rassragr. You won't have to miss your master's cock for a second," Hæsten told him in that hateful sing-song, undeterred in his cruelty, and squatted down next to him. "Because... I'm going to kill you together."

Uhtred jolted back. Hæsten’s words hit him like a physical blow to the head, and his mind stuttered to a halt, registering their meaning yet unable to truly understand them.

"Why?" Alfred gasped next to him, wide-eyed, his composure from only moments ago quickly evaporating. In seconds, he started shaking, white as a sheet.

"No," Uhtred said, still not understanding.

It couldn't be. It made no sense.

Hæsten gloated, smacking his lips. "Oh, but yes, Uhtred. We'll make a day of it!"

Uhtred's stomach turned, a sick upheaval of guts and blood. Feeling like he was going to faint, he watched Alfred's frozen figure; his eyes trained on some invisible thing on the floor.

"You thought you had saved him, didn't you?" Hæsten cooed, relishing Uhtred' pain. "Poor little Rassragr..."

The jeer brought him back into Uhtred's focus.

"Whoever paid you will kill you for this," Uhtred grunted.

"I doubt that," Hæsten said, gazing at the king, still paralyzed on the straw-covered floor. "You see, Uhtred, the ship was just a measure of caution. Your king was supposed to get on it, so that anybody who didn't believe that he died by your hand would think that he'd been kidnapped to Norðweg or Dena mearc or some other cold, miserable country."

He turned to Alfred, eyes glittering with lustful hate.

"But do you know where it would have taken you, lord king?" Hæsten asked mockingly, scooting towards him until his sweaty face was uncomfortably close to Alfred's own. Uhtred wanted to slap the title from his lips. "It would've taken you to Mercia. To your oh so lovely son in law."

Uhtred's stomach sank with the implications of his words.

"Except," Hæsten explained with palpable disdain, "An hour ago, I received a messenger who told me Æthelred has fled Mercia... has been driven out by none other than your bitch daughter and her Mercian lap dog."

He spit at Alfred's feet, visibly bitter about the turn of events.

"And that means, there won't be any further rewards for me. Nor any threats of retribution." He swiveled his head back to Uhtred, grinning. “Oh, but reputation… that’s another thing, isn’t it?”

Uhtred couldn’t keep the angry tears from coming now. Vision blurring, he watched helplessly as Hæsten patted Alfred's head with a grubby hand, casually plucking a piece of straw from his hair as if the king was his to care for.

"How ironic that your daughter has both foiled her husband's plan and condemned you to death - earlier than expected, anyway.”

Their cell was by now bathed in light, dawn giving way to an uncomfortably bright morning. Alfred had returned to the state Uhtred had seen him in when they had first reached Dunwhich. He had withdrawn into himself, looked unresponsive and stoic, and though his skin was still sallow, there was now steel in his eyes. When he didn't react to Hæsten's cruel observations, the Dane shrugged.

"Well... I want you to know that you have been a great king," he told Alfred matter-of-factly, with amused bright eyes. "Once I've killed you, my reputation will be unmatched in all the kingdoms."

And with that, he left the cell.

Chapter Text

As soon as Hæsten had left, the king knelt down next to Uhtred, grasping at his shoulders. Uhtred was struggling to get up onto his knees, hands shuffling through the straw, but Alfred helped him, pulling him upwards.

Æthelflæd would never make it in time.

Uhtred was dizzy with the hopelessness of Alfred’s fate. The knowledge that he’d die in this miserable hellhole was too much to bear, and guilt was roiling violently in his gut. Unable to look Alfred in the eye, he kept his gaze on the king’s boots, streaked with light and shadow where the sun fell through the window of their prison cell.

“I’m sorry,” Uhtred pressed, trembling with regret and the weakness of his throbbing limbs, but Alfred shook his head.

“How are your hands?” he asked weirdly, hurriedly, not bothering to acknowledge Uhtred’s despair.

Uhtred didn’t get why he’d ask such a thing.

It didn’t matter how his hands were doing, they were both going to be executed. Tortured. Dead. But Alfred was his king, and so he answered him anyway, meeting that shadowed gaze, full of resigned dignity.

“They’re stiff, they ache…” he replied, confused.

“Do you have enough strength in them to strangle me?” the king asked instantly, carefully emotionless, and Uhtred’s stomach dropped to the floor, eyes squeezing shut.

Of course, he thought, I should have seen this coming.

“Lord, no, I…”

I can’t.

“You must, Uhtred. This time, you must.”

I can’t.

“Suffocation is a soft death… if one wills it so. Torture will not be.”

I can’t.

“Uhtred. There is no time.”

I must.

This time, I must.

“I can’t,” Uhtred begged him, utterly broken by his realization. His face was already writhing with fast approaching anguish, panic swallowing him whole, seizing his mind in pure terror.

“No, you can,” Alfred soothed him, dread-heavy but ever valiant. He knew now that Uhtred wouldn’t be swayed by threats or commands, and when Uhtred shook his head again, Alfred adjusted his strategy.

“Please, Uhtred,” he pleaded, tone warm. He took Uhtred’s burned and bruised hands in his own, careful to avoid the worst of his wounds. “Please… do it for me.”

Uhtred’s hands were trembling violently, but Alfred squeezed them gently, as if to reassure him. He leaned in even closer, until Uhtred could smell it again, that scent of him, of comfort and home and safety; and then he placed Uhtred’s hands around his neck. The skin there was soft, Alfred’s beard tickling the sides of Uhtred’s thumbs where it brushed against them.

“There,” the king said calmly, and tapped Uhtred’s fingertips to his erratic pulse. “Press there, just enough to stop the blood flow… and I will go to sleep.” Alfred swallowed around the lump in his throat, momentary weakness threatening to overtake him.

“No need for pain,” he said, collecting himself.

No.

No, Uhtred didn’t want this, and Alfred knew it. But the king nodded anyway, as if Uhtred had agreed. Pinning him in place, he met his tormented eyes and pressed Uhtred’s trembling hands into the soft skin of his own neck, as if to demonstrate the motion.

“Don’t stop until you’re sure,” he implored him, blue eyes suspiciously shiny, “I’ll thank you for it when we meet again.”

Alfred’s words were devastating.

“Now, Uhtred… please.”

Dull pain howled in Uhtred’s chest, and dread closed like a vice around his throat, doing to him what he was dreading to do to the life he held in his hands. Uhtred wanted to put these sensations into words, wanted to tell Alfred what he felt, but his sorrow had plunged him beyond speech already, and even if he could’ve spoken, he wouldn’t have known what to say.

Instead, he suppressed a sob and nodded, unwilling to let Alfred down, incapable of denying him a comfortable end. Trying not to think, Uhtred took a shuddering breath and gathered all of his remaining strength, physical and mental. Then, he tightened his grip around Alfred’s slender neck.

The king rewarded him with a trembling smile and a tiny nod against his clenching hands. He held onto Uhtred’s wrists, thumbs stroking lightly along his skin to signal his approval, and Uhtred started to cry; big, silent tears that blurred his sight. He tried to hold them in, to bottle his pain, but they were impossible to stop. His hands were throbbing with the strain of his task, his heart pounding against his chest, screaming at him to let go.

He didn’t, forcing himself instead to tighten his grip just that little bit more.

Alfred sighed a stifled breath, pulse jumping against Uhtred’s palms. His shoulders tensed, briefly uncomfortable with the rising pressure against his throat, but he immediately forced himself to relax, his weight sagging into Uhtred’s grip. In the tree outside their cell, a bird sang a tune that carried through the breeze, sweet and melodious, and when their eyes met, Uhtred saw great sadness and greater gratitude, and he pressed his lips together to let nothing escape, sorrow ripping him to shreds. His face was wet with tears, hands cradling skin that had warmed underneath his grip.

Don’t break, he thought, determined to make Alfred’s last seconds as easy as possible. Don’t let him see it.

After a few more breaths, Alfred’s eyelids grew heavy, and his thumbs stopped stroking Uhtred’s wrists. Instead, he held on weakly, with feeble fingers, like a sleepy child. Then, too soon, he closed his eyes, yet it was Uhtred’s world that darkened when the lines of Alfred’s face relaxed.

As the king went to sleep, head tilting backwards, mind slipping away peacefully, his hands fell from Uhtred’s wrists like petals from a rose.

He’s dying.

Uhtred allowed himself to grief openly now, his sobs uncomfortably loud in the silent cell. He was trembling, Alfred’s body trembling with him - but he didn’t let go.  

Don’t stop until you’re sure.

Uhtred didn’t know how long he sat there, gripping, waiting. Grief fed on him, covering him like a dark shroud, fogging his sense of time and space. When a heavy boot slammed sharply into the bone of his upper arm, it surprised him enough that his grip opened against his will, the strain too much to hold.

Alfred’s body dropped onto its side, motionless.

“No,” Uhtred sobbed as reality rushed in, strong hands already grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him backwards and away from his king. He let it happen. He couldn’t have put up a fight if he wanted to.

Behind him, noise boomed through the cell.

“Can I not leave you two alone for ONE FUCKING SECOND?!” he heard Hæsten cry, voice unusually high with panic as he feared for his prize. Uhtred didn’t turn, too focused on Alfred’s crumbled body, on the unthinkable nature of what he had done. “GO! Wake him up!” Hæsten ordered, and two guards ran past Uhtred and the man who held him by his sobbing chest, hurrying to Alfred’s still form on the floor.

One of them, a thin man with straw blond hair, laid his hand against Alfred’s reddened neck, and as he waited for a pulse, the cell fell silent, a temporary tomb that was filled with four men who hoped for signs of life; three maliciously, and one against his better judgement.

Please God, Uhtred prayed for the first time in his life, silent but with tears still trailing down his cheeks, please God, take him. 

The man who had his hand on Alfred’s neck turned to Hæsten.

You love him, so take him.

Take him.

“He’s breathing,” he said.

Uhtred’s mind cried out with fury, heart shouting for joy. “NO!” he screamed, struggling against the arms that clawed into his shoulders. Hæsten laughed cruelly behind him.

“Guard them until the preparations are done. I don’t want this to happen again,” the fat Dane ordered, and then Uhtred heard his heavy footsteps leave the cell. He was dropped like a sack of grain, back painfully hitting the floor.

His blood was pumping, and Uhtred pushed himself back up, eager to keep his eyes on Alfred. The two guards who had rushed to the king were backing off already, taking up positions on each side of the cell’s door. They lurked in the shadowed corners of the room, like creatures of a nightmare.

Uhtred didn’t care about them watching him as he crawled to Alfred’s side, carefully brushing the king’s soft hair from his face, its dark colour a stark contrast to the paleness of his nearly translucent skin. Alfred looked incredibly vulnerable the way he lay there, so motionless, his neck still blotchy and red where Uhtred had laid his hands on him. Relieved and horrified at his failure, Uhtred didn’t know what to think. In the end, he didn’t think at all, had no thoughts lefts - only instincts. He took his king’s cold hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, trying to calm himself, inhaling Alfred’s scent where his wrist pressed against Uhtred’s nose.

Behind him, one of the guards grunted in disgust, but Uhtred paid him no mind, eyes trained on the king. 

“Wake up, lord” he whispered, knowing that any attempt at killing Alfred would be futile now, “Lord, you must wake.”

At first, the king didn’t stir, but then his brows twitched slightly, soon followed by the edge of his lips. Uhtred laid a calming hand on his forehead, brushing smooth skin with calloused fingers. Now that killing him had failed, Uhtred’s hands sought to bring him nothing but comfort, and after what felt like an eternity, Alfred’s lilac eyelids began to flutter, and Uhtred’s breath caught when he opened his eyes, pupils wide and unfocused.

“Lord,” Uhtred said, letting go of his hand.

The king coughed, expression slowly transforming as he took in Uhtred’s face. Uhtred could practically see the moment Alfred’s mind snapped into place.

“I am not dead,” he observed, voice uncomfortably grating.

Reluctantly, Uhtred shook his head. “No… they were too quick.”

For a moment, Alfred did nothing.

He was visibly shaken, and he closed his eyes to shut out the world, heavy with fatigue. For a long, long time, he stayed like this, silent. Just when Uhtred thought that his exhaustion had carried him to sleep, he opened his eyes again, bleary and gazing into the void.

“It is what God wills it to be,” he said. “I will manage.”

Apparently, he had successfully pushed his fear to the back of his mind, heavily constrained by faith and duty. The sinews in his neck stood out sharply, made prominent with tension and hunger.

“We’ll do it together,” Uhtred promised him, hoping it would bring him some kind of comfort.

The king nodded, still as steel and serious. He looked as he did before battle.

“Yes. We will.”

Across the room, the guards judged them unkindly from their posts, but they didn’t speak a word. Thus, the cell was silent as they waited for their fate, next to each other on that dirtied straw. In a break from tradition, their silence was no longer uncomfortable. It seemed that the king and his warrior had finally experienced too much together, were one person now, in spirit, and there was no space between them where awkwardness could fester.

“You did well,” Alfred said after a while, an afterthought that needed to be spoken. He observed the blotchy skin of Uhtred’s face, aware of how it had come to be. “I do not hold this against you.”

Undoubtedly, his intention was to spare Uhtred pain, but as much as Uhtred had hoped for absolution when he’d failed Alfred the first time, he couldn’t accept it now that it was given.

“I will hold it against me until my last breath,” he mumbled bitterly.

“Not for long, then,” Alfred replied, immediately, and Uhtred bellowed a laugh, a laugh like a cry, nerves lying blank.

“No, not for long.".

Alfred sighed, licking his lips. He looked a bit disoriented still, as if he hadn’t quite arrived in the world. His eyes, always so sharp and full of soul, had dulled, turning blue to grey, and he was calm, unnaturally so.

“Are you alright?” Uhtred asked him, unsettled by his manner.

“No,” Alfred replied, trance-like, barely moving his lips, “But it doesn’t matter.”

It was as if he had decided to stay in that vague in-between of waking and sleeping, consciousness and unconsciousness. He was resting, Uhtred realized, patiently waiting for their trials to begin, so that he could finally earn death’s peace. Uhtred already knew how strong he was, had seen for himself how well Alfred had faced his end, yet he couldn’t help but marvel at the king’s composure when faced with torture.

“How are you so calm?” he asked, truly wondering.

“God is with me, I do not fear,” Alfred answered simply, and Uhtred knew that it was a rallying cry, one Alfred had perhaps repeated in his head for a while now, hoping he’d believe it when the time came.

Much too soon, their cell door opened again, and like the narcissistic fuckwad he was, Hæsten struck a pose in the doorway, hands on his hips and lit from behind, probably thinking it would make him look imposing. Instead, he looked ridiculous, and they watched him together from their spot on the floor, indifferent to his bluster, without any words for him. When his entrance didn’t have the desired effect, Hæsten growled something prickly under his breath and motioned for the guards to take them.

“This is going to be the most spectacular day of your lives,” he promised, mouth twisting meanly. He waved them outside with a flourish, as if he was inviting them somewhere.

When the guards approached them, Alfred stood up gracefully, brushing straw and dirt off his trousers and cloak. For his part, Uhtred couldn’t even get his knees to straighten. His calves were hard like stone still, and so two of Hæsten’s men grabbed his arms and pulled him upwards. He groaned with the effort it took to stay standing, leaning heavily on the guards for support.

Seeing how he struggled, Alfred met his gaze with eyes like billowing smoke.

“Follow me,” he said, imploring Uhtred with honest urgency. He was being held by the back of his cloak, the same man who’d checked him for signs of life now willing to guide him to his death. “Follow me, and we’ll ascent together. Not painlessly, not quietly maybe, but unafraid.”

“I’d follow you anywhere, lord,” Uhtred assured him, touched by Alfred’s care. But the guard at his right shoulder sneered, shaking him roughly.

“That’s enough poetry for today,” he mocked, “Save your swooning for later, Rassragr.”

Uhtred looked back at that man, at his meaty, crude features, and he wondered how he and Alfred could both be human, how they could ever be the same kind of anything.

Maybe Christians are right, Uhtred thought, maybe this one doesn’t have a soul.

They were led outside then, sun blinding them, and the day was so pleasant that the whole world felt unreal. A light breeze caressed Uhtred's skin, nature’s beauty difficult to reconcile with the terror in his chest.

He could barely walk. Nevertheless, he stumbled ahead.

His guards were nearly carrying him, so hard did he lean on them, his feet dragging across the sand-covered floor not due to a lack of courage, but for lack of strength. Alfred meanwhile walked beside him freely, stoically and with his head held high, his hair illuminated by the warm light of the morning sun. He looked so beautiful that Uhtred thought he couldn't possibly be walking to his execution.

He couldn’t be.

Yet the closer they came to the old marketplace, the more Danes gathered at the side of the street. They stared at them scornfully, jeering and spitting at them, saliva wetting the sand at their feet. More and more of them crawled out from their burrows, craning their necks, repulsive faces turned towards their prey.

Finally, Uhtred’s guards pushed him into the main square, and the sight of what was waiting for them took his breath away.

The bloodthirsty, slobbering crowd had gathered in a semicircle, penned up at one side of the square. Across from them, Hæsten’s men had hauled a throne-like seat onto a raised stage, where the man now sprawled like a lazy hog. He wore Alfred’s crown on his head, revelling in shameless self-importance, and slightly to the side of him, in front of the stage, stood the town’s hanging tree, majestic branches stretching half across the square. A rusted cage hang from one of its branches, but there was a corpse still rotting in it, and so Uhtred suspected that it wouldn’t be used for them. Instead, in between the tree’s roots, he spotted a pair of wooden stakes, deeply embedded into the earth there. Iron chains were fastened to both, and by the unmarred look of them, he knew they’d been secured there for this very moment.

Most prominent however, attracting all stares in the middle of the square, were two flame-blackened parts of a broken mast, lying prone, arranged and tied to form an unmistakable shape. Uhtred knew it from the scrolls and tapestries of Winchester, from the amulet on Finan’s chest.

It was a cross.

Next to him, Alfred made a stifled sound, and when Uhtred turned to him, he expected to find him white with dread, but the fear he found on Alfred’s face was overshadowed by something else entirely. Despite what he was seeing, the king looked resolute and grim. Yes, almost satisfied.

“BEHOLD KING ALFRED OF WESSEX!” someone then thundered suddenly, mockingly, a deep-toned booming, and Uhtred turned to the noise, seeing that it was Dagfinn, black dreadlocks flowing down his shoulders. He stood at the base of Hæsten’s stage, gesturing towards them with malicious glee, full-toned voice blasting across the square to fire up the crowd. “BEHOLD THE SICKLY CHRISTIAN WORM THAT HAS FOUGHT US WITH COWARDLY BURHS, THE MEEK HALF-MONK THAT HAS TURNED EARL GUTHRUM AGAINST US WITH HIS CHRISTIAN WITCHCRAFT! WHO HAS KEPT US FROM TAKING WHAT IS OURS TO TAKE! FOR YEARS, THIS STRENGTHLESS BITCH HAS HIDDEN BEHIND BETTER MEN!”

Uhtred’s head throbbed with the volume of Dagfinn’s ridicule, but Alfred barely listened.

“They’re going to crucify me,” he observed shakily, inaudible to everyone but Uhtred, drowned out by the raucous crowd and Dagfinn’s theatrics. To Uhtred’s utter shock, something like bitter joy crossed Alfred’s features, contempt curling his lips. “The fools,” he said.

“AND BEHOLD,” Dagfinn shouted tirelessly, “THERE’S HIS LOYAL DOG, UHTRED THE DANESLAYER, THE RASSRAGR WHO HAS FULFILLED HIS EVERY WISH! ALWAYS AT HIS BECK AND CALL!” The Danes booed and hissed, violent hatred on their faces, and Uhtred winced as the guards at his back clawed painfully into his bruises, nails wedging into the flesh of his arms.

“THE TRAITOR WHO HAS MURDERED US, HIS OWN PEOPLE!” Dagfinn accused, himself excited by the power of the moment, pointing at Uhtred, “HAS BETRAYED HIS OWN BLOOD, TIME AND TIME AGAIN, BECAUSE HE THIRSTED FOR ANOTHER SUCKLE AT HIS MASTER’S COCK.”

The crowd laughed and jeered, and Uhtred felt his pulse rising. Next to him, Alfred paid no mind to the barking of their foes, thoughts visibly racing behind frowning brows. He watched his warrior out of the corner of his eyes, and when he saw that Uhtred didn’t share his mood, didn’t understand his sudden battle-lust, he tilted his head towards the crowd, almost imperceptibly.

“There are Saxons here, Angles,” he murmured with a tremor in his voice. “Witnessing.” And it was then that Uhtred noticed them, their silent presence among the contemptuous crowd, their drawn faces watching mutely. “If I die here, with dignity, word will spread. It will inspire all Saxons, regardless of kingdom.”

“AND TODAY, WE’LL SEE THEM DIE!” Dagfinn roared in triumph, thrusting his fists towards the sky, and the crowd mirrored him, jerking wildly in a show of teeth and fists. Some of the men threw stones in their direction, a few coming close, and the crowd cheered.  “WE’LL SEE THE REIGN OF ALFRED END, SEE THE FLAME OF WESSEX SNUFFED OUT BY THE GREAT EARL HÆSTEN.”

“To die on a cross? Like Christ, our Lord and Saviour?” Alfred asked quietly, actually hiding a mirthless smile now, defiant madness blazing in his eyes, “It will cement England. It will make it immortal.” Shooting him a dark glance, Alfred saw that understanding had dawned in Uhtred’s mind and he nodded fanatically, trembling with a potent mix of fear and barely controlled tension.

“TODAY, YOU’LL SEE THE GREAT KING ALFRED CRY OUT FOR MERCY AND BEG US FOR HIS DEATH!” Dagfinn cried then, “WE’LL MAKE HIS BODY A BURH OF AGONY, WE’LL MAKE HIM BLUBBER LIKE THE COWARD HE IS, WAIL LIKE A WOMAN, MEWL LIKE A CHILD! AND ONLY THEN WILL WE SEND HIM TO NIFLHEL, AND HIS RASSRAGR WITH HIM!”

The crowd exploded with vengeful excitement, and Alfred’s jaw clenched, obviously displeased with this last part of Dagfinn’s prediction.

“This death has purpose, but I cannot show weakness,” he whispered, talking to Uhtred as much as to himself, steeling his spirit for what lay ahead. “Christ has not, and I must not.”

By now, Dagfinn had ceased to spit his vitriol, whispering instead with Hæsten, no doubt receiving his next instructions. Their time had come.

“I cannot break, Uhtred, I cannot fail…” the king stressed, suddenly anxious, and Uhtred could practically see the weight on his shoulders, “I must carry this last burden.”

Alfred looked at him then, really looked at him, and for once his doubt was entirely human. He looked fragile, childlike, his dread-widened eyes wordlessly searching Uhtred’s for reassurance, for confirmation that Uhtred thought him capable of such a feat. The crowd around them howled with anticipation when Dagfinn made his way towards them, and Uhtred gave his faith to Alfred readily, nodding with reverence.

“You will, lord,” he promised, believing it. His heart pounded so heavy that he felt it in his fingertips, but he beat back his fear, his anguished sorrow, schooling his face to show Alfred nothing but fealty. “I will help as best I can.”

When Dagfinn motioned to them, Uhtred wanted to grab Alfred, to hold onto him, but Hæsten’s men were already pushing him forward, towards the hanging tree and away from Alfred. He could do nothing but watch as Dagfinn ripped Alfred’s cloak off him, leaving him in just his trousers, tense and unprotected. The mob loved it, eager to see royalty humiliated.

Pushed ever forward by hostile hands, Uhtred’s body ached, but the fire of hatred coursed through his veins, dulling his pain so that he managed not to stumble. When they reached the two wooden rods, dark against the sandy ground, his guards pushed him to the floor between them, and his kneecaps hit the ground, shooting bolts of pain into his hips. He grimaced, but the Danes didn’t care for his distress. They wasted no time before they pulled his head down by his hair and rid him of his leather vest, then removed what remained of his tunic, until he too was bare chested. Finally, they wrenched his arms out to the side and closed shackles around his wrists.

The position was horrible for his already strained shoulders, but Uhtred leaned into the pain, trying to feel it as just another sensation. What difference was there really between its bite and the sun on his skin, the cool breeze against his burning hand?

When he looked up, he half expected to see Alfred already on the floor, forced onto the cross, but the king was standing where he’d left him, face like ice as he watched Uhtred be fettered. Hæsten’s men walked away then, leaving Uhtred on his knees, and it was Hæsten himself who now rose from his makeshift throne, silencing the mob with a wave of his hand. He grinned like a crazed man, Alfred’s crown glinting on his head.

"Now, enough with the foreplay and on to the main act!” he declared, clearly basking in the undivided attention of the crowd. “We are going to play a game today. We are going to play a game called 'The King or his Rassragr'!"

Obviously, Hæsten meant to start their torture, but Uhtred couldn’t let him, sensing his first opportunity to disrupt this staged grandiosity. He inhaled deeply, skin uncomfortably tight where it stretched across his chest.

“Hæsten!” he interrupted, yelling across the square, firm and loud, “Are you jealous?”

When the crowd’s attention was on him, he smirked, his eyes full of mockery and defiance.

"Rassragr this, rassragr that,” he spit sarcastically, raising an eyebrow, “Is that what this is about, Hæsten? You yearning to fuck me?" Behind him, he could hear people snicker, vulgarity never failing to amuse the common man, regardless of affiliation.

Hæsten motioned to Dagfinn, irked to have his performance interrupted, “Make him shut his mouth!”

But Uhtred didn’t let up.

"You could have just said so,” he mocked Hæsten, chains rattling as he watched Dagfinn approach, “You’re unsightly and you stink like piss, sure, but I wouldn’t have rejected you… not if I knew your heartache would lead to all this!"

The mob laughed, and Uhtred bared his teeth in a dirty grin before pain exploded in the socket of his eye, Dagfinn’s fist striking the side of his head like thunder and lightning. Knuckles cracked bone, and Uhtred hissed, swollen skin bursting. He instantly swallowed his pain, determined not to let out another sound. If this was to be their end, Uhtred decided, he wouldn't satisfy these pigs by showing them weakness. No, he wouldn't give them an inch more than he had to.

After all, he'd failed Alfred twice now.

Had failed him because he’d shown weakness, because he had hesitated. And oh, how he hated himself for it. He couldn’t shake it off his mind, that guilt, not for a second. But grave as that error had been, he couldn't change it now. The past was the past, Alfred would say, their task was to deal with the present. And right here and now, Uhtred would be damned if he repeated his mistake.

Before his inner eye, he saw Alfred, kneeling in that green meadow, the morning after their capture. A sculpture of marble, praying in the breeze.

I pray that my strength will not leave me.

If Alfred was to die here, dignified in spite of their suffering, Uhtred wouldn't make his task harder by showing him the hopelessness that covered him like a weighted shroud, that pulled the breath from his lungs. No, he'd be strong, so that Alfred could be strong. He’d give his all to ensure that Alfred died a king's death, the death of a proud and unyielding martyr.

The death of his God.

It won't be written that Alfred, king of Saxons, begged for his death.

“Back to the game, now. Here are the rules!” Hæsten announced, interrupting Uhtred’s battle plans. He turned to Alfred, grinning nastily. “Our game will be played in rounds. Rounds for which I have used all the wisdom your priests have whispered in the ears of my unwilling daughters… And each round, Uhtred, you’ll have a choice to make. Let me show you!”

Hæsten waved to his side, and Njal came forward from the crowd, handing him something. It was round, and from the distance, it looked like a bird’s nest. Hæsten held it in his hand, careful somehow, as if it could hurt him. Then, he took the crown from his head.

“Our first round will be this!” He waved both items towards them, and Uhtred finally saw what the bird’s nest really was, “I have two crowns, one of gold, smooth and shiny, and one of thorns, prickly and poor! Now, Uhtred, you must decide, who will wear which? Who will have barbs slicing their skin?” Hæsten smiled, nearing his grand finale. “The king or his rassragr?”

So this was how it was going to be.

Uhtred didn’t say anything, unwilling to play his captor’s game. He'd be damned before he participated in his own torture.

Unfortunately, he’d forgotten about Alfred’s pride, his inability to let go of the reins.

“I will,” the king answered Hæsten before Uhtred could stop him, clear and bold from across the field. Uhtred wanted to protest, but Hæsten did so before he had a chance.

“No, no, no,” the Dane chided delightedly, and Alfred frowned where he stood, “That is really very noble of you, but I fear it’s ladies first... Uhtred decides.”

Unwilling to give Alfred another chance at self-sacrifice, Uhtred spoke over the laughter of the crowd.

“Then I will wear the thorns.”

“No, I-“ Alfred tried, but Hæsten didn’t let him speak.

“Oh, bad Uhtred! Come on, you’re no fun!” Hæsten admonished him, “We’ll try again, I ask you the question, and you say the king, or you say his rassragr. So… who’ll be penetrated by pricks today, Uhtred, the king or his rassragr?”

“His rassragr,” Uhtred ground out before Alfred could say something, hearing Danes snicker behind him.

Frowning, Hæsten laid a hand against his ear.

“Did you say the king? I couldn’t quite hear you, Uhtred, but I guess you’re taking the easy way out.”

“I said his rassragr,” Uhtred repeated, louder but grimacing, shame surging.

“Speak up now.”

Uhtred saw that Alfred’s gaze was centred on Hæsten with hateful precision, yet he didn’t try to interrupt anymore, knowing by now that it was futile. Uhtred couldn’t bring himself to look at him for long.

“HIS RASSRAGR!” he yelled, already shaking with rage.

The crowd cheered at that, whooping, and Uhtred kept his eyes on the sandy floor, blood boiling in his veins.

“As you wish,” Hæsten obliged, nodding to Njal, reaching out to him, false crown in his soot-marked hand.

The giant wasted no time. He took the thorns, and gleeful anticipation curled his mouth as he strode towards Uhtred in the blazing sun, hungry for revenge. 

Keep quiet.

Behind him, Dagfinn grabbed Uhtred’s chin, yanking his head firmly against his stomach to keep him still.

Keep quiet.

Njal’s massive body blocked out the sun, and Uhtred could feel Alfred’s tension across the square. The king said nothing, though, and Uhtred was glad of it.

Keep quiet.

Like needles, thorns punctured Uhtred’s skin, pain pricking at first, then cutting with pressure, a dozen blades scraping against bone. His skin tore in sharp and bloody lines of heat, and Uhtred groaned against lips that remained tightly shut, exhaling through his nose in short, intense bursts of air. When Njal finally stopped pressing the crown into his skin, Uhtred felt its ring as one burning wound, its warmth, the itchiness of fresh cuts on his skin.

Keep quiet.

Njal stepped back, but the thorns remained. They buried into his flesh with each unintentional twitch of his brow, sharp jabs of pain against his temples.

You’ve had worse, keep quiet.

Eyes closed, Uhtred tried to freeze, tried not to move a muscle while he got used to the pain, to that looming presence of blades, but then Dagfinn slammed his fist into the top of his head, and Uhtred’s face scrunched with the blow, eyes clamping shut, pain ripping white and cleaving red, burrowing into swollen flesh. Unprepared, he couldn’t keep the groan from escaping this time, and he heard the Danes holler with laughter at Dagfinn’s ruse.

Once the worst of the pain had passed, he opened his eyes again and saw that across from him, Alfred was staring at him, his eyes wide. While he looked back, Uhtred felt blood trickle down his head, warm and wet. It ran down his nose in thin rivulets, down his neck and his temples, dripping from his brow like thick water.

“Well,” Hæsten observed coldly, eyes wandering across Uhtred’s face. He looked like a boar, truly, the way his thick body paced in the sand of the arena. “Not so pretty anymore, I fear. But it doesn’t matter where you’re going.”

Through the red, Uhtred watched Hæsten stroll to Alfred, watched him pat the king’s tangled hair. Then, with a lacklustre motion, he crowned him, too. The ring of metal shone in the sun, mocked them with its useless splendour. But Alfred wasn’t looking at Hæsten, barely noticed the crown that had been placed on his head.

“Now that we’ve sorted that out,” Hæsten roared, voice rising above the square, thundering against the ache of Uhtred’s head, “let’s move on to the second round, shall we?”

His audience roared their agreement, clapping and raising horns of ale. Uhtred wanted to kill them all.

“In the second round, Uhtred, someone is going to get flogged,” Hæsten announced, delighting in the twitching of Alfred’s jaw. “The question is… Is it going to be your king here, or is it going to be his rassragr.”

Once again, Uhtred tried to stop this stupid game by withholding his answer, and now, Alfred knew to hold his tongue as well.

Nonetheless, resistance proved futile; after a few seconds of silence, Hæsten shrugged, untroubled.

“Alright, I’ll assume you’re taking the easy option. We’ll flog the king the-“

“No, I will- I choose to be flogged,” Uhtred quickly interrupted Hæsten, not breaking eye contact with him.

Across from him, Alfred shook his head, face twisting. “Uhtred, you needn-“

“The king or his rassragr, Uhtred?” Hæsten asked, cutting Alfred off. “You have to play by the rules if you want me to hear you.”

Alfred’s eyes were burning into Uhtred’s, swirling, pleading for Uhtred to choose him.

Uhtred knew that the king hated to stand idly by, hated to feel responsible and powerless, but he also knew that Alfred wouldn’t possibly be able to take the whip silently. His body was thin and fragile, weakened by days without food. His mind, however, his mind was strong, and Uhtred knew that he would prevail that kind of torture, the mental kind.

“His rassragr,” he decided, denying Alfred’s wish.

The king’s disapproval was palpable, it hurt more than the thorns that pierced Uhtred’s skin.

"Very well," Hæsten smirked, sending Njal to the edge of the crowd with a commanding glance. There, Uhtred watched as someone handed him a six-plait whip, a hellish thing, bones knotted in its leather strings.

Suddenly, his hands grew clammy in the sun, dizziness blurring his vision. Memories of salt water and drums had intruded upon Uhtred's mind, of whipping, of Halig's screams, high-pitched and gurgling, and panic seized him with violent speed. 

He cursed himself.

Why feel this now? What good was fear if there wasn't a chance to escape its cause?

But Uhtred's mind didn't bargain with him. It was reeling. The sight of the whip had unleashed a trauma from its depths that couldn’t be controlled with rational thoughts. That trauma, that blackness, screamed at Uhtred's body to fight, to run, to struggle against the chains that held him, and it took all of his strength to remain still.

Stop it.

Above him, Njal handed the whip to Dagfinn, and Uhtred was grateful for it, because while Dagfinn wasn't a weak man, Njal's arms looked like tree trunks. Despite this shallow comfort, Uhtred's darkness swirled untouched, clouding his senses, beating his heart into a frenzy.

Get a grip.

"How many lashes, Uhtred? How many do you think?" Hæsten asked, tilting his head from one side to the other. Uhtred didn't answer, too busy fighting his fear. And anyway, what should he have said?

Full of malice, Hæsten turned his question on Alfred.

"How many lashes, lord king?" he asked him, tongue darting out, thick lips smacking.

Alfred didn't say anything either, didn't even acknowledge him, and Hæsten took that as an invitation to go to him, to force his attention. He slung an arm around Alfred’s narrow shoulders, hugging him to his side in a sardonic display of familiarity. Uhtred’s skin crawled at the sight, at his ugliness, but Hæsten was more rotten still than he could have imagined.

"He looks pretty on his knees, no?" the piece of shit asked conspiratorially, aiming at Alfred's ear as if he was whispering, yet his words were loud enough for every man to hear. “Well, I'm sure you've seen him like that many times… But a man taking another men's cock in his mouth? That's unlawful in the eyes of your God! So he needs to be punished, right?"

Alfred didn’t even blink, his hands were balled up into fists, nostrils flaring.

"I'll make you a deal, your majesty,” Hæsten proposed, grinning and pressing Alfred's tense shoulders even tighter. "You tell me how often you've fucked him, and I'll give him ten lashes each! That way, he might go to heaven!"

The mob roared with laughter.

“Go to hell,” Alfred spat.

“Yes, yes, that’s what he’ll do… How often, hm? One time? Five times? Ten?"

"Never." 

"Ah, but we both know that's not true, lord!” Hæsten disagreed scornfully, “He wouldn't be your rassragr if he didn't need your cock in his mouth once in a while. So, how many times?"

Alfred shook his head, unwilling to degrade himself like this, to degrade them like this. He said nothing more, and so Hæsten had to improvise.

"I get it, I get it, a gentleman never tells...” he said, letting go of Alfred and turning to the crowd with stretched out arms, laughing with them, banding together. “We'll just assume it was more than ten! That's a hundred lashes, what do you think?"

A hundred.

I can’t take a hundred.

The crowd shouted it’s approval, thirsty for blood.

Why?

You’re dead. Stop thinking.

Hæsten turned back to the king, waiting for him to object, but Alfred merely shook his head again, angrily staring at the ground. He looked small where he stood, alone. Panic gnawed at Uhtred’s self-control, black and cold.

Get a grip. Get a fucking grip.

Hæsten shrugged and looked at Dagfinn, smirking.

"A hundred it is."

"I'll take them," Alfred interjected. He had seen the fear in Uhtred's eyes, and he was unable to help himself, having to try at least once.

But Hæsten was ignoring him now.

"A hundred, Dagfinn," he repeated his command, and Dagfinn stepped behind Uhtred, raising his arm.

Alfred’s composure cracked before the whip did.

"One time! It was one time!"

Hæsten whirled around, sharply holding up his hand to stay Dagfinn’s arm. "Really?” he asked Alfred, genuinely shocked that his blackmail had worked, "You fucked him?"

The crowd thought that was hilarious, and around them the air exploded with laughter, hands slapping shoulders in abandon.

"You really fucked him in the mouth?" Hæsten asked again, loud enough that everyone would hear it. "I have to be honest, I didn’t expect that! Say, how in God's name did that feel?"

Alfred squeezed his eyes shut, jaw working, lips pressed together in utter disgust.

He hates it. He can barely endure it.

"Don't," Uhtred pleaded, trying to get Alfred to look at him, "Don't, lord, I can take the lashes!"

"Yes, he will take it all," Hæsten agreed. Nodding, he slung his dirty arm across Alfred’s naked shoulders once more, mouth close to his ear. "And I’m sure he's great at taking it, isn't he? Only… one hundred lashes won't leave much of him to enjoy, I fear."

Bastard!

"I'll die either way. It doesn't matter," Uhtred protested, but Alfred still wouldn't look at him, and Hæsten smiled.

"Yes, yes... that is true..." he agreed. "It's just that this way, he'll go through hell first. I've seen it once, how someone dies from this. The screaming, the tearing of flesh..." Here, Hæsten grimaced, as if disgusted by the memory, and Uhtred could see it then, how Alfred's resolve waned.

"Lord, it does not matter!" he yelled again, above the unruly crowd, fearing for Alfred's dignity.

"Most people faint when the whip reaches bone, you know, when the first big chunks of their muscles get stuck in its teeth,” Hæsten explained with relish, wet lips uncomfortably close to Alfred’s face. “But I am a patient man... I will wake him up."

"Lord, I can take it."

"SHUT UP, RASSRAGR!” Hæsten shouted, but a second later his attention was back on Alfred, and he smiled meanly, eyes boring into Alfred's ducked head.

Danes waited with bated breaths.

"How did it feel to fuck him?... Ten lashes, you have my word."

"Don't-"

"It felt good,” Alfred said, and the masses around them exploded in triumphant, filthy noises. Hæsten howled with laughter, shaking Alfred's shoulders.

"Warm and wet?" he asked, and Alfred nodded, mute.

"Yes?"

The king said something, inaudible among the nasty cheers, but Hæsten shook his head, and so Alfred had to wait for the Danes to settle, wait until he could be heard. He hissed his answer between clenched teeth, the devil leering down at him.

"Yes.”

Hæsten grinned dirtily.

"Did it feel better than your wife's pussy?" he asked, crowd hollering even louder.

"It felt like whatever you need me to say," Alfred replied defiantly, turning to Hæsten with hate so intense it was almost a physical presence.

His answer was a good one, as was the tone he had delivered it in. It reminded everyone that while Hæsten made the rules, the king had made a choice. It reminded them that Alfred had agency in this spectacle, humiliating as it was.

"Hm," Hæsten nodded his head, unsure of the required reaction. His limited mind couldn’t keep up with the subtext of Alfred’s words, and so he decided to ignore it, lips curling.

He looked at Dagfinn.

"Ten lashes," he said. "Let's go."

Fear was a cold hand against Uhtred’s neck, but he dared not bend, and when the first lash hit with a cracking sound, Uhtred felt fire singe its fingers across his back, felt the blow echo into his spine. The jaws of knotted bones branched across his back like lightning, but he stayed silent.

And again it rained pain, bites tearing.

And again he stayed silent.

After the fourth blow, the pain was all-present. It was so hot that his back felt almost numb. Unfortunately, that numbness didn’t last.

After the seventh blow, dizziness hit him, spinning him, yet through it all, he remained silent, and by the time Dagfinn was done, blood was running down his sides, wetness covering the length of his body, his back warm and drenched in red.

Yet, the crowd’s mood had changed.

Uhtred had sagged in his bonds. His vision was blurring, blackness threatening, but he could hear that the mob around him had become more quiet, and he felt their eyes rest on him with something other than hatred.

Through his dizziness, he focused on Alfred. His anchor, his rock, steady in the blur.

Hæsten, meanwhile, was enraged by Uhtred’s self-control. He sensed the turning sympathy of the crowd, their growing admiration of Uhtred’s strength, and he felt humiliated. Nostrils flaring, chest puffing, he turned to Alfred, determined to force the situation back under his control.

"He doesn't seem to care very much, does he? Is this what he likes, Alfred?" he asked, mock titles forgotten in his hurry to ridicule, "Does he like pain?"

Alfred wasn't in the mood for banter. He looked like he was going to vomit, blue eyes never straying far from Uhtred’s drooping head, from the crown that dripped blood.

"Well, we'll make him care. He’ll break eventually,” Hæsten promised, too impatient to wait for an answer, and that made Alfred turn his head.

"You said ten lashes," he clashed, furious, "It is done."

Hæsten laughed, short and brutal. "That was before I knew the dirty dog liked it."

"You gave your word."

"And you believed me? After all I've done?"

Uhtred raised his head, and it was then that he saw something in Alfred shatter, lost forever.

"King Alfred, the cleverest man you'll find… I think not," Hæsten taunted mockingly, and before Alfred could say anything else, he nodded to Njal, who took the whip from Dagfinn's hands. "I want to hear him scream," he ordered coldly.

What followed was hell, pure and simple.

Uhtred didn’t count the strikes, too lost in the agony of ripping flesh. Soon, he couldn’t see Alfred anymore, crippling pain making it impossible to perceive anything that lay outside the limits of his body, and with no end in sight, without anything to hold him together, to distract him from the feeling of being torn apart, he broke.

It had nothing to do with courage, with valour.

All these things were concepts of the mind, words for people who could think. He was an animal that was being eaten, bite by bite, and so he broke and he screamed, screamed until he was hoarse, until he couldn’t find the air in his lungs to continue.

Then, he blacked out.

For a while.

When he woke again, it was because his open wounds tore him from his slumber, nerves howling like an axe had been struck in his back, mind screaming at him to run, run, run. He sucked in a sharp breath, eyes splitting wide open, breaching the surface of sleep and falling right into a nightmare.

He sobbed. He couldn’t help it.

“But crucifixion isn’t- Ah, there he is!” Hæsten exclaimed, slapping Alfred's frozen cheek. “See, I didn’t kill him! Not yet…”

Through the anguish, Uhtred felt Alfred’s eyes on him. The king had been pushed next to the cross, and he didn’t look… alive. He was deathly white, almost bloodless, all of the fight sucked out of his body by what he had been forced to witness. Standing motionless, he was watching Uhtred where he hung from his fetters, blankly taking in his bloody sprawl.

Hæsten had already turned his attention back to the cross, as if Uhtred was nothing but a temporary distraction.

“Where was I- ah, yes, crucifixion isn’t so easy, one isn’t exactly like the other,” Hæsten lectured jovially. When Alfred’s gaze remained on Uhtred, Hæsten roughly took him by the neck, forcing him to look back at the cross. “It’s never a quick death, of course, but it can be more or less slow. Minutes to days… for you, we’ve chosen a faster route, you’ll like to hear. It won’t take days. I have places to be, you know?”

Uhtred wanted to charge him, wanted to rip him apart with his teeth. But he burned everywhere, raw flesh screaming, and he could barely lift his head. Between the flogging and the beating of the night, Uhtred’s body suffered from damage that was no longer distinguishable, no longer describable, and the only thing that kept him from lying in his bloody drool were the chains around his twisted wrists.

He groaned under the strain, crown ripping, and listened helplessly as Hæsten ranted on.

“I remember Sigefrid-“ the Dane said, halting, eyes blazing at Alfred’s, “Do you remember Sigefrid? Your bitch of a daughter killed him. Turned his brother against him… the person he loved most in this world.”

The crowd booed and whistled, but Alfred stayed mute. He knew better than to play Hæsten’s games. He had learned that the hard way.

“No? Well, it was him who always wondered what exactly killed a man… on that thing there,” Hæsten continued,  pointing at the blackened wood to his feet, “Turns out it depends... Is there a footrest? Is the man healthy, young or old, nailed or bound?”

Suddenly, he slapped a flat hand against his forehead, whirling around.

“That reminds me, I forgot to ask…” He casually shook his finger at Uhtred, as if they were having a conversation, and what he said next rang across the square, loud and clear as always. But that didn’t make it any easier for Uhtred to understand. He felt like he was hearing it through fog, the words muted and distant, terrible in a way that lacked true meaning. “…is the king going to be nailed or bound, Uhtred?”

No.

No, Gods, I-

“You decide... are we going to take nails and plunge them through his delicate little hands? Or will you take that punishment, too?”

In the beauty of the midday sun, Hæsten strolled to him, hazy in the light, distorted by Uhtred’s fraying mind, a body that was barely holding on. 

“Your hands or his?”

Fuck, no- Fuck.

“You’ve done enough, Uhtred,” Alfred told him, emotionless behind Hæsten. Rational. “Choose me. Nails will be quicker.”

Despite the sun, Uhtred was cold, terribly cold. Even the blood on his back felt icy in the breeze. That was a bad sign, wasn’t it? After all, blood was supposed to be warm. So how could he be cold?

“You need to decide, Uhtred,” Hæsten taunted him in a singsong. He stood next to him now, and he tapped Uhtred’s hand were it sat on top of the wooden rod, right in the middle. “Either way, the nails are hungry.”

“Burn in hell,” Alfred told him.

Uhtred knew he was half dead already. Yet, try as he might, he couldn’t deny that he was scared, was sick with anticipation. The idea of what would precede his death, of being nailed to something, was ugly, stomach-turning.

“Who gets nailed? The king or his rassragr?” Hæsten urged, impatiently tapping away at his hand, “I will not ask again. I’ll choose him if you don’t answer.”

“His rassragr,” Uhtred said, voice shaking but without hesitation.

Neck whetting with grinding bones, he looked up, and Alfred met his eyes across the sand, lips firmly pressed together, as if to keep himself from screaming. He looked like he had reached his breaking point, and briefly, Uhtred feared that the king would lose his composure.

"Dignity," he mouthed, reminding him.

Something changed, then, in the space between two breaths, and Uhtred saw how Alfred’s eyes filled with everything his face couldn’t show, couldn’t let their enemies see. At the forefront, there were grief and hatred, like guards to a palace, but right behind them stood defiance, tall and strong. And still behind that, serene like a chapel, was his faith, proud and unshakeable.

He’s build himself a courtyard, Uhtred thought, a Roman courtyard for his mind.

The idea made him fight through his agony, smile with blood-slick lips. He nodded, heavy with exhausted understanding, and against all odds, Alfred, crowned and pale in this dusty hell, nodded back at him.

They were going to end this together.

Alone, but together.

Fortunately, Hæsten didn’t see it, this understanding between them. He was jabbering on about something, but Uhtred didn’t hear him, didn’t see him. From this moment on, his ears, his eyes, they were for Alfred alone, and when the king opened his mouth, he didn’t cry. He didn’t bargain or beg their enemies to stop, but he sounded his voice to the heavens, rising over Hæsten’s drivel.

“Listen,” he called out proudly, not taking his eyes from Uhtred's. He waited a moment, and the Saxons in the crowd turned their faces towards him, surprised at his instruction. They knew what this word meant, that it heralded verses, a story, and they listened intently now, hanging on Alfred’s lips.

"I will tell the best of visions, what came to me in the middle of the night," Alfred recited, straightening with strength and pride, voice carrying across the square, “There I saw a wonderful tree, lifted in the air, wound round with light.”

“What is this supposed to be,” Hæsten crowed, laughing derisively, “are you singing him a song now?”

The Danes laughed with him, but the Saxons waited attentively, keen for Alfred to continue.

And Alfred did, kept speaking like Uhtred had never heard him speak before. Words flowed out of him like music, with rhyme and rhythm. Danes and Saxons alike listened then, as Alfred spoke about a dream, about trees and a gold-crusted beacon. In a splendour of sounds, he talked about all corners of the world, about treasures and gems.

Uhtred didn’t understand a word of what he was saying. But apparently, the Saxons did. They nodded silently, half-hidden smiles flashing between Danish frowns, knowing glances that bound them tightly, unified them in secret fellowship, in invisible bonds of fealty.

Hæsten saw it, too, saw that something was happening, and he yearned to put a stop to whatever it was. At first, he tried to talk over Alfred, but the king sang on, further and further, and so Hæsten decided that he had to be upstaged.

“Do it. Nail him to the posts,” he sneered grimly, waving at his men.

Njal instantly grabbed Uhtred’s wrist, pressing his hand to the smooth wood underneath, and out of nowhere, Dagfinn stepped closer, hammer in hand. He handed Njal a nail, a rusted, dreadful thing, and Uhtred’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of its size, the glinting metal of its tip. He exhaled, chest filling with dread, and against all expectations, his body found the strength to struggle, instinct taking over.

Follow me, and we’ll ascent together.

"It was certainly no gallows of the wicked, but the holy spirits beheld it, men over the earth and all this glorious creation," Alfred chanted, voice unyielding, but he turned his head away, unable to watch as Dagfinn and Njal fought to hold Uhtred still, aiming that cursed nail at the back of his hand.

Not painlessly, not quietly maybe, but unafraid.

Though Uhtred didn’t understand the subject of Alfred’s words, he heard their soul, the zeal with which Alfred sung them. Uhtred knew that his king wasn’t made for torture, and he didn’t resent him for averting his eyes. Alfred’s mind was that of a philosopher, too empathetic for this brutal kind of entertainment. But every spoken verse steeled the faith inside him, the thing that reigned beyond Alfred's world, beyond all of this suffering.

Uhtred was comforted by that.

Alfred’s steady voice soothed him like melted honey, and he let himself be enveloped by it now, closing his eyes against the brutal image of Dagfinn’s hand, rising, hammer held tightly.

“Wondrous was the victory-tree,” Alfred praised over the pounding of Uhtred’s blood, “and I stained with sins… wounded with guilts.”

The first thing he felt was pressure, only pressure, as if his body couldn’t decipher what was really happening, what was unthinkable. But agony rushed in on its heels, bright and all-consuming, hitting him so hard that it knocked him backwards, the need for flight setting in although it was impossible. Uhtred’s muscles convulsed under the assault of clashing flames, back arching unnaturally. His spasms pulled at his hand, pulled at that point where all of his senses were pressed into fire, and he cracked back like a whip, desperate to lessen that soul-shattering bite.  

The noises that fled his body weren’t human.

Between the screams, he bit his tongue, flooded with the sudden taste of iron, and then someone was grabbing his other hand, pulling it, pressing it, and he was squirming away, pulled back by that maelstrom of thoughtless torment. Torture exploded for a second time, and it threw him back, right out of his mind.

For the first time, he wished for the release of death.

Beyond his personal hell, Alfred didn’t sing. He was too rattled by Uhtred’s screams to remember his words. Shaking, with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, he tried to drown out what was happening, breathless with the terror they were going through. What was this, if not hell? despair cried in him, clawing at him. How could the devil surpass this?

No, Alfred didn’t sing.

Not right away.

But his weakness lasted only a moment, because hidden in his mind, enshrined in the protective walls of his courtyard, the king remembered his duty; his duty to Wessex, to England, to Uhtred. His part of the burden. And so he swallowed his terror and took up his task.

“I was all drenched with sorrows,” he lamented to the crowd, speaking over Uhtred’s cries. His body was trembling, but his voice was louder even than before, and to Haesten’s horror, the people gave him their attention readily, all of them shocked that Alfred was still going on. “Frightened by the lovely vision, I saw that urgent beacon change its covering and colours, it was soaked with wetness, stained with the coursing of blood.”

Uhtred was screaming still, writhing under nails that were ripping at flesh. He was begging for unconsciousness that wouldn’t come, adrenalin keeping him aware, forcing him to feel. Alfred’s voice seeped into his pain, and he clenched his teeth, fighting against the absolute rule of his punishing senses.

The king watched him fight, heartbroken, torn at by creeping, crouching grief. But he sung, and his audience was enraptured.

“I’m tired of his bleating. Get him up there!” Hæsten ordered, game rapidly spiralling out of control, and his men hurried all around him, buzzing like wasps, malicious fiends that would burn for all eternity.

Among them, Alfred sang, deafening, drowning out his fear.

He sang as men grabbed him and threw him to the ground, sang as they mauled him, fastened him with frenzied hands.

“They seized me there, my enemies,” he spoke, with beautiful cadence, looking up at the heavens, unimpressed by the hateful urgency around him. "Made me a spectacle for themselves.”

When finally, Uhtred stopped screaming, stopped haunting him, his sobs tapering off, Alfred closed his eyes, relieved that his torment had ebbed.

"I saw then the Saviour of men hasten with great zeal, as if he wanted to climb up on me. He stripped himself then, the young prince."

There, under the cloudless sky of Eást-Engle, witnessed by the multitude, by the Lord and all of his creation, Alfred’s cross was reared. He sobbed as his body dropped from its height, shoulders catching his fall, muscles pulling painfully, fighting against his own weight.

"That was God almighty,” he gasped, pained and breathless already, yet giving himself no time to dwell on it, no opportunity for weakness, “Strong and resolute, he ascended on the high gallows, brave in the sight of many.”

Only then did Uhtred gather enough of himself to realize what had happened during his insanity, and his breathing turned shallow, adrenalin withdrawing as shock spread cold.

Alfred was still talking, high up there on that wooden cross, about warriors and trees, but Uhtred didn’t understand, head spinning, thoughts shattered. Disorientated, hands lashing knifes into his arms, he watched as Alfred sagged down, sagged further than his body should allow. This time, it was the king’s turn to cry out, face twisting with choking pain, shoulders pulling out of joints

Hæsten laughed, triumphant.

“And here the singing stops!” he cheered, and clapped his hands in spiteful glee, Danes clapping with him. The Saxons were silent. They knew that the story didn’t end this way.

And they were right.

Clearly, Hæsten had expected Alfred to break under the onslaught of physical pain, but his spirit wasn’t so easily defeated. His blue eyes found Uhtred’s own, both pairs full of anguish, and they held each other gently, bridging the distance.

Finally, Uhtred could listen.

“I was reared a cross. I raised up the powerful King, the Lord of heaven, I dared not bend. They pierced me with dark nails; on me are the wounds visible, the open wounds of malice."

Alfred released his pain in a rat-a-tat of wounded words, agony plain on his face. His elbows were bending cruelly where his body pulled at them, but the king didn’t mutter a sound of pain anymore, only verses. His eyes were firmly trained on Uhtred, on his pierced hands, on his blood-smeared face.  

“They mocked us both together," he recited the words of the rood, while Hæsten’s expression darkened with disbelief, “I was all drenched with blood."

Alfred’s entire weight was supported by his stretched out arms now, and the expansion of his chest made it difficult for him to inhale. His voice grew weaker as he struggled to get the air that was necessary for him to speak, rips starkly pressed against his skin. He would suffocate like this, Uhtred realized, soon if he didn’t stop to waste his breath.

But he wasn’t wasting it, was he?

Uhtred smiled, head aching but fuzzy, drums against his skull that beat the rhythm of his pulse, thrumming red into his hands, fingers dead and limp.  

At last, Hæsten had realized his ridiculous mistake, had realized that he was making Alfred a martyr, an immortal leader. Frantically, he scrambled for something, anything, that would make him lose his courage, desperate to end this devastating display of bravery.

He pointed at Uhtred.

“Stop talking, or I'll kill him!” he barked, showing teeth like a rabid dog.

The threat was laughable, of course.

"I have experienced on that hillside many cruelties of fate. Darkness had covered with clouds the Ruler's corpse, the gleaming light," Alfred declared, his voice swelling with defiance despite his difficulty breathing, ignoring Hæsten’s demand, "All creation wept, lamented the King's fall as Christ was on the cross."            

And indeed, Uhtred saw some Saxons weeping, women mostly, but some men as well, and he marvelled at the power of Alfred’s voice. There, among the wailing wives, Uhtred saw another women, her face tear-streaked, too. She was young, wore a tattered dress, and when their eyes met, she nodded, lips moving in a promise.

Hæsten fumed, mumbling, black eyes anxious.  

“Now the time has come that I will be honoured far and wide by men over the earth and all this glorious creation… they will pray to this beacon,” the king proclaimed his victory, chest heaving upwards.

“Kill him, Dagfinn.”

Death approaching, Uhtred eyes shot back to Alfred’s. Together, they struggled for breath, struggled for life, and Uhtred wondered silently if Alfred could survive him, if Alfred might prevail. He prayed that he would.

“On me the Son of God suffered for a while… for that I am glorious now… I was made the hardest of punishments."

The Saxons in the crowd had become unruly.

They snarled, grinding teeth besides their crying wives, suffocating in their cowardice. Some began to shove the mocking Danes, tempers boiling as Dagfinn strode across the sand, black mane whirling in the wind like hissing serpents.

For Uhtred, there was only Alfred.

“Most hateful to the people…”

I love him, Uhtred thought.

“…before I opened for them the true way of life.”

I love him so much.

Then Dagfinn plunged the blade into the space beneath his ribcage, and finally, pain became meaningless.

“Death he tasted there, on that tree-” Alfred cried as the dagger was pulled from Uhtred’s gut, and for the first time, he lost his voice, breath hitching.

Tears were running down his cheeks, pink lips trembling. But when Uhtred, through the nothingness, looked up at him, Alfred shook his head, breaking off his sorrow like an arrow in his chest.

“Nevertheless, the Lord rose afterwards… He ascended into heaven,” he soldiered on bravely, struggling for air, and watched Uhtred drain blood, red gore spilling onto the sand at his knees. "And he will come here to this middle earth… to seek mankind… On doomsday, the Lord himself… so that he will judge you… you who stand here.”

Alfred had put his soul into those last few words, all of his vigorous wrath, glaring at the crowd, and it was this reminder of God’s judgement that was the final nail in Hæsten’s coffin.

What had been unruly before turned savage now as Saxons rebelled all around. Fights broke out, left and right, brutal and deadly. Dunwhich’s Christians were outnumbered, but they fought tooth and nail, fearless, like vicious beasts, mindless berserkers, uncaring for anything but God’s favour.

Uhtred didn’t watch them fight.

Life poured from him, a violent stream of cruel crimson, and he fell into the black, mind slipping like a snake.

Time lost its grip on him and he his grip on time.

“Uhtred,“ Alfred called him back through the fog, pulled him from death’s maw. His voice was weak, drowned out by shouting, yet Uhtred heard it anyway, would have heard it anywhere.

When his eyes fought open, he saw that Alfred’s prayer had worked.

The dusty hell of their torment had turned into a sea of blue, flooding the square, churning, Mercian cloaks all around. Among them, Uhtred saw no single man, no known faces, only chaos, one single violent wave. He heard screams through the clamour, voices that rang familiar.

“Save the king!” one of them cried.

“Cut him down!” cried another.

Uhtred was too tired to place them, had lost too much blood to think. He didn’t care who they were, either way, cared only for the knowledge that Alfred would be saved. He knew he didn’t have much time, felt his mind slipping again, his thoughts hazy and pale. So he sought out Alfred, whose eyes were trained on his, unwavering despite the battle beneath.

Alfred knew that Uhtred was fading.

Like a priest at the bed of a dying man, he spoke to him and only him, and Uhtred was entranced by him.

"He will ask where… the man is who for the Lord's name would taste bitter death… just as the Lord did on that tree… Then there will be no need for you to be afraid," Alfred comforted him, speaking through tears. He gasped his words like sobs now, fighting for every breath, and Uhtred heard him as if through a dream. “And I myself… hope each day… for when the Lord's cross will… fetch me from this transitory life… bring me where… the Lord's people are sat in feasting.”

Despite the beauty of Alfred’s words, Uhtred struggled to listen.

He was drained, bone-weary.

Eternal sleep beckoned him with quiet, restful arms, and Uhtred closed his eyes to Alfred’s song, content when he found himself among the feasting that Alfred had spoken of. Valhalla was glorious, made entirely from stone and gold. Its roof was tiled with Saxon shields, and its walls were painted like the great hall at Winchester. Its paintings were larger though, brighter and more ornate, and as Uhtred's eyes followed their stories, their battles, he saw that the hall itself was designed like a pagan hall, with galleries and columns made from golden rings.

"Where… there’s… unceasing bliss…… joy in heav…" Alfred tried to continue, but there was no air left in his lungs to speak.

Without his voice to hold onto, Uhtred’s grip on the world loosened further. Beyond his bone-house, he slipped into his seat at the benches of the Fallen, where thousands of candles illuminated hundreds of tapestries. The table was full with food and ale, almost bending beneath all its weight, and he spotted familiar faces among the crowd. Clapa was there, waving at him, and Leofric, who was shouting something and grinning, happy to see him in their midst.

And there, on the very far side of the table, beneath a jewelled, golden cross, sat Alfred’s empty throne, waiting patiently for him to take it. Uhtred was relieved to see it, comforted to know that he wouldn’t have to miss his lord. He watched the throne, watched it change its covering and colours; sometimes it was soaked with wetness, stained with the coursing of blood; sometimes adorned with treasure. He didn’t dare to take his eyes from it, but his sight dimmed nonetheless.

For a time then, there was only darkness, chaotic noise and clanging metal, and he knew this was his end. So, with his heart slowing to a crawl, he collected all of his strength to open his eyes one more time. At once, middle earth crashed into his senses, men fighting all around him, grim and bloodied.

Beyond the bloodshed, he saw Alfred, King of Saxons, high above his warriors.

His lord was on the victory-tree, noble in his pain, and brave in battle, and Uhtred witnessed him, loved him, and then the darkness overtook him.

Chapter Text

After the darkness lifted, Valhalla didn’t welcome him.

Instead of feasting, instead of nothingness even, Uhtred was surrounded by fire.

It burned him, melted his skin while he writhed in agony on grating ground. All around him were screams, people who were also on fire. Damned like him, their bodies drummed against the embers beneath him, and some of them grabbed for him in their panic, lunged for his limbs. When one seized his wrists, his hands, clawing into him, the flames shattered Uhtred so completely that his soul escaped his body. It rose from his tongue, escaped his blackened corpse, slipping from his lungs like smoke.

He watched it disappear into the flame-lit sky until it was blocked out by Finan, who looked pale and grim, his hair tangled with blood and soot.

"Hold on, Uhtred," he said, "Stay with me, brother."

Everything stilled then, everything turned upside down. Bright flames turned to darkness, voices and screams faded into timeless silence, and Uhtred began to feel cold, so incredibly cold. When the coldness plunged into a pit of flaking snow, he shivered in its depth, ice spreading through his veins, crystallizing in his bones. At once, he realized that he was trapped in Niflhel, somewhere in a snowy ditch.

This was his forever.

Scared, he called out for Beocca, for Ragnar, crying bitterly, but his tears froze to cruel shards of glass. They blinded him, darkness all-enveloping, and there he lay, eyes bleeding all of his last warmth onto his cheeks, frozen solid, fingers clenching around the hilt of a sword that wasn’t there. Lifetimes passed him in that icy ditch, eternities entombing him in snow.

A burial mound, soft and everlasting.  

The snow fell.

And it fell.

And it fell.

When time had long forgotten him, a wyrm charged, gliding noiselessly out of the darkness, a fire-breathing monster. With a single stroke of its wings, it blew away the mound of snow, and its fire brought him back to life, flames licking from inside, biting pain. The fire rooted in his gut, warming him, burning him, anchoring him in the sea of cold numbness.

He faced that wyrm then, with faceless men. Men who shouted for him, fought with him, side by side. The world shook and shook and shook, like a cart on bumpy roads, and they fought for a thousand years, and rested one, and then fought for another thousand, until there was nothing left to fight.

Afterwards, the world stood still.

Bloodied, hacked to pieces, Uhtred stood in a snowy field of pale and gasping bodies, his heart stumbling unsteadily. He was wrapped in bandages, and he listened to the song of the Valkyries, high-pitched and harmonious, sounding from a distance. There were ravens, too, crowing loudly, and graves, and a girl in a tattered dress who sat amongst them, calling his name. He was exhausted, and it was cold and dark, and getting much, much darker... ever darker…

He wanted to sleep.

But then Alfred sat next to him, silent tears trailing down his cheeks like they had on that cross.

"Please don't die," he whispered, "I need you," and Uhtred felt him press the warmth of Edward's head against his hand, felt raindrops hit his fingertips.

He was just a baby, and he needed to survive the night.

So Uhtred fought his weariness, held on to Edward’s warmth, and when sleep threatened him, he curled around him, protected him against the claws of darkness. They were pulling at him like ravens, hungry for life, picking at his hands and scraping nails across his back, but Uhtred didn’t let them take the child. He curled tighter, warmer around Edward's heart, and he listened to his weak breath, guarded it through the cold night, fighting till it strengthened.

At the dawn of a new day, he fell asleep with Edward’s heartbeat pressed against his chest, utterly exhausted.

When he woke, he heard Alfred's voice again, close to his ear.

"Have you been praying?" he asked, and Uhtred felt shame seize him like a wave, because he had not, in fact, been praying. Before he could confess to it, however, another man answered.

"We have, lord. Every day and every night."

"And there's been no change?"

"No, lord," said the voice, crowing unpleasantly from far away. “If at all, he weakens.”

Alfred sighed, anxious but accepting. Yet beside him, Uhtred’s heart swelled with anger. What blatant lies! Of course there had been change! He'd worked for it all night. He had worked, and the fever had gone down.

Tell him the truth, Uhtred thought, annoyed by the crowing man.

He calmed when he felt someone take his hand, warmth soothing his aching bones. Warmth like a baby’s head.

“He will not live, lord, this has gone on for far too long,” that man cawed, there across from him, that hateful little voice. “If he was meant to live, then God would have awoken him by now.”

"I do not understand how that can be," Uhtred heard Alfred mumble. He sounded small, sounded close to tears. “He has woken, at times.”

“The fever, lord, nothing more. There is instances where the body lives, but the soul is gone. It has been written.”

But Edward lives! Uhtred wanted to scream, to rage. How has nobody told him that he lives?

“Then… we’ll continue to pray.”

“Lord king. In these cases, it is best not to prolong the inevita–“

“We’ll prolong, Brother Godwin!” Alfred snapped angrily, abruptly, and there was so much pain in his voice that Uhtred could no longer stand it. Furious, he opened his eyes.

Or rather, he tried to.

It was harder than he had anticipated, and when he succeeded, partly at least, he saw nothing but blinding light. It was painfully bright, and so he tried to raise his hand, to shield himself, but it felt as if his arm was weighted down with rocks, and he barely managed to lift it at all.

He groaned and someone gasped.

Suddenly, his surroundings turned into a burst of noise. There were more gasps, chairs scraping on stone, and something fell, clattering onto the floor.

"Get the healers," Alfred commanded, urgent and unsteady.

Disorientated, Uhtred tried to speak, but his body wouldn't have it.

He coughed and coughed, again and again, heaving dry nothingness as his throat and chest convulsed in painful spasms. Every contraction fanned the fire in his gut, stabbed him like a knife, but he couldn’t seem to stop them from coming.

Whoever had held Uhtred’s hand let go of him then, and something was pressed against his lips, smooth and cool. He drank from it greedily, sweet water soothing the horrible soreness of his throat. But in his drowsiness, Uhtred was too slow to swallow. He choked and sputtered, and the water was gone.

"More," he rasped instinctively.

Mercifully, the cup came back, but it trembled, and he choked again.

"Careful," he heard Alfred say.

Uhtred saw his outline now, hovering above him, in that blinding light. He wanted to speak to him, wanted to ask what was happening, but his tongue didn’t obey, and then the room filled with noise and Alfred stepped away, out of sight.

Uhtred felt his absence like a hole in his chest.

In Alfred’s stead, the shapes of men filled Uhtred’s view, men who touched him with cold hands, asked question after question. Uhtred did his best to nod or shake his head, yet all that time, the only thing he wanted was for Alfred to come back. He wanted to see him, to know that he was there.

Even so, he couldn’t bring himself to call for him.

Not in front of so many strangers, men who talked like waterfalls. They were going on and on, though Uhtred could no longer follow them. When he stopped to respond, closed his eyes against the light, they opened the linen dressings that covered him like a second skin, argued over what they saw. He ached then, winced and groaned under their prodding fingers, but soon something was spread on his skin, something cool and wet, and it dowsed the flames inside.

Exhausted, he fell back asleep.

The next time he woke, his surroundings were much darker. In the dimmed candlelight, it was easier for Uhtred’s eyes to see.

“Finan,” Uhtred rasped, and watched his friend break out into a giant smile.

“Good morning, princess!” Finan beamed at him from his place beside the bed, relief piercing sharply through his superficial cheer.

Uhtred couldn't respond. He managed a choked cough, his throat aching, and he was thankful when Finan pressed a cup to his lips, tipping it to help him drink. Uhtred drank, and drank, and drank, thick tongued and weak. His body felt as if it was made out of sand, grains of it rubbing against his eyelids every time he blinked.

Yet, even as he drank, his eyes were restless.

He didn’t recognize his surroundings, but he knew it wasn’t somewhere he’d been before. All of the walls that he could see where made of stone, tapestries on each, and there were candles everywhere, expensive beeswax candles, surrounding him in pyramids of light. Fine furs cocooned him in warmth, and the mattress he lay on was much too comfortable for straw.

Where am I? Uhtred wanted to ask, but he dreaded speaking, his throat still raw. Fortunately, Finan knew him like a brother. He saw the question in his eyes.

“You are back in Winchester,” Finan said, putting the now empty cup on the table beside him. Smirking, he helped Uhtred lay back against the furs and nodded at the room. “Royal quarters, actually.”

Winchester, Uhtred thought, dazed still.

Winchester made sense.

But why would he be in the palace, why in royal quarters?

“You slept for a long time, woke up once or twice, but I doubt you remember that,” Finan continued beside him. He looked weary, uncertain.

Frowning, Uhtred tried to remember what had happened. He had to have been injured in battle, yet the details of it all lay behind the mists of his mind, behind the icy white of Niflhel. He tried to clear his foggy memory, but in the end, he had to shake his head. Above him, shadows flickered across an arched ceiling.

Finan nodded, suspicion confirmed, “Well, you almost died on me, you twat.”

Banter was familiar, calming even, and Uhtred wanted to smile, to talk back, but he was too weak. His eyes fell shut against his will.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, trying and failing to remember the details of his injuries, buried beneath eternities of snow.

“It’s fine. You know I don’t hold grudges,” Uhtred heard Finan’s voice next to him, teasing him. “And even if I did, I’ve gotta stay in your good graces, you know? You’re a pretty big deal now. They have priests singing for you day and night.”

It was true, Uhtred could hear them. High-pitched, harmonious voices outside the door.

“Valkyries,” he whispered into the dark, shadows grasping for him from the corners of the room.

“What?”

“I–,” he frowned, trying to extricate reality from dreams, and in that moment he remembered something, someone, and it forced his eyes open despite his fatigue. He tried to raise himself up, groaning under the effort, heart speeding up in sudden terror.

“The ambush!” he gasped, his voice broken with disuse, “Alfred, he's-”

Next to him, Finan shot up from his seat, quickly laid a hand on his chest to keep him still.

“Alfred is fine,” he said hurriedly, pressing him back to the bed, but something in his face didn’t seem quite right. He was frowning, and he looked... Uhtred couldn’t place the expression. In truth, he couldn’t concentrate on anything for very long. Exhausted, he stopped pushing against Finan's hand, his body aching where it lay beneath the furs. His skin felt uncomfortably tight, pain throbbing in his hands and gut.

“Am I going to live?” he asked, suddenly unsure.

“Fuck yes,” Finan answered, though his face spoke of sorrows. “After this, my friend, I reckon you’ll outlive us all.”

Uhtred wanted to ask more questions, wanted to know what had happened, but his mind was already drifting, his body not granting him quick answers.

“I’m tired,” he mumbled, tongue too heavy in his mouth, eyes closing again, “Will you stay?”

“Aye, lord. I will,” Finan promised reassuringly, and so Uhtred slipped back into the dark.

From now on, his sleep was restful, dreamless, not the nightmare it had been before. He woke up more often now, at night and during the day, and every time someone else sat next to him; Sihtric was there, pleased and still, and Osferth, praying, and Beocca, who cried and hugged him.

It was Beocca who was there for him when they changed Uhtred’s bandages. When for the first time, Uhtred saw the healing wound in his stomach, the state of his hands... At the sight of them, destroyed, limp and pale, Uhtred wept like a child, like the boy Beocca had known in another life, who he had comforted during the long, dark nights of the North.

Now, he did what he had done before.

He held Uhtred through the pain, in his darkest hour, as if he was that boy again, and whispered gentle, soothing words against his brow. And Uhtred, in Beocca’s arms, remembered his nightmare; his broken body, the beatings and whipping, the crown, the nails… his lord on the cross, death plunging into him. He sobbed and shook, finally safe enough to show his fear - to feel his grief and anguish.

Afterwards, when Uhtred had run out of tears to cry, Beocca stayed with him for a while, and Uhtred, who felt so terribly abandoned, asked for Alfred, too tired to keep the words from spilling out.

Unlike Finan, Beocca didn’t frown.

“He’s here every morning and every evening, boy,” he said, soothingly, in a tone that underlined the very strangeness of that truth, “You simply sleep a lot.”

Uhtred's heart sung at his words. It sung so loudly that its echo ached in Uhtred’s chest. Like a hole to be filled, a new need that demanded to be met.

I love him, he remembered.

And that was it, the final straw. All of this had to be a dream. Most probably, he had died in his bed, an old man’s death, and now the Gods were punishing him with visions of torture and snow, of Valkyries, sickness and impossible love.

"How long have I been asleep?" he asked Beocca.

The answer was more shocking than he had imagined.

"It's been a month," Beocca said. He swallowed around the words, almost choked on them, and Uhtred’s breath caught in his lungs. “Almost to the day. We've sustained you with broth and sweet waters, but…" he grimaced, "sometimes you wouldn’t swallow.”

One month.

“It was ugly...” Beocca finished, visibly disturbed by the memory, but Uhtred was barely listening. He had never heard of anyone sleeping for a week, never mind a month. Usually, when a man didn’t wake after a couple of days, it meant he was going to die. The Danes would have killed and buried such a man. They would have put him out of his misery.

Another thought came to him, this one terrible.

“Will I keep my hands?” he asked, before he could lose his courage.

Beocca chewed his lip. His hands were fidgeting.

“I don’t know,” he said, with eyes that were full of sympathy.

When he saw the look Uhtred gave him, he quickly shook his head.

“No, I am not lying,” he assured earnestly, “I wouldn’t sugar-coat it, I swear on God himself.” He sighed and looked to the ceiling, adjusting the arms of his robes. “It’s just that the healers report to the king and he... he hasn’t been very talkative… since…” His voice petered out, leaving it unspoken.

Uhtred closed his eyes.

Like the king, he didn’t say much after that, too overwhelmed with what he had been told, and soon, Beocca sensed that he wanted to be left alone. Reluctantly, he stood up. Before he left, however, he bend over Uhtred's dwindled form, pressing his lips to Uhtred’s forehead.

“Sleep,” he said, sounding like a worried mother. “Your body needs it.”

His eyes still closed, Uhtred nodded, but inside him, the battle against his exhaustion had already begun. It was midday now, maybe afternoon. In only a few hours, Alfred would arrive and this time, Uhtred wouldn’t miss him.

He was determined.

So determined was he, that when he fell asleep, he waited for Alfred even in his dreams. When he woke in the deep of the night, gazing at the dark ceiling of Alfred’s chambers, he cursed himself and vowed to stay alert till morning.

Of course, he didn’t make it.

From now on, every time he woke to one of his friends waiting beside him, Uhtred felt a twinge of disappointment, guilt following right after. Along with his friends, Uhtred seemed to be surrounded by an army of monks and priests. While the healers came and went, there was at least one clergyman in the room at all times. At day and at night, they crept around the room; changing candles, murmuring prayers, watching.

A thousand monks, a hundred priests, but not one king.

In the days that passed in Alfred’s absence, Uhtred’s strength grew along with his frustration. He managed to stay awake longer and longer, bore the changing of his bandages with grim dignity. By now, he could hold a conversation, and it was with Finan that he first raised the question which had irked him for a while.

“Why am I here?” he asked his friend, “Why not in my house?"

Unexpectedly, Finan beamed at him.

“Well listen, unfortunately, your house has been taken over by a maniac,” he said, mouth twitching, and Uhtred gifted him an uncomprehending frown. Finan elaborated. “East Anglian? Has the temperament of a doused cat?”

Despite the clues, Uhtred’s confusion didn’t ebb.

“Her name is Modthryth,” Finan relented, abandoning his game as he waited for Uhtred to remember.

“The whore?”

“Oh no,” his friend warned, shaking his head, “No, no, if you call her that, it’ll be your last day on earth, lord.”

“She lives in my house?” Uhtred asked, baffled.

“Yes,” Finan agreed, nodding with great glee, “And let me just say, you really know how to pick them.”

Uhtred couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Did they just put her in my house?”

His friends shook his head, still grinning.

“Not really, no. Alfred gave her a whole house for herself, amazingly… but it was really big, and empty, you know, and she didn’t know anybody here, really.” Finan drew out his words as he spoke, trying to gauge his lord’s reaction. When Uhtred’s face remained unreadable, he rambled on. “And see, we talked to her on the way back to Winchester, and I think Osferth really liked her, so we didn't want to break his little heart. And Hild kinda took her under her wing, too, so for now… Yeah, she lives in your house.”

Uhtred was stunned, but Finan waved his hand as if all of this was the most natural thing in the world, his eyes twinkling.

“It’s fine, don’t worry,” he said. “She’s great with children.”

That made Uhtred startle from his frozen state.

“The prostitute I threatened to kill is watching my children?“ he asked, and finally, Finan had the decency to grimace a little.

“No, don’t worry, she’s great!” he said, repeating himself in his hurry. "Really, she’s great!" Realizing his mistake, he paused, squinting. “I should have kept my mouth shut, shouldn’t I?”

Uhtred stared at him, still in disbelief. He would have pressed the point, but his original question was still burning in his mind.

“And that’s the reason I’m in Alfred’s chambers?” he asked, confused.

Finan looked at him like the idea was bizarre.

“No, of course not,” he replied, drawing his brows together, and Uhtred rolled his eyes.

“Then why am I here, then?”

Sighing, Finan leaned back against his chair. He knew that his lord wouldn’t stop until he got an answer, and so his smile faded as he rubbed his hand across the back of his head, ruffling his hair. For a moment, he looked conflicted, as if he was holding something in, and Uhtred watched as he turned around to scrutinize the monk that was mixing some kind of tincture at a table across the room. Then, having made a decision, Finan turned back to him and leaned closer.

“Listen,” he said, serious all of a sudden. His voice had dropped to a whisper. “Alfred’s been... a little weird.”

“Weird?” Uhtred whispered back, instinctively matching his friend's volume. He noticed that behind Finan's shoulder, the monk had looked up from his work, was now straining to listen.

“Maybe weird isn’t the right word," Finan replied, still whispering, "but he’s changed.”  Quickly, he held up his hands, as if to placate somebody. “Which is understandable, of course, you’ve been through hell together. But the degree of his care has been... people have noticed.”

Uhtred didn’t know what to say, so he stayed silent, his mind reeling.

The degree of his care...

People have noticed.

Finan sighed again. A line appeared between his brows.

“Beocca says some people aren’t so happy about it,” he murmured, expression darkening. He shot the monk behind them another suspicious glance. “Ealdormen, clergy… They think he’s being irrational. That he’s giving you too much importance.”

Too much importance.

Alfred thought he was important.

He was important... to Alfred.

Uhtred’s mind fluttered around the idea like a baby bird, but he brushed it aside.

“Is he in trouble?” he asked, slightly worried. Finan swiftly shook his head.

“No,” he replied. Leaning back, he spoke up again. “Just some tension, that’s all. And obviously, no one dares question him.” He smirked, eyes blazing with schadenfreude. “He’s been rather vengeful recently. The crows can barely fly, you know?”

Smiling weakly, Uhtred nodded. He was relieved that Alfred wasn't in immediate danger, but he couldn’t fully shake the worry from his mind, and for the rest of Finan’s visit, he listened with only one ear.

Would the clergy be a problem?

After what had happened, he couldn’t help but see threats everywhere. The potential for betrayal was endless, but then, why would it become more than that? Alfred hadn’t done anything that would do more than raise a few eyebrows - or had he? Finan said he wasn’t in trouble, but why else would he mention it?

When the sun set and Finan eventually left, Uhtred’s mind was filled with vague questions and vaguer concerns. They build up like a verbal fog, tiring him as he tried to untangle them, darkening and blurring, and just like that, when he hadn’t even tried to stay awake or noticed falling asleep, he woke up, disorientated, to –

There.

The room was dark, a few scattered candles the only source of light, and yet, to Uhtred, he seemed illuminated...

There, his heart stumbled.

There he is.

Chapter Text

“Lord,” Uhtred rasped, and grey eyes shot to his even before he’d finished the word.

They widened, startled.

“You are awake,” Alfred observed, as surprised as Uhtred had been to see him sitting there, and then he was already leaning in, his hair falling forward. It fell around his face like dark and silken water, held back only by the ring of his crown, gleaming in the candlelight, and Uhtred held his breath at the sight, the golden glow warm against Alfred's pale skin.

There he is.

They were alone, no monks in sight, but Uhtred didn’t notice that, because he saw one man alone.

There, his mind whispered, as the king's fingers tightened around his hand.

Around-

Around his hand.

Alfred was holding his hand, and Uhtred's heart missed a beat, but beneath the arching palace stones, in the uncertainty of darkness, the king smiled at him, albeit weakly and strained. He looked tired. His beard had grown longer, become greyer, and his eyes were so pale they seemed colourless, reminded Uhtred of the all-consuming mist of Niflhel.

And Gods, Uhtred wanted to melt into them.

Alfred’s proximity, his touch, the relief of seeing him unharmed, it was too much all at once. Uhtred's nerves didn’t know how to handle it; his own body unreal and fuzzy, almost vibrating with tension. 

There, he thought again, as Alfred leaned in even further.

“How do you feel?” the king asked quietly, misty eyes consuming him, and Uhtred floated in his scent.

For you, he thought.

I love you.

But Alfred was waiting for an answer, and so Uhtred forced his mind to return from its shameless worship. He thought about it for a moment, his body heavy beneath the furs.

"Weak,” he replied, wishing he could give a better answer, but his king merely nodded, smiling gently.

“I expected as much,” he whispered, thumb brushing along the back of Uhtred’s fingers, and Uhtred’s heart almost stopped. It stumbled in his chest, like a child that was learning to walk.

Alfred had never touched him like this.

Of course, he had held his hand before… when they were desperate and frayed, in the emptiness of Hæsten’s cell. But not like this. Never like this.

“Why-“ Uhtred started, but he hesitated, searched for words that wouldn’t come.

Why are you touching me?

Why didn't you wake me?

He wanted to know these things, but none of them were acceptable to ask, and Alfred was watching him, waited for him to speak, eyes attentive, gentle. Uhtred cursed himself for opening his mouth. What was he supposed to say?

Forgive me.

I’m a shadow of my former self.

When nothing suitable arose, he chose the inappropriate.

“Why isn’t my head on a spike?" he asked, and watched Alfred grimace.

Tension broken, the king leaned back and huffed, caught between relieved amusement and mild disapproval.

"We are out of spikes, I fear," he explained drily, sarcasm biting, "It's been busy."

Alfred’s humour was unexpected, and so Uhtred laughed, body thrumming still with nerves. But his laughter ripped at his wound, Dagfinn’s ghostly blade stabbing down, pain taking him by surprise. He choked on it, chest constricting into a coughing fit that pierced him with every contraction of his muscles.

But Uhtred didn’t need to suffer for long.

Instantly, unthinkingly, Alfred had risen in his chair, and now his hand slipped behind Uhtred’s neck, supporting his head as he pressed a cup to his lips. Uhtred gulped the water down, wondering about the routine with which Alfred was handling him, touching him. When he was done and Alfred pulled away, he missed the warmth of his touch.

Come back.

I need more.

Alfred’s hands were unsteady as he placed the cup back on the nightstand, and clay clattered against wood, uncomfortably loud in the otherwise so silent room. Yet despite his trembling, his gaze didn’t stray from Uhtred's face, and Uhtred shot him a quivering smile, born from nothing but madness.

"I don’t know why you’re laughing,” Alfred chided, but he too sounded nervous, mouth twitching, voice pattering like rain, “It is true, there’s simply no space for you on the city walls.”

He sat back down, and despite his harsh words, his hands found Uhtred’s wrist. They were shaking ever so slightly, shaking like the foundations of Uhtred’s sanity, and Uhtred tried to steady his thoughts, to wake from the foolish fever dream this had to be, but Alfred’s thumbs distracted him by tracing circles.

The same circles he’d traced while he was dying.

Memories filled Uhtred to the brim, images of Alfred, eyes closing, slipping away… There he is, his mind whispered above it all, again and again, tracing circles of its own.

Next to him, Alfred acted as though the world wasn’t spinning, as if he wasn’t caressing Uhtred’s skin.

“Besides,” he said, talking to himself with unfocused eyes, directed somewhere into the dark, “We put heads on spikes because it looks gruesome. As a warning..." Where there’d been nervousness before, there was emptiness now, and like his eyes, Alfred’s face showed no emotion. "Your head looked gruesome enough where it was...” he whispered.

At that, Uhtred looked down at his body, at his arms that were thinner than he knew them, and suddenly, he felt self-conscious. He wanted to pull his hand from Alfred’s grip, wanted to hide his arms beneath the furs, but he didn’t dare to move. The thick bandages that covered his wounds itched uncomfortably between his fingers.

“Was it so horrible?” he asked, not knowing what else to say.

Beside him, Alfred’s face darkened. Then he snapped out of his stupor.

“We thought you wouldn’t live," he said, jaw tight, shadows feeding on his skin, and Uhtred felt guilty for the trouble he must have caused him.

I love him, his mind whispered, I love him, love him, love him.

Before his inner eye, Uhtred saw him hanging from a tree, drenched in liquid gold.

I love Alfred, King of Wessex.

Nothing felt real. What a mess he’d made of his mind.

Uncharacteristically, Alfred’s shoulders were still trembling a little, nerves overwrought. He looked at the point where their bodies met, traced the width of Uhtred’s wrist.

“You've lost a lot of weight,” he observed, sounding ashamed somehow, as if he was responsible for it, and Uhtred wanted to hug him, to press him close. He was very aware of that desire.

"I would have buried me,” he said, to distract himself, searching for Alfred’s gaze. “Put me out of my misery."

Alfred looked at him then, and for a moment, he didn't say anything. In the silence, his face tightened, lips pressed thin. But before he spoke again, his mouth relaxed into a sad, tired line.

"It is a good thing our roles weren't reversed, then," he said, without a trace of accusation, but he pulled his hands away to fold them in his lap, soft hair falling into curtains.

“I didn’t mean-“

“It’s fine, Uhtred,” Alfred said, but it wasn’t fine. Uhtred hated himself.

Shame warmed his neck, hot where Alfred’s fingers had been cool. He cursed himself, wanted to apologize for what he'd implied. After all, he'd feed Alfred broth for years, for decades even.

After Hæsten’s cell, Uhtred had thought that uncomfortable silences lay behind them, but he’d been wrong. In the wake of his blunder, time crawled in the thick stillness between them, heavy with unspoken truths, carefully concealed emotions.

It was practically unbearable. Uhtred felt his heart squirm against his ribcage, desperate to escape.

“Where are the monks?” he blurted, worried that further silence would kill him.

Alfred raised his brows, caught off guard by the question. He looked around the room, as though he himself had only now noticed their absence.

“I sent them away,” he said, almost reluctantly turning back to Uhtred.

Outside, someone passed the door, steps coming closer, ebbing out.

“Why?”

Alfred tensed.

“I wanted privacy."

Why? Uhtred thought, but he didn’t dare to say it out loud.

"Are you safe?" he asked instead.

At that, Alfred’s chin lifted that tiny little bit, that little bit it moved when he was bracing for a fight. He exhaled, quietly, tellingly unsteady, yet though Uhtred's question had obviously hit a nerve, he tried to hide it.

Ever controlled, he spoke calmly, though after a pause that took much longer than it should have.

"Yes,” he said curtly, “I think so."

Uhtred nodded, because Alfred's shoulders were like iron, rigid where they had trembled only a minute before. It seemed that now was not the time to push him… and yet, there was one other question that was feeding on Uhtred’s sanity, that left him no choice, demanding to be answered now.

"What happened to Hæsten?" he asked. "Did he escape or is his head on a spike?"

"He rots in a cell."

Uhtred huffed. For the first time since he’d woken up beside him, he remembered that Alfred could be frustrating.

"Why?" he asked tersely, impatient for his mind to be unburdened from that ever-looming threat, "Kill him, lord. It's madness to keep him alive."

"I know," Alfred admitted. But he frowned, looked down at his hands. "He will be dealt with as soon as possible."

Uhtred rolled his eyes, unsatisfied.

"Today then?” he asked insolently, and Alfred shook his head, voice growing sharper.

“No.”

“Then when?”

"In time,” Alfred replied, his tone demanding acquiescence, but Uhtred didn’t care.

“Why, lord?” he complained, feeling unheard, irate that his council didn’t hold any weight. “There is no reason to wait - just kill him!”

The king didn’t answer right away. Uhtred thought that he was angry with his disobedience, but when Alfred looked up, his eyes had turned soft. Reaching out across the chasm between them, he took up Uhtred’s hand again and held it gently, lovingly.

Frustrated just seconds ago, Uhtred’s temper stilled at once, breath caught in his chest.

“I hear you, Uhtred,” Alfred promised him as if he had read Uhtred's mind, soothing and sincere. “And your concern is valid, but so is my reason for delay…" He smiled grimly. "I will kill Hæsten as soon as you are well enough to attend his execution."

And just like that, Uhtred was choked with emotion.

His eyes prickled, dangerously wet, and it was his turn to look down now, hiding from Alfred’s caring gaze. This time, the silence between them would have been bearable, had Uhtred’s heart not been thunder in the quiet room.

Don’t cry, he thought, don’t you dare cry.

Alfred took pity on him.

"There,” he said, voice final and full of forced neutrality. “That should motivate you to get back on your feet." He pulled his hand away, and Uhtred was almost glad that the moment was over.

Almost.

"Have me carried there,” he scoffed, blinking away tears, impatient to see Hæsten’s head roll and to distract from his embarrassing sentimentality, “I'll be glad to watch him die either way.”

But the king wouldn’t have it.

"No," he said, face suddenly grim. "No, Uhtred, I want him to see you standing."

And there it was again, that hateful prickle. That wobbly feeling.

Uhtred couldn’t face it, not yet.

"You look exhausted," he accused Alfred out of nowhere, hiding behind more practical worries. "Thin."

Uhtred’s bluntness earned him a mean look, and so he regretted that he’d said anything.

"Sleep hasn’t come as naturally as it used to," Alfred admitted.

"Are you injured still? From…"

“No.” Alfred quickly shook his head, sparing Uhtred the task of finding words for the unspeakable. "No, that very night, they… they reassembled me."

He winced at the memory, spoke as if he was disgusted by the very word, no doubt remembering an agonizing procedure, and Uhtred felt a stab of sorrow at the thought. When Alfred looked at him, tense in his seat, he averted his eyes just as quickly, not brave enough to face what he found in Uhtred's expression.

"God has blessed me," he declared, as if to convince himself, as if to deny that any suffering had taken place at all. He wrung his hands, "My injuries haven't hindered my abilities, though my shoulders still trouble me sometimes.” He shook his head, cutting himself off. “I will not complain about it. You've been much less fortunate."

There was pain there, it was obvious. In the month of Uhtred’s absence, Alfred had carefully buried it beneath layers of royal composure, of stoic Christian practice, and though Uhtred would have liked to comfort him, to take some of it away, it was clear that Alfred didn’t wish to talk about it. Sighing, Uhtred decided it was best to let it rest.

He didn’t grant himself the same indulgence.

Painful or not, he needed to know what was left of his old life, if he could still protect, if he could still be useful, and so, moving to his own pain, he decided to address the question he'd been dreading head on.

“Beocca says you’ve been talking to the healers,” he began vaguely

Alfred inclined his head.

“I have, yes.”

"Then you must know about my hands,” Uhtred said, trying to sound brave, prepared for anything, though his performance wasn't exactly convincing.

Alfred waited.

“Will I keep them?" Uhtred asked, unable to wait any longer, and relief sung when Alfred nodded.

"Yes, you will," he reassured him calmly, yet the stillness of his features whispered that there was more to discover, more to ask. Apprehensive, Uhtred followed their trail.

"Will I be able to use them?” he asked.

Having no doubt already anticipated the question, Alfred sighed nevertheless. His mouth opened and closed, then opened again.

“I’ve… It isn't... In all likelihood, yes. You’ll manage well enough.”

“Will I be able to fight, then? Hold a sword?"

"Time will tell," Alfred answered stoically.

“But what do the healers say?”

“That it remains to be seen, Uhtred.”

"Yes, but how likely is it?"

Alfred looked away, frustrated by Uhtred’s persistence. His voice hardened.

"Fighting is not all important," he said, and it was the ridiculousness of those words that betrayed him. That marked the end of his charade.

Uhtred pressed his eyes tightly shut, black bleakness opening up, a vortex in his chest that killed all hope.

"I'm a cripple then," he whispered brokenly, despair squatting heavy on his chest, a nightmare, a demon.

Beside him, Alfred shook his head, trying to deny it.

"You have your life. Anything else, you'll learn to adapt to." The attempt was noble of him, but it wasn't that easy, and he knew it.

“I am useless if I can’t fight," whispered Uhtred.

“Nonsense,” Alfred dissented harshly, but Uhtred wouldn’t be silenced. The king was trying to comfort him, he knew that, but he wasn’t a child. He wanted facts, not fairy tales. His voice grew louder.

“I am a warrior, lord, what is a warrior if he cannot fight?”

“You are an Ealdorman of Wessex,” Alfred corrected him, “Your task is to lead.”

 Uhtred felt frustration surge, a wyrm from the dark.

“Yes, into battle!” he retorted angrily.

“To battle,” Alfred emphasized, almost coldly, without any room for disagreement. “There is a difference.”

Apparently, he had decided to don his mask of royal authority, determined to rationalize all that stood in his way. Meanwhile, Uhtred could barely keep himself from growling, sorrow turning into fury at Alfred’s refusal to acknowledge the truth of his situation.

“Of course,” he spat, grief bitter on his tongue. “Then I guess I’ll just watch from a hill while men fight my battles.”

When Alfred didn’t say anything to that, acted as if it was a true alternative, Uhtred’s patience snapped.

He huffed cynically.

“I might as well kill myself,” he spat, and before he could blink, Alfred had grabbed his hand so hard that he gasped, startled by the force. The king was holding onto him as if Uhtred was his lifeline, and he looked as though Uhtred had slapped him, features contracting in pain, rapidly draining of colour.

Fuck.

“Don’t say that,” he begged, royal mask destroyed. “Please don’t!”

Uhtred was horrified to see that his eyes were tearing up.

What-

 “No, I-“

“No, please,” Alfred plead, sounding panicked. He was shaking uncontrollably, his grip painfully tight around Uhtred’s hand. “I wouldn’t stand it, I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t know what I-”

“Lord,” Uhtred interrupted, flabbergasted by Alfred’s reaction, “I didn’t mean it.”

But Alfred barely listened. He pulled at Uhtred’s hand, pale eyes frantic as he pressed his lips to Uhtred’s knuckles, kissing them.

Kissing them.

Alfred’s lips were soft and warm, and for the shortest of eternities, Uhtred forgot about anything else. His whole life narrowed to that kiss, that coin-sized patch of skin. All of the battles he had fought, all the pain he had endured – for this.

Then Alfred brought him back.

“Please, promise me,” he murmured against Uhtred’s skin, sounding utterly broken, tears falling, raindrops in a dream. “I couldn’t stand it...”

“I promise,” Uhtred vowed, disturbed by Alfred’s reaction. “Please, stop. I promise, I swear.”

Using all of his strength, Uhtred willed his hand to move. His limp fingers tightened under Alfred’s lips, squeezed back with barely perceptible pressure, wound bloody screaming.

Ashen, the king looked up.

“You mean it?” he asked, helpless against his emotions as another tear fell, silently rolled down his cheek. Alfred’s usually composed face was unrecognizable, and Uhtred hated it. Hated it.

“Yes,” he said meekly, regretting that he’d ever said such a thing, but he saw that Alfred remained terror-stricken, brows drawn and trembling. The wound Uhtred had opened was deep, fear festering like pus.

Make it stop, his mind screamed, Fix it!

Swearing on the Gods was out of the question, they didn’t mean anything to Alfred, and after what he’d said, Uhtred couldn’t swear on his life… Quickly, he searched his mind for something that was important to both of them.

“I swear on Beocca’s life,” he said, and it was the right thing to say, because finally, finally, Uhtred felt Alfred’s grip loosen against his, saw how his shoulders lost some of their tension.

As quickly as he’d taken it, Alfred dropped Uhtred’s hand.

He fell back into his chair with a drained exhale, putting distance between them, cold air rushing in. His jaw was slack, and he stared straight forward, into the void. Reddened and tear-stained, he looked numb, the way Uhtred had seen him only once before, in the marshes.

Uhtred felt completely overwhelmed.

“I am sorry,” he whispered, knowing that his carelessness had broken an unspoken contract, that fragile, vague understanding between them. He shifted uncomfortably beneath the furs, wishing he could turn back time.

In response, Alfred pressed a hand to his stomach, brows furrowing.

“Excuse me,” he said, in the tone he used to prematurely end his witans, as if this whole thing between them had been nothing but another bout of illness. He stood up, unsteady on his feet. “I think I’ll retire.”

This was madness, utter madness. Uhtred wanted to howl. The dark walls around him, Alfred’s walls, they were closing in, and he lacked the words to describe what he felt, what he longed for.

“Stay, lord,” he tried, heart racing, but Alfred was already halfway across the room, his steps echoing against the high ceiling, hollow like Uhtred’s chest. 

Uhtred couldn't breathe, cold claws grasped for him, shadows watching from the corners, threatening to swallow him.

He couldn’t let him go, not like this. Alfred would never return.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” Uhtred rambled in a last, desperate attempt to control the damage he had done. His useless hand was throbbing were Alfred had gripped it, punishing him for his stupidity. “It's me who needs to be ashamed, it was my fault. I shouldn’t have said something so thoughtless.”

But Alfred had already reached the door, his strides unbroken. He put his hand on its handle, hallway menacing beyond, and Uhtred, terrified of losing him, couldn’t hold his fear in any longer.

“Please, don’t leave me, lord,” he begged artlessly, thoughtlessly, his pulse violently throbbing in his wounds, “I need you, please.”  

Alfred froze then, and he turned, stiffly, arms unnaturally straight. Behind him, his fingers were tight against the door's handle, holding the line, unwilling to be overheard. His face was marked still, blotched with the truth, but his expression was as neutral as ever.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he promised, with cold reassurance, swollen blue eyes meeting Uhtred’s own, “I’ll be back tomorrow, and we’ll never speak of this again.”

And then he left, candlelight dying in the rushing draft, stones closing in from all around, and Uhtred started crying in the dark.

Chapter Text

Alfred stayed true to his word.

In the morning, Uhtred woke to half a dozen men around his bed, Alfred waiting beyond.

Wrapped in his morning coat, a fine suede cloth of light blue, the king’s face was impassive, his royal mask firmly back in place. Uhtred imagined it reached deep. Most likely, Alfred had already locked his emotions away from himself, spun his thoughts into a yarn of denials and justifications. While Uhtred was still processing his feelings, eyes swollen and itchy, Alfred, to the untrained eye, looked calm and collected, as if he had well and truly left their encounter behind him.

But with Alfred, first impressions could be treacherous, and Uhtred knew him better by now, suspected that the king had slept just as poorly as he had.

Because Uhtred hadn’t slept a wink.

When his tears had dried, he’d replayed the feeling of Alfred’s lips against his skin, soft and warm on aching bones. It had felt like a dream, a beautiful nightmare, showing Uhtred all he wanted and all he feared.

Alfred on a golden cross, blindingly bright.

He kissed me.

Hanging from a broken mast, bloodied and gored.

He hates me.

Uhtred told his mind to leave him the fuck alone.

At his bedside, an ancient-looking man called Bertlic, the eldest of Alfred’s healers, was examining his hands. He had cautiously unwrapped them, and now he was curling and extending every miserable finger. Uhtred grit his teeth, unwilling to show weakness in front of so many strangers. His flesh ached, knuckles creaking with pain like an unoiled door. Of course, this was nothing compared to the torture that had been inflicted on him, but it hurt nonetheless.

“Push against my hand,” Bertlic commanded, and Uhtred did his best to do so, but he couldn't seem to muster any pressure. It wasn’t a good sign, he saw it in the stillness of Bertlic’s face.

How am I supposed to live like this? he thought.

To distract himself from his anxiety, Uhtred’s eyes flicked to Alfred, observed his profile where he stood next to a narrow table, full of dried herbs and murky vials. Currently, the king was staring out of the room’s only window, resolutely uninvolved.

Watching him, Uhtred wondered if there had ever been a time in Alfred’s adult life in which he’d allowed himself to do as he pleased, to act as he felt, but he dismissed the idea almost at once. The king had been overly controlled from the first day Uhtred had met him, whether that meant conquering his ever-present stomach pains or carefully monitoring his own behaviour. Alfred had always been driven, had never been free of guilt or shame, and from the start, he’d been as determined to rule himself as he’d been to rule his people.

Even to himself, the king of Wessex was nothing but a pawn on the chess board of his greater ambitions, and it seemed he preferred it that way.

Uhtred did not.

He was worried for him.

At second glance, the rings under Alfred’s eyes had deepened, and though his expression was blank, there was an air of exhaustion about the man, an atmosphere of gloomy soberness and brooding. Uhtred could feel it hover around him, a heaviness that pressed on Alfred’s shoulders and shadowed his features. It showed in the way he barely moved, the way he kept to the background, away from the gaggle of healers.

Away from you.

When the healers had finished their work and quieted down, Alfred wordlessly stepped between them, parted them effortlessly, like a ship’s prow carving through water. He noted Uhtred’s newly wrapped hands with a somber glance, then turned to Bertlic, who stood at his right.

“Tell me.”

Even Alfred’s tone was royal once more. He talked the way he always did when he spoke as king; poised and to the point, but with danger looming, ready to strike at the smallest hint of disobedience. Uhtred loathed what that did to him.

Bertlic shook his head.

“As I said before, lord, there’ll be permanent damage.”

“Can it be ameliorated?” Alfred asked. He didn’t give Uhtred a second glance, spoke for him as if he was a priced horse. Clearly, he was in the habit of owning things, people included, and for once, Uhtred wasn’t upset about it. He was too preoccupied with his sorrow, and Alfred’s particular brand of possessiveness felt so familiar to him by now that it was almost comforting.

“I don’t think so, lord,” Bertlic said, well aware that another answer would have been preferred, and Uhtred’s guts ground into rocks. “But then I’ve never treated an injury like this.”

In the following silence, Uhtred forced himself to show no emotion. Then Alfred cleared his throat.

“Disregarding the impairment to his hands, I trust he’ll make a full recovery?” he asked, more irritable than before.

“Yes, lord,” the healer agreed, and Alfred nodded curtly.

“And how long can I expect this to take?”

“That depends, lord,” Bertlic said hesitantly. He stroked his beard as he considered Uhtred’s condition, translucent fingers combing through his wiry white hair “The time can vary, depending on a range of factors.”

He kept on combing his beard, stayed silent for too long.

“Such as?” Alfred asked, impatiently.

The old man hummed and tilted his head. His thinking was painfully slow.

“Well, for one… it takes longer if the patient lacks the will to recover,” he said, as if reciting it from a book.

“He doesn’t,” Alfred replied before Uhtred could so much as open his mouth, his hands tightening against each other. He seemed truly irritated now, annoyed by Bertlic’s irrelevant suggestion.

Unaware of the king's ire, Bertlic hummed again, much too slowly, a drawn out sound that was neither agreement nor objection. Uhtred noticed the crease of Alfred’s brows deepen, watched his nostrils flare.

“Another factor are complications,” Bertlic mused sluggishly. "...infections and such.”

Alfred’s patience snapped.

“Isn’t it your purpose to promise the absence of infection, Bertlic?” he asked imperiously. “Otherwise, what exactly is your use? I do not need you to speculate about the future.”

The old healer furrowed his brow, surprised by Alfred’s temper.

“Of course, my lord… but infection is a fickle beast,” he said, “Even to those of us who have experience.”

Alfred sighed, eyes straying. Though he didn't waste his breath arguing the point.

“Assuming there are no infections, how long will his recovery take?” he rephrased his question instead, drily, stony gaze flickering over Uhtred’s form. His eyes possessed the static hardness they showed when he was dangerously close to an angry fit, but apparently, Bertlic didn’t know that.

He shuffled his feet, visibly uncomfortable with speculation. “It is difficult to tell, lord.”

“Make an effort!” Alfred bit, merciless now.

“I- maybe six weeks… or even a month, in the best of cases.”

Alfred nodded.

“Then I suggest you deliver,” he said coldly, “Because I am wholly tired of waiting and I have half a mind to replace you on the spot. ”

Bertlic stared at him, mouth slightly open. It was clear that he hadn't expected the king to be in such a bad mood this morning. Helplessly, his eyes darted to the healers that stood around him, evidently looking for support. None of them met his gaze.

"Yes, lord," he said, giving up the fight.

Alfred nodded.

"It is settled," he summarized. “We’ll aim at a month.”

He turned to Uhtred once more, and his face became eerily blank, his gaze like dull glass, methodically impersonal.

"I trust you'll do what you are told," he said, but his tone implied the opposite, and despite his best intentions, Uhtred felt his neck prickle with indignation. After all they had been through, Alfred still didn’t think that he could be trusted to act on his own. As always, he was trying to manage him.

Uhtred raised his chin and shrugged.

"If it's in my best interest, lord" he replied, and watched Alfred's jaw twitch at the minor rebellion. He wasn’t in the mood for compromise.

“You’ll do what you are told,” he repeated. "Promise it."

For a moment, their eyes met in a battle of wills, and as always, Uhtred lost. He looked away, rolled his eyes.

“I promise,” he sighed, and Alfred lost no time before he turned away.

"Excellent," he replied, already walking towards the door. "You'll excuse me. I have work to do."

For Uhtred, the next three weeks passed in a haze of discomfort, one day blurring into the next.

Every morning, Alfred would come with his pack of healers and wait in a corner of the room while he watched them change Uhtred’s dressings. While he waited, he never moved closer, never even changed the spot. In fact, it felt as if he was hiding behind them, avoiding involvement as much as possible.

If it couldn’t be avoided, Alfred spoke without passion, mostly to the healers and not to Uhtred directly. Nevertheless, Uhtred’s skin tingled every time their eyes happened to meet, every time Alfred addressed him with terse practicality.

Most days, he’d ask how Uhtred was doing, would clinically assess his state, and then he'd sometimes exchange a few words with Bertlic, inquiring after some detail or other. As soon as that was done, however, he'd excuse himself, vanishing as quickly as he'd arrived.

His visits were a comfortless affair, felt almost painful sometimes, and they were never long enough.

During the rest of the day, Uhtred would curse himself for how much he longed for Alfred’s favour. As much as he tried not to, he yearned for his good will, for his praise and attention, and after only two weeks of their perfunctory routine, Uhtred caught himself wishing that Alfred wouldn't come. Missing him felt bad enough when he wasn’t there, and Uhtred had no desire to feed that pain with the staged distance Alfred had imposed upon them, didn’t need to be reminded of it on a daily basis.

Uhtred tried not to brood too much…

…but it was difficult.

His days were structured by naps and visits from his friends, and three times a day, Beocca sat with him and helped him eat, because Uhtred couldn’t even hold a spoon. Being fed like a child felt humiliating, but Uhtred was glad it was Beocca who did it, because he wouldn’t have borne to look at a stranger. Every time he ate, Uhtred was reminded of what he had become, of what he had lost, and though Beocca tried his best to distract him with gossip and news from his children, he was often gloomy and sparing with words.

Despite his sorrow, he ate well.

The meals he was served were delicious, came straight from the royal kitchens, and Uhtred tried to eat as much as he could, eager to gain back his strength; there were hearty stews and warm bread, sweet wine and puddings with dried fruit, but unfortunately, his stomach seemed to have shrunken when he’d been asleep, and often, he felt full after only a few bites of food. Of course, Uhtred knew that his recovery was a mental battle as much as it was a physical one, and so every day, he forced himself to eat one more spoon than the day before.

His friends gladly finished the rest.

In the evenings, after they had talked and played dice, they left Uhtred with full grins and fuller stomachs, and Uhtred controlled the urge to call them back, to ask them not to leave.

His first nights were hell.

After his body had slept a whole month, sleep now seemed all but impossible, and when his pain didn’t keep him awake, Uhtred fought his tired eyes, forcing them open to watch the looming shadows in the corners of the room. During the night, they came alive, and Uhtred watched them move, saw them expand, then shrink back again as soon as he focused on them. They swirled with something evil, crept ever closer to the edges of his bed, his heart hammering in the dark as though he was running, but of course, after hours and hours of fear and itching eyes, he’d still inevitably fall asleep.

Then, nightmares would welcome him.

They weren’t his normal dreams, weren’t incorporate arrays of thoughts and scenes, no... instead, it was as if the ground opened up beneath his feet, swallowed him to suck him into a second world where Uhtred couldn’t move at all. There, he woke in the same room he’d fallen asleep in, and the shadows reached for him, a thousand hands of black tar, thick and cloying. 

Uhtred screamed, but no sound ever came out.

Lying paralyzed amid the grasping shadows, he felt eyes on him in that room, felt something watch him like it had that night in Dunwhich, when he had made his way to the harbor. His mind screamed at him to run, to hide, but the thing was all-present, all-knowing…

Uhtred knew that it was Alfred’s God.

Because Alfred was there every night.

He knelt before the bed, still and peaceful, grass growing from in between the cracks beneath his feet, grey stones turning green, a meadow of his own making that grew until vines twined around Alfred’s body, climbed his arms and blossomed, white lilies opening on folded hands... but then that meadow turned to dust, lilies catching fire as they turned to ashes, and Alfred rose on a blackened cross, a bloodied sky behind him. He was dripping in gold, covered in jewels, shining red and gold, and as the room burned around him, he towered high above, a tyrant in scaled armor, a phoenix rising from the ashes.

Uhtred feared him, feared his heat, the branding of his iron grip, but just when Uhtred thought he’d burn and char, Alfred’s eyes sheltered him in water, jewels falling from his skin, and glitter died a silver gloom as night descended. There, in the dark, Alfred turned human once again, not a king but just a man, and he gently held Uhtred's hand, smiled to soothe his fearful heart. Uhtred longed for him then, for his lips and his smile and his touch, pleaded for more...

But when Alfred bend to kiss his knuckles, to give him what he wanted, his lips ripped agony through Uhtred’s flesh, tore a nail through skin and bone, and Uhtred woke up drenched and screaming -

Alfred!

His heart beating-

Alfred.

Alfred.

Alfred.

Uhtred knew it was just dreams.

He knew shadows were just shadows...

But fear was fear, was very real, and it made him want to run from Alfred's God. He started to prop himself up against the headboard of the bed, used all his little strength to protect himself as best he could, to push against the wood as he had in Wilton's autumn forest... but what he really wanted was to get to his feet and leave that horrible, grasping room, and so he struggled to do just that, and a week after he'd risen from his eternal, icy grave, a monk helped him to the edge of his bed. Unfortunately, Uhtred’s body was so unused to anything but lying down that it almost quit on him when his legs dangled from the mattress for the first time, dizziness spinning the room around him in violent circles, the floor accelerating at breakneck speed. Luckily, that monk kept him from falling forward, and Uhtred was nothing if not stubborn, so he breathed through the pain in his gut and ignored the black spheres that blotted his vision.

Only a few days later he had learned to lift himself into a sitting position on his own, and it was then that he caught his reflection in the polished metal of a cup.

He didn't recognize himself.

He had become incredibly thin, his skull pronounced beneath his skin, and there were red, zig-zagging lines on his forehead, angry, fresh scars that itched when he pressed his wrist against their scabs. As he'd slept, his beard had grown long and full, wiry hair covering his skin up to his cheekbones, pattern-less and wild, and Uhtred could barely see himself beneath it.

The thinness and the scars couldn't be helped, but when Finan came that day, Uhtred asked him for a shave...

His need for dignity was growing with his strength, and bedpans were a mortifying thing, and so while it seemed that Alfred only ever wanted him to rest, Uhtred talked his friends into helping him to stand, then into helping him to practice walking. The first few times they tried it, he wasn’t able to take more than a couple of steps, felt like a new-born calf, wobbly legs buckling underneath him, but his friends held him tightly, kept him safe through the tremors, and Uhtred practiced and practiced and practiced, until his persistence paid off.

When two weeks later,  Alfred unexpectedly came to visit him at noon, he found Uhtred standing next to his bed, Sihtric at his shoulder.

“You are standing,” he said, visibly amazed by the discovery, and to Uhtred’s delight, his mouth curled into a smile, too surprised to remember his detachment.

Uhtred gave him a small smile back.

“I am.”

“That is good news,” Alfred murmured, almost to himself, his eyes gentle like they sometimes were in Uhtred’s dreams, and for a moment, everything felt right. Then, someone stepped out to Alfred’s side, and the king remembered his surroundings. He cleared his throat, his smile forgotten as he turned to look at who had disturbed them.

There, next to him, stood... a very, very short man.

He had dark, curly hair and round features, hazel eyes glimmering beneath a narrow, heavy-boned forehead. He was dressed like Uhtred had never seen anyone dressed before, wore a long white tunic - or a shawl of some sort or ... or something. It looked soft and comfortable, but it seemed too large for him and did his height no favors, fabric falling around his body in large creases.

Thus drowned in cloth, he met Uhtred’s eyes with a smile.

“This is Uhtred,” Alfred told him, and the man nodded, scanning Uhtred’s bandaged hands.

“The deficiente,” he said cheerfully.

Uhtred tensed, felt Sihtric stiffen at his shoulder.

“The what?”

Alfred hurried to put up his hand.

“English is not his language,” he said quickly. “His choice of words is unusual sometimes.”

Unbothered by the sudden tension around him, the short man kept smiling, bobbing on his feet.

“I name me Pietro,” he told Uhtred.

“You what?”

“His name is Pietro, Uhtred,” Alfred said, and shot him a stern glance that warned him to be more respectful, knowing full well that Uhtred had understood Pietro the first time.  “He was named after Saint Peter.”

"Right." Uhtred stared at the man. He had never heard of Saint Peter, and he suspected that he didn't particularly care about him, either.

Across from him, Pietro saw his confusion and grinned at him.

“Peter also was... crocifisso,” he explained, pointing at Uhtred's hands.

“I wasn’t crucified,” Uhtred said gruffly, already annoyed by this weird dwarf of a man who apparently found his situation amusing, “Just nailed to some stakes.”

“Ah!” Pietro answered. He was still staring at Uhtred’s hands, eyes boring through his bandages as though he could see to the very wounds inside. “Fine, fine. The nail is importante.”

Uhtred frowned.

“Pietro is here to treat your hands, Uhtred,” Alfred explained in an offhand tone. “He has experience with this kind of injury. He’s come from Rome.”

Uhtred’s eyebrows shot to the ceiling.

He’s come from Rome?

Rome?

Had Alfred send for a healer from Rome? But how had he… When? If Uhtred remembered Beocca’s lessons correctly, Rome was really far away, wasn’t it? Alfred would have had to have send for him weeks ago, but back then Uhtred had still…

When Uhtred looked up, Alfred’s expression had turned softer in the pause, had turned into something like encouragement, and Uhtred suddenly felt a lump in his throat. Quickly, he averted his eyes from Alfred’s gaze, and because Pietro was still staring at his hands, Uhtred hid them behind his back, avoiding his scrutiny. Avoiding anything that might make him feel hopeful.

“He’s come to waste his time,” he said grimly, “I’ve tried to use them. I can’t even hold a spoon.”

Alfred’s expression darkened, his goodwill gone.

“You weren’t supposed to try,” he remarked briskly, but Uhtred merely shrugged again.

“Well, I can’t do it. Can't even move them."

“I will try,” Pietro interrupted their quarrel. “Then I will know.” 

Uhtred bristled at him.

“I already know and I don’t want you to try! It’s not going to work!”

Alfred's jaw was tight now, his skin tinted red. “Uhtred,” he warned, “You will do as you are told.”

“Or what?”

Uhtred expected Alfred to spew threats, to bluster with authority, but instead the king seemed to deflate.

“Nothing,” he said, almost sadly, blue eyes shining like the jewels of his armor. "You promised."

Pietro turned out to be a decent man.

It was a good thing, too, because otherwise Uhtred would have killed him for what he was doing to him.

Despite his short stature, the Roman healer was a confident man. He was a force to be reckoned with, didn’t take no for an answer, but he was likable, too, and just compassionate enough that Uhtred didn’t feel bullied by him. More importantly, however, he didn’t show Uhtred any pity. Instead of pampering him, Pietro treated him with the air of an instructor, confident that Uhtred would make progress if he applied himself and practiced. The approach spoke to Uhtred's warrior spirit. He preferred exertion and self-inflicted misery to aimless days of lying in his bed.

So practice they did.

Every day, in the mornings and afternoons, Pietro would come and unwrap his hands. He’d massage his fingers, muscles screaming, and then he’d lay Uhtred’s arms on a narrow table, so that his hands stuck out from its edge, limp in the air. Positioned like this, Uhtred was supposed to raise them, to bend them at the wrist and spread his fingers or circle his thumb.

The first time they practiced, that seemed entirely pointless.

Uhtred had tried to lift his hands, concentrated on moving them with every fiber of his being, the muscles in his forearms cramping with tension, but nothing had moved, and still Pietro had pestered him to try it a dozen more times, until Uhtred's arms were screaming, burning with exertion...

Nothing.

“Again.”

Nothing.

“Again.”

Nothing.

After half an hour of this, Uhtred had exhaled and pulled his arms from the table to shake them out, frustrated and tired, feeling his aggression brewing, but Pietro hadn’t given him more than a minute of reprieve.

“Again," he'd ordered.

“There's no point. It’s not working.”

“You don’t know. You don't see.”

“Of course I see! My hand isn't moving!”

“Not outside. Inside. Healing happens inside. You see nothing. Then one day, whoop, it moves.”

Uhtred had scoffed, trying to hide his burning desire for the words to be true.

“I think that’s unlikely.”

Seeing his frustration as the paralyzing fear it was, Pietro had given him a knowing smile and a reason to go on.

“Best not make it more that," he'd said pleasantly. “Go on. Or I call a king, and a king gets angry...”

"No, you don't need-"

"Good. Again!"

With a sigh, Uhtred had done what he'd been told, and on the third day of utter frustration, when hopelessness tore at his sorrowful heart…

His fingers moved. Just slightly.

Pietro had clapped his hands, his laugh infectious.

“See! Good! Again!”

Uhtred did as he was told, hope singing bright.

In fact, when he made progress every day, hands growing stronger, he practiced so much that Pietro had to tell him to slow down, to give his hands time to mend, and so he focused the rest of his nervous energy on getting to his feet. He paced ever bigger circles through his room, then paced lines up and down the hallway outside, his men by his side every day, every step of the way, until, on a clear autumn morning, a little more than five weeks after he’d first woken up, they finally stepped outside...

Driven forward by sheer willpower, and supported on either side by Osferth and Finan, Uhtred managed to reach the courtyard.

Careful not to bend his wrapped-up middle, his friends helped him to sit down on the stone edge of the colonnade, Uhtred half-blind with tears beneath the brightness of the sky. His eyes were unused to it, were confronted with unfiltered sunlight for the first time since he’d blacked out in Dunwhich, and sitting there, his chest rose and fell with deep gulps of air. It hadn’t been a long way, but Uhtred felt as if he’d run it at full speed.

And it was worth the discomfort.

The weather was chilly, biting at his skin, but he’d missed the sky too much to care, and so he ignored his discomfort as he shivered. A light breeze had picked up around them, and sucking in cold, crisp air with his every breath, Uhtred tasted freedom on his tongue, his spirits lifting high into the cloudless blue. Elated, he took in green, ivy-covered walls, watched red and yellow leaves blow across Roman tiles to gather in the corners of the yard, and knowing that he was having a moment, Finan wordlessly leaned against a nearby pillar, Osferth sitting down next to him.

Both of them sensed that he didn’t want to talk, and so the three of them settled into comfortable silence for a few minutes, Uhtred’s dark thoughts turning to whispers as he enjoyed the simple sight of bare branches, their thin ends swaying in the wind. Watching birds sweep across the sky, Uhtred realized that his horizon had become terribly narrow. For far too long, his mind had been caged in a shadowed room of stones and candles, and now he remembered that there was more beyond these limits, a whole world waiting to be conquered. He felt alive, remembered what it was like to be a physical being, not a hive of anxieties bound to a bed.

“This is beautiful,” Uhtred murmured, almost reverently.

Finan stirred against the pillar behind him.

“Yup, totally is. Truly beautiful... that said, do you think we can get back inside?" He tucked in his chin, ears pink beneath his unruly hair. “I’m freezing my balls off, lord... Didn’t think we’d make it this far, to be honest.”

They laughed together at that, their success making them giddy, breaths forming tiny clouds, and then Uhtred nodded. He was happy to be outside, but Finan was right about the temperature, and his strength-less hands were beginning to go numb, wounds stinging sharply in the cold. Secretly, Uhtred feared that they would never recover, but he decided not to think about it too much. Pietro was right, after all; it was best not to lessen the odds further.

So, slowly, they prepared to venture back, Finan’s hand gripping Uhtred’s arm to lift him from the bench, but just when Uhtred was about to push himself upwards, Alfred strode into the courtyard, his long robes billowing behind him. He stopped mid-step, startled by the sight of them, and they stilled as well, froze as game before the hunter, knowing that it was too late to flee. Then, quickly recovering from his initial surprise, Alfred’s eyes shot to Uhtred’s shivering body, pale and thin in the cold light of the morning, and all of his pretend indifference scattered to the wind.

“Shit,” Finan cursed under his breath, a second before Alfred rounded on them.

Or on him, rather, because charging forward, Alfred swept right past Uhtred to address Finan directly, eyes blazing.

“What in God’s name do you think you are doing!” he snapped, pointing at Uhtred without looking at him. “He is freezing. He can barely stand.”

“Hence I’m sitting, lord,” Uhtred replied, tired of being ignored.

It worked.

When Alfred turned to face him, his fury was glorious.

“You think this is amusing?” he bit, shaking with ire. “Will you still think so when you cough up your entrails?”

“Probably n-“

“Do not answer!”

Uhtred rolled his eyes, but his mouth snapped shut.

Alfred was still trembling with rage.

 “I’ve asked you to do what you are told,” he reminded him, voice icy.

“And I have, lord,” Uhtred said sullenly. He shrugged. “Nobody told me to stay inside.”

“Because it goes without saying!”

“It does not.”

Defiant, Uhtred moved to put his hands on his hips, briefly forgetting that he couldn't actually grip anything. Unfortunately, it was so cold that he couldn’t feel anything either, his already numb fingers sensation-less, and so he accidentally bumped them into his sides and they slid off. Feeling sheepish, he tried to hide the movement, to play it off somehow, but Alfred had already seen it, and his expression darkened further.

“Look at you, you are damaging your hands,” he hissed, but Uhtred only huffed.

“I doubt there’s much more damage to be done.”

When Alfred grit his teeth and straightened, looking like he was about to explode, Osferth quickly stepped in, trying to mediate between them.

“He didn’t do it out of idleness, lord. He was practicing his walking,” he interjected on Uhtred’s behalf, but the king wasn’t having it.

“The cause of this idiocy holds no interest for me,” he said, to Uhtred, not even glancing in Osferth's direction. "It is the consequences I am focused on. Tell me, are you utterly mindless or just desperate for attention?”

That hit like a slap. It was as though Alfred had seen right into his soul, and Uhtred was horrified, felt his neck heat with embarrassment. Panicked, his heart screamed at him to rage, to do anything to deny the accusation.

“Attention?” he retorted, brows rising to the sky, blood boiling, “What are y-“

“He’s tired,” Finan interrupted quickly, taking Uhtred by the arm as he went for a strategic retreat. “Forgive us, lord, we’ll just-”

He cut himself off as Alfred held up a hand, his features like stone.

“You will be silent,” he commanded coldly, shooting Finan a scathing glare, “I’ll deal with you later.”

Finan blushed like a scolded child, his gaze dropping to the floor, and Uhtred’s mouth fell open.

“What? You can’t blame Finan for this!” he complained, “My men do what I tell them to.“

Now Alfred turned back to him, glowering down.

“No, Uhtred," he corrected sharply, "They do what I tell them to.” Imperious, he folded his hands before his chest. “And right now, they’ll get you back to bed. And then Finan here, will find me in the chapel!”

And with that, Alfred walked off.

Finan returned an hour after he'd left, grimacing as he closed the door behind him. A servant had started a fire in the furnace, no doubt on Alfred’s orders, and now it illuminated the painted scenes around them, bathed them in golden light. The room was warm, and Finan sighed as he rubbed his reddened hands, relieved to be free from the chapel’s chill.

"He's not exactly the forgiving type, is he?" he asked, sitting down at Uhtred’s side, and when a young monk stepped around him to reach the bedside table, bending down to take what remained of Uhtred's dinner, Finan stopped him with a strong clap on his shoulder. "Leave it, mate. I've got it covered."

The boy looked scandalized, but he did as he was told.

"Was it bad?" Uhtred asked, as Finan settled the plate in his lap, watching him soak a piece of bread in leftover sauce. He was dying to know what Alfred had said, was hoping for clues that would reveal his state of mind.

Finan grunted, chewing.

"It's like I killed his firstborn," he muttered through a mouthful of bread, “I swear, that man takes things so personally, it's insane. You sneeze and it's treason.”

Uhtred couldn't help but smile at that. Alfred’s wrath was well-known to him, and when it wasn’t him battling it, he was almost a little fond of it… as mad as that sounded.

"He is like that, yes..." 

Looking back at him, Finan raised a single brow but didn't say anything. Popping a grape into his mouth, he turned to watch the leaving monk. Only when the door had fallen shut behind him did he turn back to Uhtred.

"At least he is like that when it comes to you," he murmured, giving his lord a pointed look before he chose another grape. Immediately, Uhtred's pulse quickened.

"What do you mean?” he asked, and in response, Finan laughed, sparks in his eyes.

"Oh, come on,” he teased, as if Uhtred was playing dumb on purpose, “He treats you like you're royalty or something. It's weird. Almost like you’re part of his family.”

Uhtred scoffed bitterly.

“Yeah no. Alfred doesn’t treat me like family.”

“Well, at least he has you watched like family," Finan argued easily. He motioned towards the door with his free hand. “I mean there is like a dozen guards in front of your door, Uhtred. And it feels like he has half of Winchester watch you. Did I tell you he basically told me to spy on you?" Surprised, Uhtred shook his head as Finan nodded. "He did. A few days after you woke up, he summoned me at night, straight out of the blue!" Finan snorted at the memory. "Told me to make sure you don't 'do anything stupid'... like I'm the right person for that. Everything we do is stupid!”

Finan ate another grape, pausing his lecture, and Uhtred prayed to the Gods that his friend wouldn't see how he’d paled. Fortunately, Finan was too busy with his food.

“Why do you think he was so angry?” he asked, chewing. “He wants me to be your handler or something. I swear, I think he’s worried sick about you.”

Remembering the day’s events, Uhtred shook his head.

"He barely talks to me," he denied. "You saw how he tried to ignore me today. I mean, he basically accused me of wanting his attention.”

Already chewing again, Finan shrugged.

"So?" he asked, as if Uhtred's complaints were beside the point. "Sure, he’s being a bastard, but he's always been a bastard, right? That's just who he is. And meanwhile he's put you in his own rooms, you have an army of healers, one from Rome—” Raising his plate, he waved a piece of chicken at Uhtred’s face. “—and the food’s fucking delicious.”

Uhtred fell silent, unsure of what to say, and Finan sensed his mood and rolled his eyes, his expression turning serious for a second.

“Uhtred, seriously. His favor towards you is obvious. He’s here every morning-"

“Yes! Acting like I don't exist. He never eve-”

“He comes every morning," Finan repeated, interrupting him. "The king of Wessex, Uhtred. Pretty sure that man is busy, you know? ”

Uhtred frowned, giving up his protest. Objectively, all that was true, and what followed was a heavy silence in which Finan continued eating, his movements a little too casual. Uhtred distracted himself by watching the flames in the hearth, listening to its crackling tongues, its shadows flickering along the walls.

“What’s going on with you two?” Finan asked after a while, not in jest but in all seriousness, and so careful that Uhtred felt uncomfortable.

Feeling the urge to hide, he ran a numb hand over his face.

“I don’t know," he murmured.

But I miss him.

I can’t stop thinking about him.

When he didn’t say anything else, Finan sighed and put the plate of food to the side.

“I’m just asking 'cause he...” Finan stopped himself, suddenly unsure. He shifted, twisting uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes back on the door, as if too reassure himself that no one was listening. When there was nothing there to see, he turned back around and cleared his throat. “Alright Uhtred, listen... Alfred went half insane when you were dying.”

His words broke the strange spell that had fallen over them, and Uhtred propped himself up against the bed’s headboard, pushing the furs away from himself. He was sweating, was much too warm.

"What? What does that mean?"

Chewing on his lip, Finan shrugged.

“It means just that, I think... You should have seen him. When they told him that there was no sense in treating you, he went absolutely nuts.” Finan laughed nervously, vengeful amusement sparking at the memory. “I mean he threatened to kill them all. They were shitting themselves.”

Too rattled to say anything, Uhtred listened with bated breath, his heart stuttering in his chest.

“And that’s not even the worst of it,” Finan continued, growing more and more animated. “The plan was to get him out of Dunwhich the moment he was freed. Makes sense, right? It's not safe. You would think he'd want to move." Finan shook his head, still in disbelief. "But he didn't. The first week, we didn’t dare to move you, and he refused to leave your side... and then he send Æthelflæd’s army to join Edward without him. Kept only the necessary guard. It was madness, truly insane. Really pissed off his advisors, too.”

“He stayed in Dunwhich for me?” Uhtred asked, not quite able to trust his ears.

“Uhtred, he refused to leave your side,” Finan repeated, emphasizing every word, “He sat next to me every day. He barely slept.”

He’s here every morning and every evening, boy.

Thinking back, he remembered how tired Alfred had looked when he’d first woken up, how long his beard had been, how unkempt. He cares for you, he thought, and hope unfurled its wings in his mind, glowing in his heart, golden like the firelight… but then shadows smothered it before it could fly, shadows in the shape of Alfred's tightened jaw, his stiff posture, distant eyes turned away.

He cared for you.

And then you had to ruin it.

“I think it’s because you stayed with him when you could’ve just left,” Finan interrupted his thoughts, “I think he feels indebted for that. Massively.”

Staying silent, Uhtred watched as Finan picked at a callus on his hand.

“I mean, he didn't know Modthryth at all and he gave her a whole house.” His friend laughed nervously, picking away. “Me? I’m practically swimming in silver.”

Still Uhtred kept silent. He knew that Finan wasn't talking about rewards, not really.

“But you are different, right? He knows you. He’s known you for years. You saved him in Somerset, Ethandun, Fearnham... And now you did this,” Finan vaguely gestured into Uhtred’s direction, at his ruined body. He sounded agitated, almost angry. “I mean you basically killed yourself for him. Terribly. Maybe that’s why he’s acting like this...” He looked up from his hands, searched Uhtred’s eyes for answers that didn’t exist.

No please, Uhtred heard Alfred beg, I wouldn’t stand it.

“He must feel like there isn’t enough gold to give you,” Finan finished lamely, still hoping that Uhtred would say something.

Uhtred sighed.

“He hasn’t given me any gold,” he replied, choosing to focus on the safe part of their conversation. “I’m still waiting. Might have to take some of yours if you’re rich now.”

His friend smiled tiredly, but he didn’t let Uhtred distract him.

“I get it...” he said meaningfully. “It’s between you and him. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s totally fine, that’s not why I’m-” He stopped, searching for words. “I just mean… be careful, okay? There is such a thing as too much attention.”

At that, Uhtred threw back his head, exasperated, irritation swelling.

“Why does everyone give me- I haven’t asked for attention!”

Finan quickly held up his hands, signalling that he was on Uhtred’s side.

“I know."

“I don’t even want Alfred’s favor."

“I know," Finan repeated, "Believe me, Uhtred, I know. The problem is... you’ve got it now. And people like these noblemen, these clergymen? They get envious. And if Alfred reaps the consequences of that envy…” He shook his head with sad eyes, chewing on his lip. “I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time he’s thrown you to the wolves, would it?”

At that, Uhtred’s heart stung like he’d been stabbed.

“He wouldn’t,” he said, but his voice wasn't as firm as he had hoped, and Finan just kept looking at him, his expression unreadable.

“How sure are we of that?” he asked, and it was clear from his tone that the question wasn’t malicious, but that it came from a place of worry.

“I-“ Uhtred began, but then he stopped, doubt clouding his mind in misty wafts of tears, of sharp blue eyes and sharper words.

He didn’t know.

After all, Finan was right. It wouldn’t be the first time. Whether by entrapping him in oaths or in chains, Alfred had punished him numerous times after Uhtred had served him well. In the fight against Leofric, he’d even sentenced him to what Uhtred knew would have been his death.

But no... he shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. None of this was relevant, all of it belonged to the past. And now, things had changed between them.

Never.

Hadn't they?

We’ll never talk about this again.

“I mean, there’s no reason not to enjoy this while it lasts,” Finan told him through the fog, “God knows I’m enjoying it. I just think we should be careful.”

“Yeah,” Uhtred agreed, thankful that he didn’t have to say any more than that. “Thank you for warning me, Finan.”

“Of course, brother. You know I’ll always be there. Good fortune or not.”

Finan clapped him on the shoulder then, and Uhtred smiled at him, truly grateful for his friendship. They talked about a few other things afterwards, lighter things, about Hild teaching Modthryth how to fight and Sihtric’s new son, but Uhtred wasn’t really there, couldn’t quite follow, and soon, Finan stood to let him sleep.

When he'd reached the door, however, Uhtred thought of something he’d forgotten and called out to him, relieved that he’d finally remembered.

“Oh, and Finan! Thank you.”

Finan turned with his hand on the handle. He was a mirror image of Alfred during that terrible night, their stances the same, yet completely different.

"Well, first of all, you are welcome," he drawled, smiling. "Second - what did I do?"

Uhtred smiled back at him.

“The bow,” he clarified, “I never thanked you for it, but it was a stroke of genius. I wouldn't have managed without it! I’ll buy you a dozen pints of ale once I'm out of here.”

Uhtred expected Finan to laugh, to bargain for a dozen barrels instead, but his friend only frowned.

“What bow?” he asked, appearing clueless.

“The bow in Dunwhich. The one you left by the carcass.”

Finan shook his head, brows knitting together. "I didn’t leave a bow," he said. "Only the greased cloth, like we talked about.”

Uhtred’s jaw slackened. He felt it rush in, that unearthly, invisible thing, that eerie feeling of being watched... Yet across the room, Finan was still waiting to be dismissed. He shrugged, misinterpreting Uhtred's silence.

"Sorry, lord... I didn't know you wanted one."

Quickly, Uhtred shook his head.

"No, it's fine, I- It worked out... I guess someone must have forgotten it there,” he said dumbly, still hoping that Finan would remember.

Unfortunately, his friend only nodded, already opening the door. Apparently, it wasn’t a big deal to him.

“Aye, we got lucky!” he agreed, and when his eyes found Uhtred’s, only for a moment, he winked. “Told you, God loves that bastard.”

With that, he left, and Uhtred’s nights turned to nightmares again, full of looming, dripping crosses. Of agonizing kisses and watching Gods.

Chapter Text

The next week was fractured like the goddess Hel; half shimmering beauty, rich and joyful, half black and dead, painted by nightmarish doubt.

The day he’d ventured outside, when Finan had been lectured at the chapel, a servant had come to his room and taken his measurements… and as soon as the next morning, when it was time to get dressed, Uhtred saw why.

On the stool next to his bed lay not his usual shirt of plain linen, but a dark blue tunic made from fine, smooth fabric. It was richly embroidered, silver threads crisscrossing across its chest to form delicate jewels, every last one of which had a tiny, silver flower in its centre, a degree of detail that must have taken hours to stitch.

Right next to the tunic lay a jacket; its fabric black like the night and thick enough to withstand the coldest winter, its inside covered with the softest wool Uhtred had ever felt. In stark contrast to its perfect blackness – created, no doubt, by an exorbitant amount of dye – its sleeves were decorated with a bright array of colours, rich Saxon patterns that wound around Uhtred’s arms as glittering snakes, gemmed chains of gold.

Just by the look of them, Uhtred knew these clothes were worth a fortune, and when minutes later, Beocca came to help him take his breakfast, his chin almost hit the floor.

“You-” he started, but the blatant splendour of Uhtred’s clothes robbed him of his speech, and for a moment, he said nothing, stared from where he was frozen to the spot, dumb and wide-eyed.

Then he shook his head in honest disbelief.

“You look like you raided the treasury,” he gaped, and Uhtred chuckled roughly.

“I know.”

“You look like you’re the king of somewhere.”

“I know.”

Beocca snorted.

“He must have gone insane to gift you something like this – it’s casting pearls before swine.”

“Thanks, Beocca,” Uhtred bristled, but his oldest friend only smiled at him, stepping closer.

“But it’s true! I remember how you tortured your clothes in Bebbanburg. You climbed every tree you saw, rolled around in every muddy puddle,” Beocca shrugged with well-meaning resignation, palms towards his charge. “You are still very much that boy, Uhtred, and those clothes will not survive the month.”

Uhtred folded his arms across his jewelled chest. “I can be careful.”

“Sure,” Beocca said, playful smile widening, and Uhtred shook his head.

“You’ll see in a month,” he promised. “You’ll choke on that shit-eating grin!”

“I’ll see indeed,” Beocca agreed with mirthful eyes, and then he waved at the food that was already waiting for them at the table. “But first you’ll choke on some bread, I think.”

They sat and ate, Beocca helping him, and their little quarrel was soon forgotten. They talked and laughed, and then Beocca brought Uhtred news of his children, and Uhtred listened with a heavy heart. When he’d been sick, his friends had decided to tell them that he was still travelling. It wasn’t ideal of course, lying to them, but it was better for them than the truth. Nobody had wanted them to fear for their father so soon after the death of their mother. The truth would be explained in time.

Through all of it, Uhtred kept touching his tunic, mind in awe as his fingers ran along his arms, brushing cool, foreign silk, the coarse contrast of its silver thread. He was stunned by the value of this gift, surprised that it had been given to him so casually, without so much as a word. Most of all, he was nervous about facing its giver, didn’t know how to phrase his appreciation, how to thank Alfred for his generosity.

In the end, it didn’t matter.

When Uhtred had eaten his food and Beocca had left, the healers arrived… but Alfred never came.

Uhtred expected Alfred to be late, expected him to stride through the door at any moment, but as his daily examination neared its end, he asked Bertlic about the king’s whereabouts, irritated by his absence. Unfortunately, the dotard couldn’t tell him anything, and kingless hours later, Uhtred didn’t have much more luck when he asked Pietro at their forenoon practice, or Beocca at lunch.

Was Alfred alright?

Was he sick, in danger?

Effortlessly, Uhtred’s mind generated mountains of worries, questions and more questions. Was Alfred safe? Should he inquire after him with more force, press the matter? Would that be the right thing to do, or would it be an overreaction?

Uhtred sincerely couldn’t tell….

Stop fretting, he’s probably just busy.

Are you truly incapable of spending a single day without him?

No.

Uhtred told himself that Alfred’s absence wasn’t so important, that he didn’t care so much, but when in the afternoon, Uhtred still hadn’t heard anything from him, he couldn’t let it go.

He waited till the end of his second practice with Pietro, when the olive-skinned man was crouched over his stinging hands, carefully rewrapping them with practiced skill. The act itself reminded him that Pietro knew enough of his vulnerabilities, his weaknesses, and so Uhtred was careful to express nothing more than mild interest.

“I haven’t seen the king at all today,” he said casually, with a voice that lacked inflection, a tongue that talked just to pass the time. “He must be busy with something…”

Pietro hummed and didn’t say a word. His Saxon had gotten much better in the little time he'd spend in Winchester, but Uhtred still feared that he had not understood the implicit question in his words, and so he waited for as long as he could bear before he tried again.

“Have you heard anything?” he asked then, more directly and impatient for an answer, and Pietro looked up at him with darkly twinkling eyes. He had clearly understood him the first time, hadn't for one second fallen for Uhtred’s forced indifference.

“I have not heard,” he answered lightly, his strange accent a liting melody, “But I think kings do as kings like, no?”

Uhtred looked away.

He had a feeling that Pietro had seen through him with ease, knew of his wounds, and he hated the sudden heat in his cheeks, cringed when that cruel voice in his mind couldn’t help but add to his mortification.

Alfred is right, it whispered, you are desperate for his attention. And everybody knows it.

Uhtred wished that the voice would shut up, but he knew that it was right. He longed for Alfred’s attention, and apparently he needed his presence, needed it daily and could bear nothing less.

And now he’s punishing you for being reckless.

Maybe that was it, Uhtred thought. After all, it wasn’t unlike Alfred to be petty or vindictive… and if he knew that Uhtred craved his presence, which the malicious voice in Uhtred’s head whispered he definitely did, then not visiting him would be an easy way to punish Uhtred for his stunt in the courtyard.

And didn’t Alfred love to show his authority...

But then, if he was angry, why would he gift Uhtred such expensive clothes? Why would he give him a warm jacket, if he truly disapproved of Uhtred’s venture outside? The uncertainty of it all drove Uhtred mad, made it impossible to sleep, and so he tossed and turned that night - and his questions with him - for all his musings didn’t bring him closer to an answer.

Whatever the reason, the king hadn’t come that day, and he didn’t come the next; in his stead, Uhtred found another set of clothes, just as fine as the first and just as perfectly fitted. This time, the tunic was red as blood, the embroidery not delicate but powerful, two wyverns in its center, woven with golden thread.

The symbol of Wessex, proud and glorious, roaring from Uhtred’s anxious chest.

All that gold, it looked stupidly expensive…

Yet, Uhtred didn’t feel the excitement he’d felt before, too miserable was he at Alfred’s absence. In fact, on the morning of the third day, when his eyes fell on a white tunic stitched with intricate scenes of war, with soldiers and shields that Uhtred recognized from the paintings of the king’s hall, he could barely keep himself from ripping the damn thing in half, seeing in it nothing but another day of misery.

It was on the evening of the fourth day of joyless finery that Beocca and Finan came with a message from the king, and though the message itself wasn’t welcome, Uhtred was glad to hear from Alfred at all. He was tired of speculating about what was expected of him, about what Alfred’s absence was meant to convey...

“It’s time for you to return home,” Beocca recited Alfred’s orders back to him with sympathetic eyes. “Pietro will visit you there, you are to follow his instructions. And you are to see the king as soon as you are well enough to walk a mile… to stand throughout the day.”

Uhtred didn’t really care, listened to the specifics with only half an ear.

“Did he say why he hasn’t come to see me?” he asked when Beocca had finished.

“He did not,” Finan replied for Beocca, biting his lip apologetically. “And we didn’t ask, to be honest. Didn’t seem like he was in the mood for small talk, you know?”

Uhtred’s head throbbed. He’d been grinding his teeth.

“So he’s avoiding me.”

With a grave sigh, Beocca rolled his eyes.

“He’s not avoiding you, Uhtred. It’s been months. You are better now, and the king has got work to do,” he scolded, and he gave Uhtred a look that made him feel thoroughly embarrassed, ashamed of his self-importance.

In response, Uhtred grunted sullenly, but he didn’t object. He knew that he was making a fool of himself. For the moment, he didn’t have a choice but to let the matter rest and do what he was told, and it didn’t take long to gather the things that belonged to him, expensive clothes included. Slowly and with many breaks, Beocca and Finan helped Uhtred to reach the Palace steps, where they got into a waiting carriage that took them to his house.

The dark winter evening obscured Winchester’s streets, hid Uhtred from most of its prying eyes, and he was glad for it, felt naked in the vastness of the outside world, unshielded by the walls of Alfred’s power.

When they finally entered his house, Uhtred barely recognized the place.

Though Hild and Thyra had helped to care for the children and to keep the house orderly, the place had felt lifeless after Gisela’s death. Now it was bustling with activity, and after Uhtred had greeted Hild, not quite able to look at the squirming child in her arms, he hugged his older children, pressed them tightly to his chest and inhaled their scent with itching eyes.

Lurking in the corners of his house, he saw servants that he didn’t recognize, noticed how clean and homely everything had become.

Finan saw his puzzled looks and grinned.

“I told you, it’s been great. You’ve got maids, a chef,” he pointed at Modthryth, who sat at the kitchen table peeling onions, and who now met Uhtred’s gaze with a shy nod, “and this insane nanny we met on the way back from Dunwhich.”

Without hesitation, Modthryth threw an onion at Finan’s head, shyness dissolving at once, but he sidestepped it easily. 

“Call me a nanny one more time and I’ll cut off your balls!” she threatened, brandishing her knife, and in Uhtred’s arms, Stiorra giggled with childish joy. Uhtred grinned down at her, ruffled her hair with a heart that felt full and heavy.

But Finan slapped his shoulder, demanding his attention.

“And you know what the best part is?” he asked, excited like a little boy, “None of this is costing you a dime. The palace is paying them all!” He frowned, tilting his head towards Modthryth. “Well… except for the nanny.”

The onion that followed hit Finan right above the temple, but it didn’t hit so hard, and he managed to catch it before it fell to the ground. He winked at Modthryth before he took a bite, happily munching on a mouthful of onion, moaning as if it was the most delicious thing in the world, and it made Stiorra hoot with laughter.

“Life is good, my friend,” he said to Uhtred when he’d swallowed, clapped him on the shoulder and wandered off to find more appropriate food.

Later, huddled around their old wooden table, stomachs full and warm, Uhtred’s children badgered him with questions about his ‘travels’. They wanted to know what had happened to his hands, asked about the funny way he walked, and Uhtred told them stories about epic battles and slayed dragons, tales of witches and secret treasures. When he was finished, young Uhtred had fallen asleep in his arms, and Stiorra told him that she didn’t believe a word he was saying, a deep frown on her cute little forehead. So Uhtred told her a version of the story that was closer to the truth, and when she seemed satisfied, Hild gently lifted his son from his arms, and Stiorra reluctantly followed her to their bed, Uhtred trailing behind them with slow, aching steps, Finan at his side.

Finan was right, life was good.

Uhtred watched Hild tug in his children, saw how she glanced at him with a knowing smile, and on the surface, he felt happy, felt thankful and at ease… surrounded by familial bliss.

But in the back of his mind, Uhtred couldn’t shake the sadness that grieved for the person that was lacking from this nearly perfect moment. The person who’d become his world’s focus, whose presence would calm his ever-spinning mind, his tightly wound muscles.

He could never be a part of this, his mind whispered.

Uhtred wished he could stop thinking about him.

After Finan helped him climb the stairs to his own room, Uhtred’s first night in his own bed was as troubled as the nights in Alfred’s chambers. Though there were no more grasping shadows, no more looming palace walls, Uhtred’s nightmares had followed him home. While all day he’d hoped for a glimpse of Alfred’s face, the king’s spectral presence haunted him at night.

When Uhtred emerged from the fitful darkness of his sleep, Alfred hung right above him, pale and broken, tied to the rafters of the roof, and Uhtred’s muscles locked shut in soundless terror, petrified with sudden shock.

“Uhtred,” Alfred gasped as though he was drowning, blood dripping from his nose and brows, warm red drops that burned against the blue of his eyes, that hit Uhtred’s skin and tainted his soul. “I am raised a cross.”

Uhtred wanted to run, to cry out, shaken by Alfred’s suffering, but as always, he couldn’t move a muscle, couldn’t even breathe. He tried to fight the dreadful, heavy pressure that chained him to the bed, that pressed against his chest… but it was useless.

His mind screamed at whatever was holding him.

Let me go! Leave him alone!

“Promise me... Promise that you won’t leave me,” choked Alfred above him, wide-eyed and haunting, reciting words that were terribly familiar, and Uhtred felt despair seize him, bottomless guilt. “I am all drenched in sorrows for you.”

No, please, stop it!

Above him, Alfred winced in pain, pleading with sharp, agonized eyes, ripped apart by the God he loved. He looked awful, close to death, and he struggled to speak; horrible, thickly wet sounds emanating from his throat as he coughed from blood-soaked lungs.

“I am all wet with blood for you,” he blurted, groaned as redness started pouring from his mouth, as gashes opened up across his chest.

“NO! PLEASE!” Uhtred screamed, all but losing his mind, and this time his voice exploded into the room, and his legs pushed against the mattress when he flung himself back against the headboard, house shaken by a loud wooden bang.

He heard someone bolt up the stairs, his own heart thumping like boots in a battle, but when help stormed into the room, Alfred was already gone, the rafters as bloodless as ever.

Finan came to a sudden stop in front of Uhtred’s bed, dagger in hand, and it took a second before he noticed that there was no one to fight.

“Jesus Christ, Uhtred,” he panted, thoroughly rattled, straightening from his battle-ready crouch, “I thought someone — Jesus, you scared me half to death.”

He took in Uhtred’s pale skin, his heaving chest. A few rooms away, they heard Stiorra call for Hild, heard the baby start to cry.

“Are you alright?” Finan asked, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

Before Uhtred could answer him, Hild’s voice rose up from below.

“Finan? Is everything all right?” she asked, no doubt ready to defend the children with her life, and Uhtred quickly waved his throbbing hand to dismiss both of their worries.

“It’s nothing – a nightmare,” he panted, blood still thumping in his ears.

“Everything’s fine!” Finan called to Hild, echoing Uhtred’s words, “Just a nightmare!”

When the house quieted down, Uhtred exhaled shakily and fell back down into his bed, but his friend made no move to leave. He was still hovering in the doorway, clearly concerned.

“Everything’s fine, Finan,” Uhtred reassured him, “Go back to bed.”

Finan gave Uhtred a doubtful look, but he nodded, too tired to disagree.

“Alright… yeah, fine… I’ll see you in the morning then,” he muttered, before he descended down the stairs, “Try not to give me a heart attack, alright?”

“Alright.”

Uhtred listened to Finan’s distancing steps, to the deafening silence of the night, but the space above him was shadowed and threatening, and he didn’t find any more sleep.

Instead, he thought of Alfred.

Because that was all he seemed capable of doing, thinking of Alfred… always Alfred, awake or asleep. A never-ending stream of consciousness that knew only one name, one body, one man.

Uhtred was sick of it.

I told him I needed him and he left me.

Why would he send me home without speaking to me?

It’s because he’s punishing me.

But why the clothes? Why give me the clothes if he wants to punish me?

Pillowed on newly purchased furs, Uhtred’s head was pounding, throbbed around his buzzing thoughts, scattered by his chronic lack of sleep. He stared against the bloodless rafters of his room with glassy eyes, thoughts spinning around Finan’s warning, around Alfred’s history of shallow gratitude. His history of pushing Uhtred away.

What if this is it already?

What if this is the part where he gets tired of me?

Maybe Alfred had noticed the envy of his noblemen by now, the indignation of his clergy. Maybe Finan was right and he deemed it a price too high to pay.

But he cried for you. He begged you to stay with him.

That had to mean that things had changed, right? After all, it was extraordinary enough that Uhtred could barely think of anything else. Alfred’s tears followed him wherever he went, nested in the back of his mind like liquid smoke, black ravens; Huginn and Munnin, memories that turned to ever-present thoughts, haunted his dreams.

Why would Alfred beg him to stay just to push him away?

It wouldn’t make sense. It couldn’t be right.

In the darkness of his room, the room he had once shared with the woman he loved, the room that had once been a place of pleasure, of suppressed laughter and stifled moans, Uhtred’s thoughts wound around his mind, knotted themselves into an unsolvable riddle.

Gisela would’ve soothed you now, he thought to himself, and instead you are betraying her by thinking of another.

Another worry added, Uhtred hugged himself then, sad and lonely. Curled up like this, he thought about the woman he’d lost, about the child he couldn’t look at, and the man he’d never have.

He got up before first light, impatient to flee from his bed.

It took him an embarrassingly long time to climb down the stairs, and in the end, he conquered some of the way on his forearms and arse, glad that no one was awake to see him. When Beocca came to visit, a long scroll in his hand, Uhtred had already been sitting at the kitchen table for hours, staring at his uneaten breakfast, avoiding the worried glances his family was giving him.

“Be careful, he’s had a bad night,” Uhtred heard Finan whisper to Beocca, huddled in the doorway, and it made his mood even worse, exhaustion like gravel in his bones.

But Beocca didn’t care to tread softly.

“Then I know what will better his mood!” he announced loudly as he approached with a big grin, busily waving the thing in his hand as he sat down at the table.

At once, Stiorra came running from the kitchen, always eager to be included, and Finan and Hild hovered around the table as well, Modthryth watching from a distance away. Even Uhtred followed Beocca’s movements with expectant eyes, curious against his will.

“It’s a charter,” Beocca told him, brushing crumbs off the table with his sleeve before he unrolled the parchment on its surface, careful not to rip its edges. “Alfred has granted you land.”

Uhtred’s eyes cleared, chin lifting.

He’s granted me land, he thought, He’s rewarding me.

Chest feeling lighter than it had for hours, Uhtred’s eyes wandered across the soft parchment on the table, flickered across neat rows of black ink, lines and loops so fine they looked like cobwebs in the wind.

He isn’t punishing me.

His friends had stepped even closer, bodies crammed around the table to inspect the charter, its waxen royal seal, its scrawling letters… though, except for Hild, they had no more chance of understanding them than he did.

“What does it read?” Uhtred asked Beocca, not for the first time cursing himself for paying so little attention to his childhood lessons.

At once, as if he’d waited for the question to leave Uhtred’s mouth, Beocca looked up at him, a big fat grin on his face.

“It reads that you are Lord of Wiltonshire,” he told Uhtred breathlessly, watching him for a reaction, and the idea of Alfred punishing him grew suddenly, impossibly absurd.

“Wiltonshire?” Finan asked in disbelief, mouth falling open. “That Wiltonshire?”

“THAT Wiltonshire!” Beocca beamed back at Finan, craning his neck, and then he turned back, reached across the table to grab Uhtred by the shoulders, shaking him, clapping his back. “Which means you have enough money and men to take Bebbanburg four times over, boy.”

Beocca was gleeful, elated, and Uhtred could only stare at him, Finan’s laughter ringing in his ears.

“Hild, we are fucking rich!” his friend cried, swinging the abbess through the room by her forearms. “Forget about servants, forget about this house, and especially forget about fucking Coccham! We. Are. Rich! Stupid rich!”

Uhtred still couldn’t think.

“How-“ he started, but he didn’t know what he was questioning.

“I’m gonna buy myself a fucking castle,” Finan said to Modthryth.

Beside Uhtred, Beocca was still grinning. He was grinning so hard that his face had grown red.

“I told you it would be a good thing to serve Alfred,” he said, patting Uhtred’s hand. “Didn’t I?”

Uhtred nodded, speechless, and then Finan was cupping his face, excitement brimming over.

“Who would have thought that almost dying would be the best thing you ever did?” he said. “Don’t even mind your hands, lord. We’ll get you a servant for every finger, and then ten more to carry you.”

For a moment, Uhtred felt a jolt of indignation, but then he laughed, Finan’s joy infectious.

I’m Lord of Wiltonshire.

Alfred made me Lord of Wiltonshire.

The infection lasted a good while, and Uhtred’s grim spirits lifted, stayed high when he and his friends celebrated his newfound power with wine and food. Someone called for Sihtric and Osferth, and Osferth pored over the parchment as Sihtric poured one cup of wine after another, listened to Stiorra’s plans for a castle of her own.

Uhtred smiled, watching from his seat as his friends celebrated and danced around the room, and for once, his nightmares were forgotten.

In the afternoon, when Finan was drunk and Sihtric was already sleeping it off with his head on the table, Pietro came down from his rooms at the palace and made Uhtred’s noble feet walk from his house to the end of the street and back.

And then he asked him to do it again… and again and again.

Thus, after Uhtred had reached his doorstep for the third time, the good mood brought on by sudden riches and newfound power had vanished, had been rudely destroyed by the boundaries of his physical reality, of a body that felt everything but powerful. All the silver in the world couldn’t buy him more strength or new muscles, and Uhtred’s wounded gut ached as if it was being squeezed by a sadistic giant, legs shaking with exertion. He was dizzy and pale, cold sweat covering his skin, and Pietro saw it and told him to sit down, watched him like farmers watched cattle that wouldn’t make it through the winter.

While Uhtred sat there, sweating and shaking, Finan gave him a pouch of water and an apple, and Uhtred ate and drank with growing frustration.

If I can barely do this without fainting, how long is it going to take until I can be on my feet for a day?

Darkness clouded his mind, poisoned his will, and when after a few minutes, as if holding him by an invisible leash, Pietro got up and motioned for Uhtred to follow, Uhtred took no more than two steps before he came to a halt again.

At this rate, I won’t see him for another year.

“Dai, andiamo!”

Swaying on uneven ground, Uhtred didn’t know what Pietro was saying, but it sounded exasperated and demanding, and so he suspected that he didn’t like it. He felt defeated, hopelessness glueing him to the spot.

“It’s been six weeks, and I can barely walk without feeling like I’m going to puke,” he complained, while Pietro watched him with curious impatience, “Bertlic said it would take four weeks for me to heal.”

Now Pietro laughed.

“Bertlic says he is a healer, too," he retorted, and winked at Finan where he was leaning against the doorframe of the house. "But if he starts calling his piss ale, I won't drink it."

Uhtred rolled his eyes. It turned out that Pietro was offensively intelligent, and he had gotten annoyingly good at talking back. Right now, that didn't improve Uhtred's mood. He was in pain, angry and unsatisfied, and for once, he wanted to have a serious conversation. He wanted an answer.

“So how much longer will it take, then?” he scowled, looking down at Pietro’s smiling face.

Unfortunately, contrary to Bertlic, the Roman didn’t let himself be pressured into speculation. Instead of answering him, he stepped closer and patted Uhtred’s cheek in gentle teasing, much like a rider patted the flanks of a horse.

“Less long the less you talk,” he said, before pointing towards the end of the street. “Walk.”

“Why can’t you just answer me?” Uhtred sulked.

“Why can’t you just walk?” Pietro asked.

Uhtred growled.

“I swear, I’ll-”

“Do it while you walk!” Pietro interjected cheerfully, unimpressed with his antics, and somewhere behind him, Uhtred heard Finan's muffled laugh.

With another growl, he started walking, his damaged hands pressed against his aching stomach in a grim imitation of what had usually been Alfred’s to endure. Like this, he kept on shuffling, gritting his teeth against the pain, one step after another, and as his feet dragged through the mud, he kept himself motivated by imagining what Hæsten’s head would look like rolling through it at his execution...

In the end, it took Uhtred four more weeks.

Four more weeks of muddy streets, blue-eyed nightmares and heartsick yearning.

Chapter Text

Today.

When Uhtred entered the king’s hall, it was full to the brim.

Above painted scenes of battle, the bright winter sun fell through Roman glass windows, illuminated heads that were in perpetual motion, that pushed past each other, cooped up like cattle. In a cacophony of voices, noblemen laughed and noisily boasted of their achievements, whispered their displeasures behind raised hands.

Today is the day.

Like the cup-bearing servants, Uhtred wove through the men on steady, agile feet, through their wives who chattered and mingled beside them, their well-fed children who watched him with open mouths, pointed at him with sticky fingers.

But it wasn’t only the children who watched him.

As he worked his way forward, he heard the gasps of elbows bumping into sides, felt the eyes of grey-robed monks follow him through the crowd, of priests who clutched gaudy crosses while they stared at the back of Uhtred’s neck. This was supposed to be their day of course, their long-awaited time to shine, and so they begrudged him the attention that his mere existence earned him.

Today I will see him.

Despite the freezing temperatures outside, the air in the crowded palace was warm and thick. Clad in their heavy armour, the king’s guards readjusted damp fingers on the wooden hilts of their spears, pearls of sweat running along their temples, helmets uncomfortable against their skin.

Uhtred hated these kinds of gatherings. The pretentiousness of it all, the exchange of pleasantries that was devoid of sincerity and full of greedy ambition. Had he not been so desperate, he would have turned around on the spot. But he’d trained weeks for this moment, had plagued Pietro for word from the palace as soon as he’d been able to walk the mile that had been asked of him, and as much as Uhtred hated his surroundings, he wanted to be nowhere else.

The further Uhtred came to the end of the hall, the more the crowd of bodies thickened. Around him, conversations grew less animated, sentences less complex, as if the people here had grown distracted. Men and women now craned their necks, impatient for a glimpse of power, and when Uhtred pushed past them, they hissed angrily, turned to see who was so rudely jumping the queue.

He is here.

With his heart in his throat, Uhtred shouldered his way through the last row of bodies, their backs to him, their faces turned to the one man who mattered. When they parted, Uhtred stepped through their ranks, invaded the one open space that had been left in the hall, that invisible circle of respect that hadn’t been breached.

And there he was.

The king had been listening to an older, pot-bellied man, nodding his agreement, but when Uhtred stepped into the clearing of empty tiles before him, Alfred’s eyes snapped to his, and he straightened in his seat, towered on his throne.

There he is.

Alfred was the living image of his rule.

He looked majestic, blended into his surroundings as if he was a part of the palace itself. His body was the personified seat of his power, all perfectly assembled in one man – his winter skin like candlewax, his figure tall and slender as a pillar, his hair the colour of his throne.

There he is.

It was as if nothing had ever happened.

In the town square of Dunwhich, Alfred, bare and unprotected, had looked noble but vulnerable, proud but fragile. Now, there was no fragility left. The king’s hall had dressed him, protectively wrapped itself around him; its archways his usual cassock, wool red like bricks, its hinged doors of greenish-blue a simple tunic underneath, its yellow walls the gleaming clasps that held it all together.

Lovelorn as he was, Uhtred almost choked on it all – the beauty, the potency, the cause for his hammering heart.

There he is.

Alfred waved his hand to order silence, and behind Uhtred, the room grew crushingly, abruptly still, even whispers hushed by people that listened for his every breath. Yet as extreme as it was, Uhtred didn’t notice the sudden change in atmosphere, didn’t even notice Beocca, who stood behind the throne, giving him a quick, reassuring smile. No, Uhtred’s mind was fully occupied, one single man invading his every breath, his every thought, and his eyes and ears knew only one direction.

There he-.

“Uhtred.”

After weeks of treading mud, of smothering nocturnal silence, Alfred’s voice resonated in Uhtred’s chest, its echo skipping along his rips like stones across water. To hide his barely controlled nerves, Uhtred put his hands behind his back, clasped them to conceal his scars.

No weakness.

“My lord.”

In the light-flooded hall, the king looked him up and down, gaze flickering to Uhtred’s middle, searching for hands he couldn’t see, and Uhtred straightened under his scrutiny, was suddenly, uncomfortably aware of his own body.

Show no weakness. Don’t disappoint him.

Another second passed before Alfred met his eyes again.

“You look stronger than when I last saw you,” he observed, tone pleased but sober.

“Yes, lord.”

“I trust you feel better?”

“I do, lord.”

Alfred nodded, but the hair on Uhtred’s arms stood up, and he searched Alfred’s steady gaze to gauge his mood, his stomach falling, anxiety gnawing.

Something’s wrong. It’s all wrong.

“That is good to hear.”

The king’s expression was blank, as neutral as it had ever been. His voice was neither particularly cold nor particularly warm, neither lively nor leaden, and though his words seemed right enough as they resounded through the hall, flew over the heads of frowning clerics, they withered in the air, rang rotten in Uhtred’s ears.

After weeks of shared imprisonment, and after weeks of missing him, Alfred was acting as distant as ever, and dark voices stirred in Uhtred’s head, sunk their claws into his pride, his loyalty.

How dare he.

How dare he act as if you’re just another Ealdorman.

In the heat of the room, Uhtred suppressed a shiver, struggled to keep himself still. His body was vibrating with tension, muscles taut with anticlimactic frustration, with pressure that couldn’t find release.

“Your recovery took longer than anticipated,” Alfred said, and the voices in Uhtred’s head soared, viciously.

He’s disappointed in you.

How dare he be disappointed in you.

The silence in the room was growing uncomfortable, and the pressure inside Uhtred build, opened wounds that couldn’t withstand it. Resentment boiled up from obscure corners of his mind, a black, toxic sludge.

Finan was right.

“But be that as it may…”

He didn’t visit you once.

Across from him, Alfred put his hand out to the side now, arm sweeping wide, palm towards the ceiling. He nodded at the pot-bellied man, then looked back at Uhtred, and Uhtred’s mind stuttered to a halt.

“I just spoke to Eldric here about the significance of Cristes mæsse, Uhtred. Are you familiar?”

He wasn’t familiar with that, no, but he was familiar enough with Alfred to see that he wasn’t acting right. The gesture of his hand was theatrical, not natural but consciously employed. In fact… all of Alfred’s movements, his tone, it was all a little bit too marked, too distinct, and in a moment of sudden clarity, Uhtred realized what was going on. He had made a mistake.

This isn’t real.

When he’d been summoned, he’d expected to meet Alfred. Had thought of the man he’d been captured with, had been tortured with. The man who had sat at his bedside, who had held his hand, who-

But now he understood that their encounter was not between them at all. It was between King Alfred and the people. A long-awaited spectacle, a public display of authority.

This isn’t Alfred.

This is the king.

Suddenly, Uhtred felt for the sweating guards, knew how they were suffering on a day like this. They were proud, loyal soldiers who were forced to act as decoration, and Uhtred suspected that he had more in common with them than he would have liked, his skin now itching under the expensive silk of his tunic.

He squirmed under Alfred’s waiting gaze, and in his discomfort, he finally noticed Beocca, at once searching his eyes for clues of what was expected of him. From one moment to the next, he had found himself in a game that he didn’t fully understand, that he wasn’t prepared for.

Beocca looked tense, but his eyes didn’t provide much help, and so Uhtred had no choice but to answer truthfully.

“I’m familiar with it in parts, lord, from my childhood…” he said, “It seems similar to Giul.”

A murmur went through the crowd behind him, and Uhtred saw it reflected in the careful emptiness of the king’s expression, in the stiffening of Beocca’s shoulders.

Alfred’s mouth twisted into a sardonic little smile.

“It’s not quite as primitive as Giul,” he replied calmly, patronizingly, soothing the mob with well-placed derision. “Though I hear that some more recently converted Christians do still call it that, at times.”

Uhtred ignored the insult to his pagan roots, had known that it would come the moment the crowd had reacted so negatively to his comparison. He recognized Alfred’s second statement as the lifeline it was meant as, had known families in Coccham who celebrated Giul as Christians, and so he inclined his head in agreement.

“They call it that because it celebrates birth, lord.”

“Yes, Uhtred, very good. And whose birth is it that we are celebrating?”

Instinctively, Uhtred’s eyes met Beocca’s, found a source of calm as he suppressed the urge to scowl. It was in the name, after all. Did Alfred really have to ask him questions that any child could answer? Almost imperceptibly, Beocca nodded, encouraging him, and Uhtred swallowed his pride.

“The birth of Christ, lord.”

Alfred nodded, pleased with him. With his obedience.

“And how do we celebrate the birth of Christ?”

Uhtred almost shrugged, but he caught himself in time, shoulders tensing beneath the weight of unwanted attention. He’d never been to Winchester during Cristes mæsse, didn’t know how it was celebrated, and he wasn’t sure why he was being subjected to these questions, why he had to speculate about it for the crowd.

But now that Alfred’s game had begun, he couldn’t escape it, and so he tried to think.

Giul was a celebration of birth and fertility, of the hope for a new beginning, and he and Gisela had spent it in Coccham, surrounded by family and friends, feasting and drinking, their hall decorated with ever-green leaves to remind them of the coming of spring. When the night had drawn to an end, Uhtred, drunk and happy, had taken Gisela’s hand and led her upstairs, accompanied by the hoots and laughs of his friends.

But that was pagan Giul.

How would Christians celebrate it?

The absence of tables suggested that it wasn’t feasting or drinking, and Uhtred knew without a doubt that it wasn’t fucking. Precious seconds flew by while he wrecked his brain for something to say, for something Beocca would approve of.

He picked the most innocent thing he could find.

“With joy, lord?”

Alfred’s lips pulled into an artificial, benevolent smile, but he slowly shook his head, crown glinting in rays of brilliant light.

“With devotion,” he corrected mildly. “We temper our bodily desire for food and other passions, so that our souls, relieved from their worldly bonds, may draw closer to Christ.”

Oh, come on-

Uhtred frowned. Testing him was one thing, but this was ridiculous. Alfred knew as well as he did that he could never have given him an answer anything close to that.

That’s because he wasn’t really asking, you idiot.

None of this is real, remember?

Above him, the king continued his sermon.

“Besides fasting from Cristes mæsse to the day of Epiphany, we practice ourselves in generosity through the giving of alms. We give to the wretched as God gave to us when he sacrificed his son for our salvation – and we give to the Church, which keeps us on God’s path…” Alfred inclined his head towards his left, and when Uhtred turned, he saw Bishop Erkenwald, hands neatly folded under the cross on his chest. “An act that must be venerated as the greatest of charities.”

“Thank you, lord,” Erkenwald said, bowing slightly, and the king’s head turned back to Uhtred.

“This way, Uhtred, we do our part for a better, godlier country,” Alfred said, and paused. “It is a selfless time. A time for service of every man to his people.”

Uhtred wasn’t sure what to say to that, yet Alfred watched him expectantly, sky-blue stare demanding a reaction. Behind him, low enough so as not to draw attention, Beocca gestured at Uhtred with his hand, urging him to do something he didn’t understand.

Except for a few suffocated coughs, the hall was cloaked in heavy silence, and Uhtred shifted, growing uncomfortable.

“Lord?” he asked, and thankfully, Alfred took pity on him.

“Wiltonshire is yet to join in the giving of alms.”

Oh. Of course.

Uhtred mentally slapped himself. He should have known.

“And it will give, lord.”

Alfred nodded, a movement like sharpened steel.

“Generously, perhaps?” he suggested, in a tone that wasn’t to be argued with, eyes gliding over the heads of his priests and nobles, “To reflect the favour God has shown you this year.”

The favour.

THE FAVOUR?

Indignation surged in Uhtred’s veins, black and hot, but he bristled for only a second before he remembered his audience, schooled his face into a mask of reserved indifference.

He gathered himself, voice a little tighter than intended.

“How much?”

“A hundred pounds of silver is appropriate, I think.”

That was a lot, a hell of a lot, and Uhtred couldn’t help his slight grimace when he nodded, forcing himself not to question the amount. He was rich because of Alfred, after all, not despite of him. A mere month ago, most of Uhtred’s money had been his.

“Of course, lord,” Uhtred agreed, albeit tersely, and Alfred gave another nod.

“Excellent. We’ll discuss the specifics in private.”

The king’s tone suggested that he was done with their conversation, and with a swift twist of his wrists, he pushed himself out of his chair and stood, refolding his hands and raising his chin to address the crowd.

“Now… to complete this day of worship, and to cement the spirit of community that we have found under God’s guidance, we’ll gather in the chapel – for prayer and repentance.” Alfred stretched out his arm towards the door, another exaggerated gesture, “Bishop Erkenwald will lead the way.”

At once, the ealdormen that were gathered around Uhtred began to disperse, Bishop Erkenwald leading them, pushing through the crowd like a puppet on a string, and by the swelling buzz of chatter, Uhtred knew that the spectacle had found an end. He was dismissed.

Yet he didn’t want to go.

It hadn’t been enough. Not nearly.

Desperate to stay in Alfred’s presence a little longer, Uhtred pondered whether he’d have to follow him to the chapel, dread forming at the thought of the stifling crowd, the self-satisfied priests, the public prayer… No, he wouldn’t be able to stand it all. He’d have to speak to him now.

Fortunately, before he had to seek a reason to approach, Alfred spoke his name, and when Uhtred met his gaze, he gestured him closer with a low, faint sign of his hand. It was a simple movement of two fingers, excessiveness no longer needed.

Uhtred stepped closer, longing brimming underneath his skin.

“After prayers, I’ll take my meal,” Alfred told him, his voice his own again, quiet but sure, an anchor in the noisy room. His eyes met Uhtred’s for the briefest of moments, distracted but true. “Go to the kitchens and await me, I’ll be with you shortly.”

Uhtred nodded, mind floating with relief at the promise of an actual conversation.

“Yes, lord,” he replied, but Alfred had already left him, eyes straight ahead, parting the crowd like an arrowhead sliced flesh, and Uhtred’s eyes followed him as far as they could.

In contrast to the brimming hall, the palace’s hallways seemed downright abandoned, and Uhtred hurried past servants and guards, past women who gave him shy glances, men who stared at him with grim expressions. Their rudeness didn’t bother him. Too relieved was he to be free of the jostling crowd, the heat of too many bodies. His muscles were finally relaxing, and when he reached the main kitchen, it was even emptier then the hallways, its usual commotion tamed now that everyone was fasting.

The moment he came through the door, he was approached by a girl with reddish golden hair, her beauty shining through the plainness of her uniform.

“You are Lord Uhtred?” she asked, brilliant green eyes flickering down to his hands for only a moment, and there it was again, that stomach-turning feeling, that sense of falling while he stood upright. Uhtred cleared his throat. He supposed it wasn’t her fault.

“I am,” he replied, shifting, hands seeking refuge behind his back.

The girl noticed it and blushed, probably embarrassed that he’d caught her nosy glance, but she gave him a small bow and a shy smile, an enticing flutter of her lashes that let Uhtred know that his scars hadn’t repulsed her.

“Follow me, my lord,” she said, long hair burning over her shoulders as she turned, and then she led the way, guided him through a labyrinth of tables, shelves and polished kettles, until they reached a door that opened to a small dining room, empty for all but a table in its corner. Eager to rest his legs, Uhtred sat down on the bench that faced the door, sliding down its length until he was pressed into the corner. The girl gave him a look that spoke of her interest, but she left, wordlessly, and Uhtred breathed a sigh of relief.

The worst is over.

His stomach throbbed around the fresh scar of his stab wound, and his thighs ached, weak with the exertion of standing at attention. Considering the progress he had made with Pietro, he was surprisingly exhausted, physically and mentally, felt as if his muscles had turned to fog…

Determined not to let it show, Uhtred leaned back against the tiled wall behind him, his eyelids heavy as he looked around.

The room was austere, its coldness only worsened by the pale light that fell through a window above his head. Except for the simple wooden table with its two benches, a few candelabra were the only furniture there was, their candles still unlit, and the walls here lacked their usual tapestries, looked bare and plain. Where there’d normally be at least a bowl with a few grapes and apples, a jug of ale, the table before him was empty, carried nothing to distract him.

So, with nothing else to do, Uhtred began to think of Alfred.

Really, that was all he ever did now.

He’d been in love before, of course, and he recognized the signs, had known it was love since he had gazed up at Alfred on that cursed cross, Alfred’s eyes a burning blue, Uhtred’s last comfort…

It was new and strange to feel such a thing about a man, but Uhtred wasn’t unsettled by it.

No, it wasn’t the feeling of love itself that unsettled him, but rather that it had never felt quite like this before. There was joy in it, of course, as there always was, and there was the darker, unfulfilled longing that came with separation. Uhtred had experienced that already, had felt it for Gisela, when he’d suffered slavery.

But beyond that, there was something else, something new. 

As much as he had thought of Gisela when he had been ripped from her, as much as he thought about her now that she had been ripped from him… thinking of Alfred felt different. Alfred was all-pervasive. He filled Uhtred’s mind like air filled his lungs, clung to him like the smell of smoke clung to clothes.

Every hour of the day, Uhtred was assaulted by vivid flashes of memories; Alfred’s back against his chest, his head heavy against his shoulder, throat bared to the damp forest air, Alfred’s knees in the grass, his frost-reddened hands shackled in his lap, Alfred’s fingers on his wrists, gently brushing Uhtred’s skin as he slipped into darkness, eyelids fluttering…

Alfred. Alfred. Alfred.

It had become a problem.

Uhtred could barely get through the day without Hild calling him from a daydream, without Finan or Sihtric snapping their fingers, Pietro hitting him over the head. It was as if he was cursed, as if a seer had put a spell on him. Alfred was the last thing he thought of when he fell asleep, and the first thing he thought of when he woke up in the morning.

In between, the nightmares had never stopped, his lord calling for him, drenched in blood.

Uhtred was obsessed.

It wasn’t healthy, wasn’t normal… he knew that.

He was roused from his musings by the creaking of the door, heart jumping with the promise of Alfred’s arrival, but unfortunately, he was soon disappointed – bitterly.

“Uhtred!” Æthelwold cried, storming in, the redheaded girl hard on his heels, her eyes wide. “I hope you don’t mind me joining you.”

“I mind,” Uhtred said immediately, but Æthelwold was already sliding onto the bench beside him, laughed as if he’d made a joke. He looked shabby as always, was his usual, twitchy self.

“This room isn’t open to the public, lord. I must ask you to leave,” the servant girl tried valiantly, having caught up with him, but she was so out of breath that her demand lost some of its weight.

Æthelwold waved a pudgy hand at her.

“I’m not the public," he scoffed. "I’m royalty.”

“Former royalty,” Uhtred supplied, and Alfred’s nephew grimaced, displeased by the correction, yet he was too distracted to argue. His gaze had snagged on the girl that had chased him, as if he’d noticed her for the first time, his eyes wandering her body in a way that made Uhtred's skin crawl. After a few painfully seconds, Æthelwold finally snapped out of it, and he waved his hand at her again, dismissively, shooing her away.

“Go!” he ordered, annoyed by her persistence, “Get us something to drink.”

Sighing, the girl gave up. When she was gone, Uhtred stayed silent, watched Æthelwold with unconcealed suspicion. It was impossible to respect the man, of course, but after they had crawled in the mud together, after Æthelwold had sung of titless angels and saved Uhtred from further humiliation, Uhtred had at least felt a certain kind of sympathy for him. Unfortunately, his dislike for Æthelwold had grown proportionally to his love for Alfred, and his initial feelings of sympathy were long gone.

By now, he could barely stand the sight of him.

“This is rather dreary, isn’t it?” Æthelwold looked around, drummed his stained fingers against the table, “What brings you here, of all places?”

“You knew I would be here,” Uhtred replied dryly, tired of him already. He’d seen him in the hall, hiding behind Erkenwald, and he didn’t feel like playing pretend. Æthelwold laughed, nervously scratched his dirty blond beard.

“Can you blame me for wanting to see an old friend?” he asked, grinning.

“What do you want from me?”

“Oh, I want to celebrate your return, of course!” Æthelwold claimed, still grinning, but then his face suddenly turned slack, looked malevolent in contrast to his previous expression. “I’d say it’s good to see you, but…”

Pointedly, he looked at Uhtred’s hands, at the large, knotted red scars that disfigured his skin, the wrists that were a little bit too thin, fingers that wouldn’t quite close, and his lips twisted into a mix of pity and disgust.

It was a calculated slight, predictable and artless, but Uhtred felt it nevertheless. It rooted in his gut, twisted the knife, that coiling dread.

“It’s terrible what Alfred did to you,” Æthelwold tried, but Uhtred quickly shook his head, not falling for the pitiful attempt.

“It wasn’t Alfred who did this to me,” he retorted, “It was Alfred who made sure I survived it.”

Æthelwold shrugged.

“Well, I don’t suppose it matters much, either way. He made you a hero, after all, a very rich hero. It’s not like you will ever have to hold a sword again.” He tilted his head, full of feigned concern. “I mean, not that you couldn’t... You could, right?”

The knife twisted harder, stabbed deeper, and Uhtred felt it pierce the thin layer of pride he had managed to wrap himself in, to protect himself with. It peeled away to reveal the true state of his self-esteem, the crippling insecurity, the humiliation…

Æthelwold could go fuck himself.

“What do you want?” Uhtred asked again, angry now, impatient to be rid of him. But the dirty prick ignored him, turned his attention on the red-haired servant girl who had returned with a jug and two cups, setting them down in front of him.

Æthelwold watched her as she poured their cups, the silence and his stare again uncomfortably intense, and his eyes followed her arse when she left, his tongue wetting his lips before he turned back to Uhtred, showed his teeth in a yellow, dirty grin.

“Anyway, who needs hands when every woman in Winchester wants to hump you. The wenches, the noble daughters - one or two nuns - they all want to wrap themselves around your cock.”

Uhtred rolled his eyes, recognized Æthelwold’s crudeness as the badly hidden jealousy it was. Though he knew that there was truth to it, of course. He wasn’t blind, and even a blind man would have sensed the looks of those richly dressed women in the hallway, would have heard the giggles of the servant girls who smirked at Uhtred when he met their eyes, their faces full of blatant promise.

In truth, he was surprised by their attention.

“You must be having so much fun,” Æthelwold smirked wistfully, and Uhtred slid his cup towards himself, wrapped his weak hands around it, distracting himself by trying to press his fingers into the wood as hard as he could. His palms ached, scars pinching like hot needles.

He knew that before Dunwhich, he would have enjoyed this fame a lot, would have taken some of those women up on their offer, but unfortunately, he’d never felt less attractive in his life than he did now, and more importantly, he had never felt less interested.

“What do you want, Æthelwold?” Uhtred thought that maybe three times was the charm, but again Æthelwold didn’t pay him any mind. Instead of answering him, he took a sip from his cup, grimaced when he found it to be water. Revulsed, he pushed the cup away from himself, and he rolled his eyes, blue rings dark underneath them.

“I swear, he’s confiscated all of the damn ale in this city. It’s like he’s trying to kill me,” Æthelwold grumbled, no need to specify who he was complaining about, “You’d think the food would be enough. I had goo for breakfast, you know? And I’ll have goo for lunch again. And dinner.”

Now it was Uhtred’s turn to smirk.

“He’s eaten goo for most of his life. I think you’ll survive one day of it.”

“But it’s twelve days, Uhtred! Alfred takes these things very seriously,” Æthelwold huffed, entirely joyless. “The man’s so gluttonous for misery, I think martyrdom would have suited him just fine.”

Uhtred grunted as his eyes shot towards the ceiling.

“I warn you, Æthelwold, think about what you say in front of me,” he said, fingers pressing against the wood of his cup, “I won’t tolerate this disrespect.”

“Disrespect? What, me?” Wide-eyed, Æthelwold pointed at himself, utterly scandalized. “No, Uhtred, I speak in utter reverence. After all, Alfred might have made you a hero, but he is practically a saint now, thanks to you.”

He huffed again and leaned back in his chair, chapped lips twitching.

“And how well he plays the part! The sober nods, the paternal wisdom – our champion of pious devotion,” Æthelwold laid his hands against his heart. His face had twisted into an imitation of sentimental awe, but his voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Alfred is pious. He doesn’t need to pretend.”

Æthelwold barked a joyless laugh.

“No, he is pious, that is true… Though recently, his commitment to the Church has become so much more important, hasn’t it?”

He paused meaningfully now, watched Uhtred with beady eyes, his smile a thin veneer for his contempt. Uhtred sighed, not in the mood for this game.

“What are you implying? Spit it out or go.”

“Oof, so touchy… I’m saying there’s tension behind the scenes, Uhtred. Alfred made a heathen Lord of Wiltonshire.” Æthelwold hissed, this time with true, malicious joy. “Mixed reviews on that.”

“So there is tension because Alfred rewarded me.”

Again, Æthelwold laughed.

“Tension? Tension is too nice a word for the things I’ve heard men say. All over Winchester, they speak in hushed tones. On the streets, in taverns, even in corners of the Witan-”

“Let them whisper, then,” Uhtred grumbled darkly, unable to listen to any more of Æthelwold’s self-satisfied drivel. He felt his blood start to boil at the suggestion of more treason, felt his pulse race with anger.

How dare they, he thought. How dare they turn on him.

“Do they not remember how that ended for the last men who tried it?” he asked, but Æthelwold’s zest didn’t wane.

“You mean their friends and cousins? The men Alfred had executed? Whose heads he’s so proudly displaying for everyone to see?”

“I mean the traitors that should’ve been skinned!” Uhtred snarled, as he showed his teeth, and at last Æthelwold flinched, recoiled from his sudden, violent wrath.

His fear didn’t last for long, however, and he soon leaned forward again.

“Whether they deserved it or not, the resentment runs deep, my friend. Prides have been wounded, egos injured – important egos.”

Uhtred shook his head, too angry to reply.

“So you may think me below you, pitiful even,” Æthelwold continued unhindered, “But I tell you, do not write me off just yet. Because sooner or later, Alfred will have to get rid of you… or he’ll lose his crown. And in either of those cases, you’ll wish to have me as your friend.”

Uhtred scoffed at the absurdity of that notion. But Æthelwold’s words prodded at his wounds nonetheless.

“What do you mean he will have to get rid of me?” he grumbled, staring at his former ally with hateful eyes.

“Think, Uhtred. Why did Alfred put you on display like this? Why did he so publicly educate his heathen subject about Christian worship?” Æthelwold’s eyes gleamed with scornful mirth as they wandered over Uhtred’s tunic. “Personally, I think he deserved applause for the performance… dressed you up so prettily, too.”

What the-

Uhtred was about to growl, to grab Æthelwold by the collar and tell him to leave while his nose remained unbroken, but before he could react, the opening door interrupted their duel. Alfred strode in, hurried as always, and at first, when his eyes met Uhtred’s own, his expression was neutral enough, but it quickly cooled when he saw who else sat at the table, and he paused in his step, the corners of his mouth twisting in displeasure.

“Æthelwold."

Quickly, Æthelwold stood, his wooden chair scraping against stone. He curled into a bow so deep it could not possibly appear sincere.

“My lord king,” he mocked from beneath his dirty fringe, blond hair shining with grease, and watching him, Alfred's eyes glinted with cold disdain.

“How curious that you would be here," he remarked, without a hint of surprise. "I did wonder about your absence at prayers.”

“And I hate to have missed them, lord. But I was feeling faint." Æthelwold's apologetic grimace looked every bit as insincere as the rest of him. He faked a contrite smile, as if surely, the king would understand. "The fasting, lord – it's taking its toll on me."

Alfred hummed, skeptical.

“Your fast must be strict indeed, Æthelwold, if it taxes you so horribly after less than a day,” he commented drily, but Æthelwold merely nodded, still hunched over.

”Oh, I fear I suffer from a weak constitution," he said sarcastically, finally rising from his bow. "Though standing in front of you, my lord, I do realize that's hardly an excuse..." Æthelwold smiled and paused for a little to long, his eyes raking over Alfred's thin frame. "Indeed, I was just telling Lord Uhtred how much your words inspired me today.”

“I am sure they did, Æthelwold" Alfred retorted, unbothered by his nephew's taunts. "As a topic, the tempering of passions seems rather relevant to you.”

In response, Æthelwold huffed. When he looked up at his uncle, his eyes were darkly amused.

“Most definitely, lord,” he agreed, before his voice dropped to a murmur. “I assure you I tamper with my passions every day...” He said it loud enough to be heard, his mockery obvious, and for once, Alfred seemed to have had enough. Face hardening, his eyes bore into those of his nephew, lips pressed just a little too thin, and for a moment, it looked as if Æthelwold's insolence might actually be punished, but then Alfred's gaze slid away, to the table, and he simply walked past him.

“I will speak to Lord Uhtred alone now,” he declared, "You may leave us, Æthelwold."

At once, Æthelwold turned on his heels to face them.

“Of course, lord,” he chirped, already walking backwards, leisurely, and even that was somehow disrespectful. “Lord Uhtred...” Æthelwold's head turned as he gave Uhtred a small nod, his gaze lingering unnecessarily long, and when finally, the door fell shut behind him, Uhtred felt a rush of relief. When Alfred slid onto the bench next to him, he wasted no time before he voiced his thoughts.

“I say it again, lord, you should kill him."

Darkly, Alfred shook his head.

“No," he said, "Æthelwold may be insolent at times, but he is harmless.”

Uhtred gave him a disbelieving look, and Alfred's jaw tightened before he repeated the point.

“He is harmless. He didn’t betray me, he didn’t take part in the plot against me.”

“Which means nothing, except that Æthelred was too smart to tell him about it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do!”

“No, Uhtred, you do not!”

Heavily, Uhtred exhaled. As much as he’d missed Alfred's presence, he couldn’t help the irritation that was building in his blood. It had been less than a minute, and already they were arguing in circles. They’d had this conversation a thousand times before, but after Dunwhich...

Hasn’t he learned anything? Uhtred thought, remembering the shock in Alfred's voice, so close to Uhtred's ear, when he'd realized he'd been betrayed.

“Æthelwold despises you, lord. He’d betray you without a second thought,” he tried again, but Alfred only sighed, finished with the matter. He looked away as he shook his head.

“Leave it,” he ordered, and before Uhtred could say anything more, they were interrupted again. The door opened to the same girl that had served Uhtred before, fiery hair flying behind her as she hurried closer, careful not to tip the heavy tray on her shoulder. When she reached them, she sat their meals down on the table, quick to fill two new cups with water and clear the old ones off the table. As Uhtred had expected, Alfred’s bowl was full of gruel, a greyish sludge that didn’t look the least bit appetizing, and resigned, he looked down to his own bowl, but to his amazement, he saw not gruel but a hefty stew of vegetables and meat. Beside it, a second bowl held soft cheese and thick slices of warm, freshly-baked bread.

When he looked up at the servant girl, surprised by what she had given him, she winked at him, and Uhtred quickly averted his eyes.

“I thought everyone was fasting,” he said, as he turned to the king, his mouth watering from the sight of his food. “Æthelwold threatened me with twelve days of goo.”

Alfred simply shrugged.

“I am fasting, yes. You don’t have to,” he said, a little tersely, taking up his spoon and dunking it into the gooey mess in front of him, “Exceptions are made for those in need of strength.”

From the corner of his eye, Uhtred saw how the servant girl beside him bit her lip, and his joy died a sudden death.

“I’m not sickly,” he complained, eyes on the girl, and Alfred saw it and stiffened, suddenly exasperated.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he bit, tongue sharp and gashing as his eyes shot daggers, “Did you want gruel?” Brusquely, he turned to the maid. “Please, take this back to the-“

“It’s fine,” Uhtred interrupted quickly, holding up a hand before the girl could take his stew, and despite his visible annoyance, Alfred nodded to affirm his choice.

“You can go,” he told the servant girl.

“Yes, my lord,” she said, and bowed, wearing a half-concealed smile, while Alfred huffed sarcastically, lips thin as he waited for her to leave the room before he spoke again.

“Are you quite finished with the childishness for today?” he asked then, “Or do you need to dispel some more of it before we can move on to serious matters?”

Uhtred bristled, but he didn’t respond, just glared, Alfred glaring back.

It’s all wrong.

Why is it like this?

Their reunion wasn’t turning out the way he’d wished for, and Uhtred felt unsettled. Alfred’s sudden return to his old self had caught him off guard – the Gods knew why. It wasn’t as if Alfred’s mean streak should have surprised him. Uhtred guessed he’d expected him to act differently, after all that had happened, after all of the attention Alfred had given him…

Attention that he hasn’t given you in a month.

Caught in Alfred’s gaze, Uhtred felt bitter disappointment. It was heavy between them, like the air before a storm, his heart clenching painfully. He couldn’t think of a good comeback, was definitely, utterly, losing this battle of wills that he hadn’t even wanted to begin, and on top of it all, his stomach was grumbling, hunger burning a hole where he’d been stabbed, and the stupid stew smelled heavenly.

So instead of arguing, he bit his tongue and used his energy to take up his spoon. He held it awkwardly, pinched it between his fingers, balancing it more than he could grip it – it seemed that no matter how much he and Pietro trained, his hands refused to close all the way. The act of holding this stupid spoon took most of his concentration, his hand hatefully weak against the wood.

“I’d like you to accompany me.”

When Uhtred looked up from his task, Alfred was still watching him, but his face had changed, eyes no longer hard. No, they were the opposite of that, and Uhtred’s neck prickled with something akin to shame.

“Accompany you?”

“Yes. Throughout the day. At least for a time, maybe a few months.”

“I’m not sure I understand, lord,” Uhtred said. He shook his head, confused, but Alfred’s face remained open, honest.

“There isn’t anything to understand. You’d simply be with me during my duties. Witans, judgments… courtly matters.”

“Why?” Uhtred asked, mind working overtime to understand the nature of Alfred’s request. “You have Steapa for that. And I can’t protect you anyway, I-”

“I’m not looking for protection, Uhtred. I have plenty of guards for that,” Alfred looked down now, face carefully neutral as he dragged his spoon through greyish sludge. “It would be more of a… of an advisory position.”

“Advisory?”

“Yes.”

Uhtred laughed, a joyless bark in the empty room.

“Forgive me, but what exactly am I going to advise you on?” he asked, full of bitterness. “I don’t exactly see what my use would be.”

Alfred frowned, but he didn’t look up.

“You have advised me in the past, have you not?” he asked, harder now, most likely because Uhtred had reacted so rudely to his proposal.

“In battle, lord. In negotiations and matters of war. But courtly matters?” Uhtred shrugged, clueless, turning his free hand's palm toward the ceiling. “I don’t know anything about such things.”

Alfred followed the movement of his hand with a fleeting, almost unnoticeable glance before his eyes returned to his food.

“There isn’t as much of a difference as you may believe.”

“With all due respect, lord, I don’t think yo-” Uhtred started to protest, but out of nowhere, Alfred lost his temper again.

“I do not care what you think, Uhtred,” he snapped, his voice not exactly louder but much sharper, a knife slicing through air, hair trembling as he shook his head with unnegotiable certainty, and Uhtred almost flinched from him. “I am your king, and I am telling you what you will do.”

There it was again, that hardness, that iron grip of Alfred’s crown. It darkened his eyes, shadowed his features. The thing was like a curse, a demon that fed on the man beneath it, twisting him into something darker, crueller. When it bared its teeth, Uhtred saw nothing of the man who’d held his bloodied hand beneath a flame lit sky, whose fingertips had gently stroked Uhtred’s wrists, seeking to give comfort even in his last moments. Gone was the man whose lips had pressed against Uhtred’s knuckles.

You’ll never see that man again. Not here.

At Uhtred’s silence, his lowered eyes, Alfred gave him that little nod of his that wasn’t so much a sign of agreement as it was an acknowledgement of Uhtred’s surrender.

He’ll never touch you like that again.

“You will accompany me till noon, after which you’ll be free to rest…”

So why do you think of it. Why can’t you stop?

“As you wish, lord.”

Maybe you’re insane.

“…and then you’ll return after evening prayers to guard my room.”

Uhtred thought he’d fall off the bench. He watched Alfred with wide-open eyes, but the king looked rigid as ever, unfeeling, as if his orders were the most normal thing in the world.

“Guard your room?” Uhtred asked him, mouth gaping open, half-convinced that he must have misheard. He was definitely going mad. “What, through the night?”

“No, for just a minute,” Alfred scoffed, irritated beyond reasonable measure, “Of course through the night.” His hand closed around the handle of his spoon, then let go of it again, as if he didn’t quite know why he’d touched it in the first place.

“Have there been threats?” Uhtred asked, seeking to understand the situation. He felt almost disorientated, his senses suddenly overwhelmed in the glaringly empty room, discombobulated by the bright reflection of polished tiles, the echo of bare walls.

“No. There haven’t been any threats,” Alfred muttered, expression like stone, and something seemed wrong, very wrong. It was in that exact moment, that Uhtred noticed it, underneath of all that kingliness. Under the authoritative voice and the pious discipline and the usual, quick-tempered bursts of anger.

Alfred looked tired.

Strained, with reddened eyes that darted through the room in a restless flutter of lashes.

When Uhtred had seen him in the great hall, he’d compared him to the man that he’d seen in Dunwhich; the man that had been half-frozen, half-starved, tortured and hopeless. And of course, the king looked better now. But if Uhtred tried to think back to that day in the forests of Wiltonshire, before they had been ambushed, to Alfred when he’d been hunting, all porcelain skin and rosy cheeks, to his frownless features and relaxed muscles, swaying with the gentle movements of his horse… then this Alfred looked like shit in comparison.

While Uhtred traced the dark circles that rimmed Alfred’s eyes, the stiffness of his limbs, Æthelwold’s words echoed through his head, and he remembered the glee with which the toad had spread his traitorous gossip.

Unconsciously, Uhtred leaned forward.

“Lord, if there is reason for concern then we must ensure you are protected. But what I told you is the truth, I’m useless as a guard. If you are in danger, we need to find someone else you can trust, someone who’s capa-”

But Alfred interrupted him, acted as if Uhtred’s objection was an entirely different one.

“I understand that these will be long hours, Uhtred. But as I said, it is only temporary,” he said grimly, and it made Uhtred’s pulse quicken.

He acts as if I’m lazy.

As if I haven’t guarded him for weeks.

As if I haven’t served him for years.

Uhtred shook his head, dispersed the malevolent mist, not willing to allow Alfred to manipulate his feelings, to steer the conversation to his liking so easily.

“Just because I can walk, doesn’t mean I can fight. Have you seen my hands, lord?” he asked sarcastically, disappointment burning like bile. Alfred didn’t respond right away. He put a spoonful of goo into his mouth, swallowed it like shards of glass.

“I have and they’ll do.”

“But lord-“ Uhtred tried to protest, and Alfred held up his hand, quickly shutting him down.

“There’ll be other guards. Capable men who’ll fight if fighting is needed. I need you to be my eyes and ears.”

“But Steapa can do that, he-“

“Steapa is tired!” shouted Alfred, loud now, his voice reverberating off the walls as Uhtred instinctively leaned backwards. “Steapa cannot split himself in two and be–“ 

Alfred suddenly stopped, cheeks bleeding color, eyes closed in concentration. One of his hands vanished beneath the table, and Uhtred knew that it would be pressed against his stomach, that Alfred had raged himself into a fit of pain.

“Are you alright?” Uhtred asked quietly, though he knew the answer to his question, and Alfred didn’t bother to give him a reply. It took another few seconds until the king had collected himself enough to speak again.

“I do not know why I’m discussing this with you,” he said with false calm, in control again, and his hand returned to the table, though his face remained lined with discomfort. “Tomorrow, you’ll report to my chambers after evening prayers, you’ll guard my door and then you’ll accompany me until noon.”

Eyes trained on a carrot in his stew, Uhtred nodded, knowing that this was not the time to argue. But he wanted to at least explain his resistance, wanted to make Alfred understand that he hadn’t meant to defy him, had only disagreed out of worry for his safety.

“I merely-“ he began, but Alfred didn’t let him finish this time, either.

“Say you understand.”

Uhtred sighed. It was hopeless.

“I understand.”

“It took you long enough.”

Gods. What a coc-

“Eat your food, it’s getting cold,” Alfred ordered coldly, not even patient enough to let Uhtred insult him in his mind.

The next few minutes passed in silence, and they were deeply uncomfortable. Alfred was visibly stewing in his anger, rigid to the point of absurdity, and Uhtred would have found it funny if he hadn’t been so disappointed by it all. Though the king didn’t touch his cooling pulp, Uhtred did as he was ordered and ate. He started with the bread though, a small defiance that darkened Alfred's stare and improved his own mood. The soft cheese was warm and creamy, as delicious as he remembered it from his days in Alfred’s quarters, but the atmosphere somewhat ruined the experience.

He wondered where Alfred had slept, all that time, when he’d taken up his rooms.

When Uhtred had finished most of the bread, he swapped bowls, secretly unwilling to let the stew grow cold, and just as he wondered whether he’d truly spend this whole meal in uncomfortable silence, Alfred spoke up again.

“There is another matter,” he said, and he cleared his throat after his voice broke in that way it tended to after one hadn’t spoken in a while.

Uhtred looked up from his bowl and waited.

After Alfred’s outburst of anger, he was erring on the side of caution, not dumb enough to say more than what was needed. But the king didn’t immediately elaborate. Instead, he ate some more gruel, his expression closed off as he chewed, unreadable, and he absentmindedly tapped his spoon, raised and lowered his thumb in that tell-tale sign of his anxiety. When he’d swallowed his oats, he glanced away for only a moment before he turned back to Uhtred with a tired sigh, reluctant to disclose the source of his troubles.

“Edward has married a girl,” he said, as his eyebrows drew further together.

“Married a girl?”

“Yes. The mother of his bastard twins.”

“That’s honourable of him.”

It was the wrong answer, and Alfred huffed, derision burning.

“It is selfish,” he corrected, his lips curling with contempt, the rings under his eyes shadows of a heavy burden. “It was done for nothing but the passions of youth.”

Uhtred frowned, taken aback by the intensity of Alfred’s reactions. It seemed he wasn’t in a good mood today, Christ’s day or not.  

“And for his children, I imagine.”

“Children that shouldn’t have been born in the first place,” Alfred said dismissively. “Children that endanger the very thing I’ve spent my life protecting.”

Wheels turning, Uhtred nodded, watched Alfred’s wrinkled brow, slowly understanding the depth of his anger.

“So you disapprove of the union for strategic reasons.”

“There is no union,” Alfred denied fiercely, “He’s been persuaded to unmarry.”

Before he could help himself, Uhtred huffed a harsh laugh, memories of his painful past bubbling to the surface in a sudden burst of hysteria.

“I didn’t know you could unmarry,” he murmured, “I could have used that in the past.”

Unimpressed, Alfred gave him a sour look, and Uhtred quickly turned back to his food.

“So then the problem is solved?” he asked, to distract from his blunder. Next to him, he heard Alfred sigh.

“I hope so, by God... But Edward will have to marry soon, and wisely. A girl of nobility, with a powerful father.” When Uhtred looked up at him, something glimmered in Alfred’s eyes. “The lord of a shire that is both rich and well-armed.”

Uhtred nodded. So they were looking for an ally, not a bride. He went through a list of men in his head, thought about the terrible choice Alfred had made for his daughter.

“You should find someone who’s not a turd then, this time. Do you have a name in mind?”

“Yes,” Alfred said readily, glimmering eyes still focused on Uhtred.

Humming, Uhtred took another bite of his stew while he waited for Alfred to elaborate. When the king didn’t continue, he frowned.

“Who?” he asked.

Alfred sighed, incredulous that he had to spell it out.

“You, Uhtred,” he said, impatiently,  “You have a daughter.”

Uhtred almost choked on a piece of meat. Alarmed, his head shot upwards, and he coughed against the back of his hand, mind crashing to a halt.

“You want Edward to marry Stiorra?” he sputtered when the coughing had subsided, not believing his ears, but Alfred still watched him like a hawk.

“Unless you have any other daughters.”

Uhtred shook his head, though not at the suggestion of more daughters.

“She’s too young, she’s barely ten winter’s old,” he protested, and saw how Alfred nodded, calm and collected.

“Yes, obviously. The marriage won’t happen now. It will be a betrothal,” he explained, as if the event in question was a certainty already, and Uhtred shook his head again, horrified.

“No, lord."

Alfred’s face hardened. Brows once more pulling together, his calm demeanor disappeared as quickly as it had come.

“What do you mean, no?”

“I have to decline your offer,” Uhtred said, careful to keep his voice low, his tone mild. He might as well have screamed it, Alfred’s goodwill was gone.

“Why?” the king bit, his displeasure sharp as a knife. “What reason could you possibly have to deny me?”

This is ridiculous. He can’t be serious.

“Because no matter what your customs may be, I won’t tell my daughter who to marry,” Uhtred scoffed, indignation curling in his throat, ripping at his patience. “And I certainly won’t force her to marry a boy who’s in love with someone else.”

Alfred exhaled impatiently, eyes flashing like icy steel.

“Uhtred, your grandson would be king. The fact I am offering you this is an honour!”

“I understand that, lord. But it’s an honour I'll have to decline.”

“You cannot be serious,“ Alfred warned, cold and imperious, but Uhtred didn’t budge.

“Edward will not marry my daughter,” he repeated, voice firm, determined to make Alfred see reason, to calm his temper. “But why should he, lord? What purpose would that serve? You have my sword, you don’t need to make my ties to Wessex any stronger. I have already-”

“I may have your sword, but does Edward?” Alfred interrupted him harshly.

Uhtred rolled his eyes, not in the mood to play games.

“What kind of question is that? He is your son. If my sword is yours, it is his.”

“As long as I’m alive, yes,” Alfred snapped, bitter with worry, with the knowledge of how quickly everything could change, “But once I’m gone, what then?”

Uhtred’s mind reared up like a spooked horse, the frailty of Alfred’s life not something it liked to consider. Stalling, he attempted to eat another spoon of stew, but his damaged muscles chose this moment to betray him, shaken by the memory of Alfred’s pained gasps, of his skin, pulled taut over quivering rips, and the spoon clattered from Uhtred’s hand, thick drops of grease spattering against his expensive tunic.

“Fuck.”

Yes, fuck.

What do you do once he’s gone, you fool?

Frantically, Uhtred brushed his crooked, numb fingers over the stains, accomplishing nothing, and with horror, he realized that his first thought was for death. That without Alfred, he’d want to die.

But that was insane.

Alfred wasn’t like Gisela, he wasn’t-

They weren’t even-

And he couldn’t do that, could he? Couldn’t just abandon his friends, his family… so what would be his purpose? Bebbanburg? What would even be the poi-

Suddenly, Alfred’s fingers were grasping his wrist, his hand warm and unmoving, for once so much stronger than Uhtred’s own.

“Stop, Uhtred,” he commanded, sounding strained, “Leave it, you’ll hurt yourself...”

It was no use, Uhtred realized, fighting was futile. An oath to Edward was an oath for the rest of his life… but he was Alfred’s son, Alfred’s blood for Uhtred to protect, and Uhtred’s life was already chained to him, Uhtred’s ambitions stained with Alfred’s own.

His choices would forever be bound to Alfred’s name.

I love you, he thought, feeling his heart twist as he looked at Alfred’s hand around his meager wrist, Alfred's veins starkly blue against the paleness of his skin, You’ll be with me forever. Dead or alive.

But he couldn’t say that, could he?

When Alfred let go, Uhtred’s hand dropped to the table, limp, all of the fight in him gone, and he cleared his throat, searched for words that told the truth, but not too much of it.

“I’m not the restless man I was when we first met,” he finally settled on saying. It sounded weak even to himself. “I won’t just leave. I have found a home here, and so have my children.”

“But not your brother, who apparently loves you enough to buy you from my captors,” Alfred said thinly, without mercy, “He’s waiting for news of my decline, I know it. He will attack as soon as my health fails me.”

“So?” Uhtred asked, indignant at the implication.

“So if you joined him, you could rule half of England.”

“But I won’t join him!”

Alfred looked doubtful, and Uhtred could feel his blood boil.

What does he think of me?

That I’m a mercenary? That I’ll follow the highest bidder?

How? How can he think that?

“And what if he attacked, what if you had to fight him?” Alfred asked, and Uhtred huffed wearily, no energy left to suppress his irritation.

“We’d be doomed, lord. I can barely hold a spoon,” he replied, and Alfred’s lips pressed into a thin line as his voice grew flat and toneless.

“Do not play games with me, Uhtred. I warn you.”

Exasperated, Uhtred looked up to the ceiling, the back of his head hitting the tiles behind him. What had he been thinking, that Alfred would change just because they had almost died together? The idea seemed ridiculous now.

Gods, he’s such a distrustful prick.

Why did it have to be him.

Resigned, he looked back at the man he loved.

“If Ragnar attacks Wessex, then I will meet him in battle,” he said, overemphasizing every word as he held the king’s gaze, angry that Alfred was forcing him to say it aloud, “I didn’t stay true to you in Dunwhich to betray you for another Dane. Not even for my brother. Not even when you’re-”

Uhtred shook his head, couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. Nor did he need to. Whatever Alfred had expected him to say, it wasn’t this, and it showed. His face had softened with surprise and something else, something like relief, and when Uhtred didn’t continue, he pulled back and nodded. The line between his brows had disappeared, blue eyes suddenly devoid of anger.

“That is comforting to hear,” he said quietly, but he averted his eyes, looked blindly at the food before him, and it urged Uhtred on, told him that it wasn’t enough.

“I am loyal to Wessex, lord,” he muttered, still angry, almost against his will.

“I know.”

“And to its king.”

“I know, Uhtred... I believe you.”

Then why ask me?

Somehow, Alfred suddenly looked awkward, refused to look at him. His agreements hadn’t been reluctant, yet they had sounded almost as if he was begging Uhtred to stop speaking, his voice strangely quiet, almost meek. Indeed, his whole demeanour had changed; he sat with his shoulders hunched and his head held low, as if he was ashamed.

Uhtred had no idea what to make of that, but he knew that he didn’t give him any satisfaction. He wanted it to stop.

“So then you agree that a wedding is unnecessary?” he asked, when he remembered what all of this was about. It seemed comical that their argument had begun like this, didn’t feel like this was about Stiorra and Edward at all… not anymore, at least.

Alfred closed his eyes, his right hand still around his spoon, his meal forgotten. For some reason, there was still something dark around him, something that was eating away.

“I’m undecided.”

Uhtred groaned.

“What? Why? What is there to be gained?”

“I agree that at this point, your loyalty is without question.” When Alfred opened his eyes, they weren’t monochrome but a myriad of colour, blue and green and grey and yellow, beautiful and complicated. “But there are other matters to consider, Uhtred. For one, you have sworn to take back Bebbanburg. An oath I have promised you to support.”

Uhtred shook his head. The hand he had rubbed against his shirt pulsed with pain.

“It will be some time yet before I call you on that promise.”

“But the time will come.”

“So?” Uhtred was tired. For once, could Alfred just get to the point?

“So if we succeed, if we take back Bebbanburg, then you’ll be a lord of Northumbria,” Alfred explained, looking at Uhtred as if he wasn’t getting it, but Uhtred couldn’t help the warm shiver that ran down his spine.

If we take back Bebbanburg.

We.

“I don’t see the problem,” he admitted.

“Northumbria is far away, Uhtred. You’ll have duties there. Influence, even,” Alfred said, and all warm feelings left Uhtred immediately.

Of course. Here we go again.

Alfred didn’t elaborate on the idea, but his subtext lingered between them with disappointing clarity. Betrayal was off the table, sure, but what about absence, he seemed to say, what about abandonment?

Unfortunately for him, Uhtred wasn’t having it.

“Yes,” he agreed. “And then Wessex will have both Wiltonshire and Bebbanburg to call upon. More shires even, if my influence allows it.”

Alfred’s blue eyes shone with something that wasn’t quite ridicule. It was kinder, felt warm in the coldness of the room. He hummed.

“And tell me, how do you plan to be lord of two places that are so far away from each other?” he asked, and Uhtred paused, caught off guard. He hadn’t considered that, he realized, and Alfred could see it in his face, nodded knowingly.

“If your daughter married Edward, any Scot or Dane, any Northerner, would think twice before they touched Bebbanburg,” he explained. “Even in your absence.”

He’s trying to help me.

Touched by Alfred’s concern, Uhtred considered it, but then he shook his head again.

“My point still stands, I won’t force Stiorra to marry. Besides, I could just send my men to rule in my stead. They are loyal. And capable.”

“And you will be where, Uhtred?” Alfred asked, voice suddenly sharp again, close to falling into his usual irritation. “In Bebbanburg or Wiltonshire?”

It was amazing how Alfred had the ability to ask exactly those questions Uhtred did his best to avoid, to find flaws in Uhtred’s confidence, in his plans. As if he was an expert bowman and Uhtred’s conflicted heart his mark. So again, Uhtred sat there, suddenly unsure, confused by a question he should really have asked himself by now.

Since the moment he’d lost his home, he’d always seen himself in Bebbanburg. But did he still want that? He wanted to take it back, sure, but afterwards… what? Would he not return to Alfred’s side? It hit him then, that the thought of standing on the windy battlements of Bebbanburg, alone, waiting for the day that the news of Alfred’s death reached his gates… that thought was unthinkable, ancestral duty be damned.

So it had to be Wiltonshire.

Except… Alfred wasn’t in Wiltonshire, was he? He was in Winchester.

And there’s no reason for you to be in Winchester. Not after your duty here is done.

The thought made Uhtred’s heart cramp into a burned out lump of coal, and he knew that the truth was that he wanted to be here, at Alfred’s side, forever. It seemed that the list of things he couldn’t say was growing with every minute, and so after a moment of contemplation, he gave Alfred the closest thing to the truth that he could.

“I’ll be where you need me to be,” he said, “Where Edward needs me to be.”

Again, Alfred hadn't expected that answer. Surprised, he raised his chin, his gaze steady and searching.

“You swear this?”

“Yes, I do,” Uhtred promised, and the moment he said it, he saw the last bit of remaining tension drain from Alfred’s features. The king nodded, shoulders lowering as he exhaled.

He’s got plans, Uhtred thought, watching him.

He’s going to send me away.

Alfred pulled him from his worried musing.

“Then I’ll have to find another match for Edward,” he said, declaring the matter resolved, and hearing it, Uhtred sighed. The relief he felt was a small consolation for the thoughts he'd been forced to confront.

“I’m sure there are other daughters for him to resent,” he remarked, to dull his pain with humor.

The king huffed.

“Oh, what is it with these foolish notions of love?” he asked, but in contrast to before, there was no malicious bite to his voice.

“What is it with nobles and marrying for power?” Uhtred retorted.

Staring ahead, Alfred folded his hands before his chin.

“Strategic unions bring lasting stability,” he argued. “Temptation comes and goes, but resources, lands – they stay.”

“You didn’t speak of temptation, lord. You spoke of love.”

“Please... Love is just as fickle.”

Not my love for you.

“Not if it is true, lord.”

Alfred didn’t disagree, not verbally at least, but his eyes showed his true feelings.

“Love doesn't win battles," he said. "It doesn't buy swords and it doesn't feed armies.” He paused for a moment, lost in thought, and then he sighed. “All young men act the same,” he lamented. “I should have noticed Edward's folly sooner."

"Young men are good at hiding these things, lord," Uhtred consoled him, echoing his reasoning. "And you have more important things to worry about. You must not blame yourself."

Unconvinced, Alfred darkly stared into his gruel, his chin pressed against his folded hands.

"Ælswith blames me for it," he remarked. "She thinks I spent too much time overseeing your recovery.”

“Is that why I didn’t hear from you then?”

Alfred’s eyes shot up from his oats, and immediately avoiding his gaze, Uhtred cursed himself.

Idiot.

Why the fuck would he ask that? He sounded ridiculous, like a petulant child. Mentally hitting himself over the head, he clenched his jaw, glared first at his food as if it had offended him, and then back at Alfred, before he remembered that he didn’t want to angrily stare at a him, either.

He cleared his throat, awkwardly glancing away.

“I didn't mean... It doesn't matter.”

In response to this strange performance, Alfred arched a single brow.

“Did you have need of me?” he asked, watching Uhtred with those restless, searching eyes.

I always have need of you.

“No, but I was worried.”

Alfred hummed, but then he waved his hand, dismissing the notion. “There is no need to worry. I was simply occupied with Edward’s stupidity.” He sighed, and Uhtred’s ire vanished when, again, he noticed the rings under Alfred’s eyes, the way his words clashed with how terribly worried he looked.

“Now there’s lasting damage,” the king said, more to himself then to Uhtred, staring into space.

“There doesn’t need to be, lord. Kill his bastards. No bastards, no damage.”

Alfred shook his head. He was half gone, was staring into space, as if their struggle had cost him as much strength as it had cost Uhtred.

“I will not harm them,” he said, absentmindedly smoothing his beard before he folded his hands before his chin again. “They’ve been given to a monastery. For instruction.”

Uhtred couldn’t believe his ears. He rolled his eyes.

“Is that the same monastery you send Æthelwold to after your brother died? Do they specialize in instructing usurpers?”

Blue eyes shot to his as Alfred hid a weary, joyless smile behind his folded hands.

“Very clever, Uhtred.”

“I mean it. These threats need to be dealt with.”

Knowing well enough what that meant, Alfred grimaced.

"They are mere babes..."

"Yes. And they will grow up to be problems."

"No, I think they will grow up to be monks."

Frustrated, Uhtred groaned.

"Please, lord," he begged. "You have to start killing your enemies."

“The way I saw you walk through the crowd today, I will be killing one soon enough.” Alfred raised his brows at him. “You seem to be quite steady on your feet.”

Uhtred knew that he was trying to change the subject, but damn him, it worked. Eager to answer, he swallowed the last spoonful of his stew.

“The thought of Hæsten's death made me train harder,” he agreed. “There is no better motivation than to see his head in the mud.”

Except the one I can’t tell you about.

Alfred's eyes glinted with a touch of prideful satisfaction.

“Then my ploy has worked," he observed, and Uhtred huffed at that, but he nodded.

“I imagine it every day, lord. The thought of it makes me happy.”

“I’m sure it does… I can’t say that it hasn’t warmed me in my darker moments.”

Uhtred snorted, habitual derision flaring from the darkness of his gut like a darting flame, uncalled for but too quick to control.

“Aren’t Christians supposed to be merciful?” he asked, still sore from Alfred’s barbed remarks, from being displayed like a puppet before the Christian crowd. But his face stilled when Alfred looked back at him with gentle eyes, a soft feeling that suffocated the scornful flame in Uhtred’s chest.

“We have our limits,” he said, undisturbed by Uhtred’s bite. “When it comes to Hæsten, my thoughts tend to the Old Testament.”

Uhtred didn’t know what that meant, but he felt a warmth in the air between them, a quiet solidarity that he didn’t want to disrupt with questions. They looked at each other in comfortable silence, room darker than before, and Uhtred noticed that the light from the window had dimmed, that sunset was approaching. The days were short now. The nights long.

After a while, Alfred cleared his throat, gaze flickering to Uhtred’s empty bowls.

“I see your appetite is as robust as ever.”

“As is yours, lord,” Uhtred replied, glancing at Alfred’s gruel, cold now and still almost untouched.

Alfred grimaced, looking guilty.

“Yes, well…” he said wearily, and then he pushed his bowl next to Uhtred’s empty one, waving his hand at the offending thing as he got up. “Please, eat whatever you can stomach. I must be gone, there’s work to be done... I expect I’ll see you tomorrow?”

The question was strange, Uhtred thought. After all, he had all but commanded it. Even so, Uhtred tried to reassure him.

“Yes, lord,” he replied, and already, he felt the pain of separation. His heart was thudding away, mind telling him to find one last question, one last request – something, anything, for Alfred to stay a little longer.

“Good.”

Alfred didn’t get up, not immediately. It was as if, for a moment, he got caught in time, was glued to his seat, and in that second, sitting with him felt comfortable, felt right and warm, as if their arguments had been nothing but the bickering of friends.

Then, he got up, and Uhtred studied his hands, the greasy remnants of his stew, suddenly captivated, desperate to act as if Alfred’s departure didn’t matter. But inside, he was ripping apart, his soul pulling away to follow footsteps that echoed through the empty space around him.

“And Uhtred,” Alfred’s voice called for him, through the void, and Uhtred looked up to see he’d paused in the door, one hand steadied against its frame, as if he had forgotten something.

“Yes, lord?”

The king gave him a smile. Not a twist of his lips, but a true, albeit tired smile.

“It’s good to see you strengthen.”

He looked so beautiful, Uhtred could barely breathe.

Chapter Text

Alfred was grieving.

He stepped to the bed with reddened eyes, nervously kneading the palm of his hand, the room dark and cloaked in silence.

“Soon he will hasten here and he will judge you,” he whispered, voice full of sorrow, “But it’s not too late.”

Uhtred listened to him, paralysed as ever, and his wounds clawed red, ripped at his flesh while his heart turned to stone, his blood thick and cold in his limbs, coagulated into sludge.

A tear spilled across Alfred’s ashen cheeks then, and he fell to his knees beside the bed with a muffled sob that rang through the silence, reached for Uhtred’s pallid hand, cold underneath the snow-white shroud.

“Promise me, Uhtred,” he begged, as he brushed his fingertips along Uhtred’s wrist, featherlight touches that were an omen of the end. “Promise that you won’t leave me.”

Alfred lifted Uhtred’s hand to his mouth, but this time, his kiss didn’t burn. It couldn’t, not on lifeless skin. The wood creaked as Alfred pushed himself onto Uhtred’s deathbed, sat down on the rustling straw, hidden underneath white cloth. He bend over Uhtred’s motionless form, brushed a wayward hair from his ghostly forehead, his touch so painfully gentle that Uhtred would have liked to sob.

“Join me where the Lord’s people are sat in feasting,” Alfred pleaded, rushed now, as if something was chasing them. “Convert, Uhtred. Turn to your Lord.”

Sensing the presence of death, Uhtred tried to answer, but it was too late. His corpse denied Alfred’s wish, wouldn’t move, and when he stayed mute, the king bend even further down, came even closer, until his face hovered over Uhtred’s own. A thumb brushed over Uhtred’s brow then, fingers stroking his temple, and Alfred cradled his cheek, tilted his head, until their lips were unbearably close.

“Turn to me,” he whispered, and his breath sank into Uhtred’s skin, formed a soul that revived him, his lips a siren’s call that conquered death, and when Uhtred moved to close the distance between them, he was enveloped by light, a breeze that washed over him, cold air that bit him back to life.

With sadistic pleasure, Finan ripped the furs from Uhtred’s body.

“Wakey-wakey!” he sang while he clapped his hands for extra noise, laughing at Uhtred’s drowsy groan. “You’re late, princess, you need to hurry!”

Uhtred grunted, a forearm flung across his eyes to shield himself from the bright lanthorn in Finan’s hand.

“How late?” he asked groggily.

“Can’t you hear?” Finan replied, his blurry form gesturing towards the window, and at once Uhtred heard it, that ringing of the bells – the call for evening prayer.

“Shit!” he cursed, and flung himself from the bed. He ran down the stairs, two steps at a time, his scars itching uncomfortably beneath his skin. Half-naked, he called for a servant to bring him his clothes, bells urging him on.

Before his injuries, a quick wash and a wolfed down meal would have taken him almost no time at all, but those days were gone, and even with the help of a servant, it took much too long. Uhtred tried not to take it out on the young servant who helped him, a thin, wide-eyed boy that reminded him of Osferth, and when he was finally ready, he quickly kissed Stiorra’s blissfully unbetrothed head and left the house.

With his arms folded before his chest, he hurried through Winchester’s darkened streets, stinging hands deep inside the warm protection of his wool-lined jacket. Winter had reached its icy peak, biting winds making the air seem even colder than it was, and Uhtred stepped through clouds of his own breath, lost in his thoughts as the moonlight illuminated his way, the hardened mud beneath him sparkling with frost.

Maybe it won’t be so bad today, he thought grimly, maybe you're worried for nothing.

Shivering, he walked through alleyways of white-roofed houses, watched a boy pull two goats into a stable to save them from the worst of the cold. The boy trembled, teeth chattering, and Uhtred remembered how his brother had told him once that most men were made by Odin, who had cut them out of pliant wood, but that Northumbrians had been formed from the bones of frosty giants. That is why we are harder, his brother had said, and unfazed by the harsh winters of the North.

Squinting into the falling snow, Uhtred frowned at the memory and tugged his jacket even tighter around himself.

Wessex had softened him, apparently.

When he reached the guards at the palace steps, they recognized his face and stepped aside without another word, and even though he knew that he wasn’t a threat in his current state, the guards didn't know that, and Uhtred didn’t much like that he wasn’t searched for weapons. Alfred was cautious, but besides Beocca and Uhtred, there were a number of priests and bishops who had earned his trust, and who knew if they deserved it.

Sheltered behind palace walls, the courtyard was protected from most of the icy wind, and Uhtred sighed in relief when it ceased to batter his neck. Spying Steapa near the door to the palace, he grinned. Iron mail was unhelpful in this sort of weather, and the giant man was already waving at him, motioning at him to hurry up.

Maybe it won't be so bad today.

A week ago, when Uhtred had first reported for duty, Steapa had indeed looked tired, unusually pale and slow in his movements, his close-cropped hair grayer than before. He had greeted Uhtred with a relieved grin, giving him that look that could only be exchanged between two warriors – that look that said: 'Well done, brother. We made it.' It had reminded Uhtred of his time with Leofric, of their smiles after Cynuit and their battle cries at Ethandun, of Leofric’s body in the grass… and he had been forced to clear his throat before he could greet Steapa back.

“Did they cripple your feet, too, or could you move a little faster please?” the man now shouted from the entryway, shivering like the pliant wood he was. “If I freeze my balls off, I’ll take yours for compensation.”

Heart lightening, Uhtred laughed and quickened his step.

“Would be an improvement, too,” he remarked as he finally reached Steapa. “They would be a lot bigger then.”

With an amused grunt, Steapa clapped him on the back, stayed shoulder to shoulder with him as they hurried inside.

“You’re late,” he observed matter-of-factly, almost as a friendly warning. “He’s already in the chapel.”

Uhtred sighed. He knew he was probably not making the best impression as a guard - or as whatever he was - but then he had always been fiercely independent, and Alfred’s schedule took some getting used to.

“I missed the bell again. It’s difficult to rest during the day,” he supplied as an excuse, though the truth was that his exhaustion, and thus his tendency to oversleep, didn’t have anything to do with the time of day.

After he had gotten his new orders, he had thought that the daylight might keep his nightmares at bay, but it hadn’t. Instead, since Christes mæsse, they had changed, morphed into something less bloody – yet no less unsettling. Most nights, he found himself lying on his deathbed now, or in the mud of a battlefield, or in a casket, numb and helpless. Each time he was dead, or as good as dead, trapped in a corpse or rotting alive, and as always, Alfred was by his side.

Maybe.

Alfred, who gently brushed his temples. Whose lips promised salvation.

Maybe he’ll say yes.

“-ve you something to do.”

Startled out of his daydreams, Uhtred realized that Steapa had been talking to him. He cursed himself and pushed his thoughts away, embarrassed by his incessantly drifting mind.

Fuck.

Get it together.

Dismayed, he turned his head to catch Steapa’s gaze.

“Sorry, I was thinking. Say that again?”

Steapa scowled, and after he had waved away the soldier that had replaced him, he turned to face Uhtred properly as they came to a stop before the door of the chapel.

“You must be tired indeed, lord. If you weren’t just for decoration, I’d declare you unfit for duty.”

Uhtred rolled his eyes at the jab, though he knew he deserved it.

“Fuck off, what did you say?” he asked again, and Steapa smirked.

“The king has asked me to train you in swordskill,” he said, with the most satisfied, shit-eating grin Uhtred had ever seen on him, “Which is high time, really, because you fight like a princess.”

Automatically, Uhtred fell back into their banter. “Like the Lady Æthelflæd?" he asked, "Remind me, who trained her again?”

Steapa scoffed, unimpressed by the taunt.

“Not that princess," he denied. "That princess saved Wessex while you took a nap.”

Uhtred gave him a weak grin, but behind his nonchalant reaction, his heart was aching, his mind already spinning. He didn’t know what he was supposed to think of Alfred's proposal. Should he be grateful? Happy? All he felt was a vague sense of doom. This morning, he had struggled to wash himself, for crying out loud. What did Alfred want him to train? Holding a wooden staff? Picking up a sword? He wasn’t sure he could do even that.

He has to know that, Uhtred thought.

But what if he didn’t.

What if Alfred underestimated his wounds, expected him to get better, to start fighting again? And what if Uhtred couldn’t deliver? Suddenly, his mind produced memories of Alfred's disapproving stare, of the way he had criticized Bertlic, the way he had asked him what use he was to him if he couldn’t do his job.

What use did Uhtred serve, if not that of a warlord?

Was Alfred growing impatient?

Pensive, Uhtred looked up at Steapa, who was still waiting for an answer, for once the picture of patience. When their eyes met, he seemed to sense Uhtred’s conflict.

“Tell him you can’t,” he advised, not mockingly, but frank and sympathetic. “If it’s not possible, it’s not possible.”

Put like that, it sounded easy.

Except, Uhtred wanted to train. Of course he did… He wanted to fight again, to feel the weight of a sword in his hand. He wanted to get back out into the world that waited outside Winchester’s ramparts. What he certainly didn’t want was to spend his days like some of the lords he had seen at court, eating themselves fat as they sprawled in cushioned seats.

“I don’t know what’s possible,” he admitted, lifting his numb hands up between them as though his friend could tell him more.

Looking at them, Steapa folded his own arms across his chest.

“Then why not find out?" he asked, and shrugged. "Things can’t get worse for you, lord… And at least you’ll know.”

Uhtred knew that Steapa was right. But it was hard to face the truth.

Part of him was determined to try anything that lay in his power to reclaim his old life, his old abilities. Because when it came to storming Bebbanburg, he had always seen himself with a sword in his hand, leading the charge, and he wasn’t ready to give up on that. His pride didn’t allow it.

Yet the rest of him wanted to hide and never touch a weapon again. Too great was the fear of failure, of confronting the limitations of his own body. He was scared out of his mind by the possibility that he was truly, irreparably damaged. And beyond that, more than anything, he feared to be useless… dreaded to be useless. Then again, when had he ever let fear rule him?

He sighed as he dropped his hands. “I’ll think about it.”

“Then I’ll be in the courtyard tomorrow, an hour before noon. If you aren’t there, I’ll know not to wait.”

“I’m supposed to trail the king till noon,” Uhtred objected, unwilling to cut his time with Alfred short, and then he looked to the side, stepped back as the door to the chapel opened.

Steapa rolled his eyes as if Uhtred was an idiot.

“Did I not just say he asked me to do this?” he quickly murmured under his breath, himself turning towards the door as Alfred step into the corridor. Apparently, the cold hadn’t left the king unaffected, for instead of his usual, red cassock, Alfred wore a white coat that Uhtred had never seen on him before. Its white wool and light beige collar matched the paleness of his skin, and for a moment, Uhtred forgot about his worries.

He looks beautiful.

He looks soft…

But he was soon ripped from his daydreams.

“You are late again, Uhtred,” Alfred admonished in place of a greeting.

“He likes his bed too much, lord,” Steapa offered soberly. He sounded like he was judging an underling, and Uhtred threw him a mean look, but when he turned back, Alfred was still searching his face, unconvinced.

“Mh.. or dislikes the chapel,” he commented, the torchlight flickering over his frown.

Uhtred frowned right back. He swore, Alfred was a sorcerer.

During these bitterly cold days, the chapel, with its big glass windows and hearthless walls, wasn’t exactly the warmest place in the palace. But that wasn’t what kept Uhtred away from it. No, he didn't avoid it because of the icy temperatures or because it was a Christian place of worship, but because the sight of it made his blood run cold. The chapel wasn’t like any church Uhtred had ever seen, wasn't normal. During the day, it didn't scare him, but that changed when the sun disappeared beyond the horizon, because as soon as darkness descended, the chapel became more than an empty room of stones and metal trinkets...

In the hours of the night, it turned into a narrow den of candles and shadows, glowing flames and darkness, and when he had first entered it, Uhtred had felt as if he was stepping into the lair of a predator, the resting place of something that coiled where he couldn’t see, ready to strike and rip him apart.

The grasping corners of Alfred’s room had been birthed here, Uhtred knew it, and the shadows that were haunting him at night were nothing but faint echoes of this pitch-black power. So while Alfred had stepped to the altar with reverent grace, knelt before its golden cross as the darkness embraced him like a long-lost son, Uhtred had stayed as close to the door as he could.

He knows.

With his back to the wall, he had fought the urge to run, and like the maw of a beast, the room had closed in on him, stalked him, flickering candles tasting his skin as his heart hammered in the dark.

He knows you love him.

Alfred’s God had watched him from his place on the cross, high above him, thorned crown glinting with fire, and Uhtred’s scars had burned beneath his tortured stare, clawed into him like a harrowing, tormenting reflection…

He’s judging you.

When finally, Alfred had finished his prayer, Uhtred had fled through the door the moment his lord turned to leave. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in the Old Gods anymore. He did… but he believed in another now, too, couldn’t deny it, and this unknown, nameless God scared the shit out of him.

It was amazing really, how easily Alfred saw these things, but Uhtred wasn’t prepared to admit that, and so he cleared his face of any signs that might betray him.

“I have nothing against the chapel, lord,” he said with forced disinterest, mocking the idea. “It’s a room like any other.”

Alfred hummed, something dancing in his eyes while his face remained unmoved. “Excellent,” he concluded, raising his brows, “then I trust you’ll be more punctual tomorrow."

Fuck.

Uhtred forced himself to nod, though he was already dreading it. “Yes, lord.”

Satisfied, Alfred shifted his attention to Steapa.

“Thank you, Steapa, you are dismissed,” he allowed, his tone much gentler now, and Uhtred felt someone stab him in the heart with a rusted knife.

“Lord.”

Steapa bowed his head, then turned to leave without another word, and at once, Alfred started down the corridor himself, into the opposite direction, Uhtred falling into step beside him. As always, they walked in silence, a silence that was thick and uncomfortable, and as always, Uhtred asked himself what had gone wrong after Alfred had left him on Christes mæsse.

I must have done something.

Something bad.

Since he had woken up in Alfred's rooms, the king’s behavior towards him had ranged from crying at his bed to detached generosity, from ignoring him for a month to smiling at him like the sun. Now he was acting distant again, impersonal, and dressed in the finery that Alfred had given him, Uhtred grew more unsure of himself every day. In retrospect, his lord's demeanor seemed to change like the wind, without rhyme or reason, nor any way of anticipating it, but Uhtred knew that Alfred wasn't so fickle.

What have I done?

What am I supposed to do?

From day one, he had wrecked his brain for something that could possibly have caused this reserved awkwardness between them, had searched for something he could do to dispel it. But he couldn't think of anything, and after a few days, after those nights... he had given up.

Most confusingly, it didn’t even seem like Alfred was angry, either.

He was polite enough, Uhtred supposed, and he didn’t hesitate to give Uhtred his full attention. On the contrary, he frequently asked for his thoughts, and if Uhtred was versed enough in the topic to have an opinion on the matter, Alfred listened to his council attentively and considered it before he made a decision... but he never smiled, never talked about anything personal, and so his attention felt factual and cold, was reduced to an exchange of practical advice.

On the first day of this new pattern, Uhtred had mocked himself for being needy, for over-interpreting the king’s behavior. Alfred was busy, clearly, and all of this - his aloofness, his reluctance to spend time on anything that wasn’t practical - was likely his way of dealing with the overwhelming amount of work that needed to be done. The kingdom had been thrown into temporary chaos, after all, and he was responsible for repairing the damage.

But then Uhtred had seen Alfred touch his wife and son, had seen his face relax when he spoke to them, and he had felt a stab in his heart at the sight, a jealousy that threatened to turn him bitter and dejected.

And again, he had reprimanded himself.

Of course Alfred would act different towards them.

They were his family.

It was a rational explanation, and though it didn’t help to dispel the burning longing from his chest, didn’t stop the bile that rose in his throat when he saw Ælswith touch Alfred's hand and lean into his shoulder, her lips decidedly too close as she whispered in his ear, Uhtred could accept that there was a difference between Alfred’s family and everybody else. On the third day, however, he had noticed how Alfred treated Steapa, how the slightest bit of amusement danced in his eyes when Steapa made a joke, how his tone became less cold when he talked to him, and Uhtred had barely been able to watch it.

Alfred didn’t treat him like this.

Not any longer.

And it hurt.

So at first, he had fought. He had tried to overcome Alfred’s walls, had joked along with Steapa and tried to lighten Alfred’s mood, but after a particularly uncomfortable breakfast at which Alfred had very, very politely redirected every one of Uhtred’s attempts at casual conversation, he had finally given up. That morning, Beocca had accidentally met Uhtred’s gaze, unguarded and frowning, and when he had seen Uhtred look back, he had quickly given him a shallow, reassuring smile, eyes still full of poorly concealed worry.

So even Beocca knew the truth of it.

Alfred was physically there, yes. And yes, he listened to what Uhtred said, and he replied to it when it related to political matters, but he didn’t let Uhtred be close to him. In fact, since that smile after their shared meal on Christes mæsse, the most Alfred had let Uhtred see of his inner world was an occasional frown, a frustrated sigh or rubbing of eyes.

Of course, that quickly changed at night...

But they didn't talk about that, obviously, and during the day, Uhtred only ever spoken to the king, never to Alfred. At this point, maybe due to his vivid dreams, Uhtred doubted anything had ever happened between them. It had to have been just that; his vivid imagination, a fever dream, a shameful fantasy he couldn't let go of. After all, the king would never kiss his hand or caress his wrist. The thought was laughable. It was simply not possible.

Uhtred was still deep in his thoughts when they rounded the corner and entered the windowless long corridor that lead to Alfred’s chambers, but then the king looked up from the faded Roman patterns at their feet.

“Has Steapa informed you of my proposal?” he asked, and at once, Uhtred’s mind caught on his voice, pulling back from its gloomy circles. He had assumed that his training with Steapa was an order, but Alfred’s choice of words suggested otherwise, and his voice didn’t sound as cold as when he had scolded Uhtred for his late arrival. As they had walked, he had unclasped his hands, and his shoulders had relaxed beneath his snow-white coat. It was often like this, after prayer...

Maybe, Uhtred's mind whispered, much too hopeful.

“Yes, Steapa has mentioned it, lord.”

Alfred hummed, his gaze returned to the floor. The echo of his steps steadied Uhtred’s thoughts, served as a metronome, and for once, Uhtred felt anchored in the moment. It seemed as though the only way to calm his anxious mind was to focus on the object of its fascination. 

“Will you do it?” Alfred asked.

Suddenly, the decision was easy.

“I will, lord, but… but unfortunately, I’m not sure how successful it will be,” he answered, wishing that Alfred would understand what he was implying - hoping, maybe, to be reassured - but Alfred fell silent, deeply silent, and while Uhtred’s first instinct was to urge him to react, to voice his fears directly and demand they be acknowledged, he ultimately didn't. It felt much too shameful to admit his weakness openly, and he wondered whether Alfred would find it annoying, whether he would dismiss it as he did all intimate talk. Thus conflicted, Uhtred held his tongue, mutely hoped for an answer, and after a short but heavy pause, broken only by their footfalls, Alfred indeed spoke again.

“I plan to execute Hæsten on the day of Epiphany,” he said, “It is a day of banquets and joy. Public morale would profit, and it would involve the Church in the condemnation of his coup.”

Uhtred frowned at the sudden change of topic. He had been right then, and there would be no response. Apparently, a mere confession of doubt was personal enough to warrant a swift redirection... But then Hæsten’s death was a perpetual source of consolation, and so he couldn’t help the satisfied anticipation that coursed through him as he nodded.

“Then it seems like a good idea, lord,” he said.

They had reached the end of the corridor now, and as they rounded the last corner, they suddenly weren’t alone anymore, were watched by half a dozen guards. Every one of them had been personally picked by Steapa, chosen for their loyalty, and now they lined the wall to a door which was terribly familiar, its dark, iron-bound wood furrowed and foreboding. Its sight wound Uhtred's stomach into knots, woke hated memories, echoing screams that wouldn't let him go...

And yet.

Maybe he'll say yes.

Reaching the door first, Alfred pushed it open and waved him inside, and Uhtred quickly ducked through, shivered as it fell shut behind them, a heavy thud in the sudden, quiet privacy of Alfred’s chambers.

The room had changed since Alfred had returned to it, looked less like and infirmary, and while Uhtred took in the familiar bed, the bowl of cold gruel that waited on the only remaining table, Alfred stepped past him, whispers rustling over stone as his coat brushed against the palace floor. He came to a stop in the middle of the room, turned to face Uhtred with a quick, almost involuntary glance at his hands.

“Tomorrow will be a tiring day,” Alfred informed him emotionlessly, “There’ll be a war council and the moot, both of which I would like you to attend. We’ll pray for God’s guidance before the latter.”

“A war council,” Uhtred asked, almost as surprised by the news as he was eager to ignore the threat of prayer, “Has something happened?”

Stepping towards the table, Alfred shook his head.

“Not exactly. But Æthelred has been seen in Danelaw. He’s in the company of a man called Toke who seems to have a considerable amount of men. Have you heard of him?”

It took a moment for Uhtred to answer. Alfred had shaken the cloak of his shoulders while he had talked, and beneath it, his tunic was smooth and black as the night. It fit him well, turned him lean and graceful where the white wool had painted him hazy and soft. Uhtred couldn’t exactly say what he preferred, but with the way the fabric clung to Alfred's body, he suspected it was neither...

Quickly, he cleared his throat.

“No, lord,” he answered, shaking his head, and nodding in turn, Alfred folded his cloak over a chair, meticulous as ever.

“Neither have I,” he admitted, his voice blank but still so clearly worried as his eyebrows drew closer. “Thus the council...” Emerging from his thoughts, his eyes found Uhtred's, but then he quickly looked away, suddenly stiff.

Uhtred knew the moment was drawing closer.

Maybe-

"Is there anything else to discuss?" Alfred asked, flinging him back to practical matters, and Uhtred felt caught, but not for long.

"Yes...  I wasn't searched for weapons at the gate," he revealed, though Alfred frowned as he looked back at him.

"Why would you be?"

Uhtred's brows rose in disbelief. He spread his arms, took a step forward. "Because it concerns your safety. Everyone but the palace guard should be searched for weapons - even me."

Alfred shook his head as if that wasn't to his taste.

"No," he said simply. "I trust you more than the palace guards. If you could carry weapons, I would want you to."

Uhtred's heart stumbled, stabbed and soothed at once. If you could, his mind repeated nastily, aiming right for what was left of his pride, and he tried to ignore that as best he could.

"Alright, but- Even Beocca then. Him and those other priests and bishops that don't get searched."

"Why? Are you saying I can't trust Beocca?"

"Of course you can trust, Beocca," Uhtred conceded grudgingly, "But I don't know any of these other men."

"They are loyal men," Alfred declared.

Uhtred sighed, frustrated. He felt like they'd had this conversation a thousand times before. At a loss, he paused, shifted his weight from one leg to the next as he searched for a way to make Alfred understand.

"All traitors are loyal until they aren't, lord," he said eventually, hard voiced, hoping that Alfred would see reason. "The closer men are to you, the more dangerous it is to let them carry weapons. And that threat grows the more men you trust - you must understand that."

Listening to him, the king's face darkened. As most men, Alfred didn't appreciate being lectured, and for a moment, he looked as if he was going to protest, to deny the truth of Uhtred's statement, but then he nodded, somehow even stiffer than before.

"Then I will have it arranged," he agreed reluctantly.

"Thank you, lord."

Thus, their discussion was at an end. Now, Uhtred waited, and when after a pause, Alfred still hadn't said anything else, when the king looked conflicted but didn't dismiss him, his lips parting slightly without a sound, Uhtred knew the time had come.

Maybe.

“Lord, do you want me-“

“You may go now. Thank you, Uhtred.”

Alfred spoke too loudly, too quickly, drowned him out so hastily that Uhtred knew he had anticipated the question, and when he turned away without another look in Uhtred's direction, Uhtred’s face burned with shame.

You fool.

His fragile hopes shattered like the frozen puddles that had cracked beneath his boots on the way to the palace, mud seeping into the cracks of clear ice like dread now seeped into his soul. He tried his hardest not to let it show.

“Lord,” he ground out.

Out of habit, he bowed his head at Alfred's back, unseen, like the idiot he was, and then he turned away, his jaw muscles painfully tight with how hard he ground his teeth - and seconds later he stood outside the room, stood among other soldiers, right in front of that old, stupid, fucking insurmountable door.

Fuck.

The shame was almost unbearable.

Fuck this shit.

The dread was worse.

It was difficult not to hate this, even more difficult not to resent the man who had condemned him to it. This was a living nightmare, and Alfred forced him to relive it every night. Then again, Uhtred didn’t know who suffered more from it; he or the king. Of course, it was probably Alfred, but still, while none of Uhtred’s new duties were particularly pleasant, most unbelievably boring, guarding Alfred’s door was by far the worst of it. At least on nights like this.

Uhtred exhaled, loud and frustrated, but as always, the other guards remained still as stone. They didn’t acknowledge him, did their best to stare at nothing, be no one, and in an attempt to distract himself from his rising anxiety, the creeping anticipation of horror, Uhtred tried to concentrate on the day ahead, the war council that promised revenge, but the sighting of Æthelred wasn’t enough to divert his thoughts...

In the absence of war, Alfred’s days, and thus his own, were dull as false silver, and Uhtred just wished he could say the same about their nights.

In general, days were marked by prayers, hours of quiet reading and the endless writing of letters, one task chasing the next, one tedious meeting following another. Through it all, and although he was fasting, Alfred worked like a possessed man. From morning till noon, Uhtred watched him pacify local lords that moaned about dilapidated roads, relocate markets that weren’t well enough connected, and worry about pests that threatened Wessex’s grain.

Except, most of the time, that was all Uhtred did.

Watch.

In contrast to Alfred’s frenzied work, Uhtred often found himself bored out of his mind, unconsciously shifting from one leg to the other, numb hands fidgeting behind his back, his mind spinning ever deeper, ever faster, without anything to stop it. The monotony of it all didn’t exactly help to stem the flood of his reoccurring thoughts. Those memories of Alfred on the cross, of his melodic, haunting words. If anything, these visions worsened, now clearly out of Uhtred’s control, and yet, he couldn’t help but feed his obsession, and when he was sure that they were alone, that Alfred was engrossed in one of his letters or charters, Uhtred watched the king with starving eyes. He studied every outline of his features, every movement of his ink-stained fingers and-

And Gods, he was beautiful.

But he wasn’t well.

Himself far from fidgeting, Alfred was constantly tense beside him, taut like the string of a bow. Whether he was sitting or standing, he looked unnaturally stiff, rigid as a sculpture, his pale fingers gripping everything so tightly that it had cost him two quills in this week alone. When the king pushed through doors, they swung open hard enough that Uhtred feared they would damage the walls behind them, and considering that Alfred seemed to lose weight by the day, that was quite the feat.

While his body waned, the rings under Alfred’s eyes grew, got darker and darker, and except for those few minutes after prayer, he was constantly on guard, as if he expected an attack at any moment. Yet, in the week Uhtred had shadowed him, he hadn’t spoken of Dunwhich even once – at least not in his presence. Uhtred saw the damage it had done nonetheless, saw it every day, and it hurt to watch.

When he had asked Beocca about it, hoping that Alfred had confided in him, his friend had merely grumbled that the king had exhausted himself, that he had lost a lot of sleep; and while his body had healed, the healing of his mind would take time and rest...

Unfortunately, Uhtred knew that Alfred wasn't getting rest. 

On the first night of his duties, when Steapa had still kept him company at Alfred’s door, Uhtred had been in good spirits. They had talked, quietly, swapped stories of war and joked about each other’s scars, and all in all, Uhtred had felt at ease, his nightly ordeal not yet terrible to him.

Then, Alfred had begun to scream.

It had been bone-chilling, sounds of pure terror, but before Uhtred had made it halfway to the door, Steapa had already lunged for him, had grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back, and to Uhtred’s shock, it wasn’t to lead the charge. Instead, in the midst of his soldiers, their eyes all carefully trained into the void, Steapa had told him to do nothing. He had promised him that there wasn’t a threat and that the screaming would subside; that they were, in fact, ordered to ignore it.

Because since their return from Dunwhich, Alfred suffered nightmares.

Steapa wasn’t a man of many words, and so he had left it at that, but when, near dawn, the screaming had started a second time, he had to have seen the distress on Uhtred’s face, because he had shrugged, helplessly almost, and mumbled that orders were orders.

He was right of course.

But then Uhtred had always had a problem with authority, and so on the second day, when Steapa wasn’t there to distract him from the screams, he broke like a brittle bone. When he reached for the handle of the king’s door, a young soldier stepped forward, mail rattling, looked for a moment as if he wanted to protest, but Uhtred’s deadly stare made him step back as soon as their eyes met.

Compared to the hallway, the king’s chambers were plunged into darkness, the only light emanating from the last glowing coals in the hearth, and at first, Uhtred couldn’t make out anything all. But when he stepped further into the room, door falling shut behind him, he heard Alfred wake up with a start, sensed his movement where he knew the bed would be, and it helped his eyes to focus, until he recognized the form of a body, the darkest grey against a sea of black.

The king was sitting bolt upright, frozen in the dark, like a startled deer.

“Who is it?” he inquired, rough with sleep, his usual dignity laced with poorly hidden fear.

Uhtred hurried to reassure him.

“It’s Uhtred, lord. I heard you scream.”

Alfred’s outline didn’t move, and though the room was too dark to see much of anything, Uhtred knew that the king was looking at him. He swallowed in discomfort. The sight of Alfred's slim shape on the bed felt forbidden, as if by witnessing it, Uhtred was taking something that wasn’t meant for him, and he almost regretted that he had entered, knew that he shouldn’t have invaded Alfred’s privacy like this. But there was no going back now.

“Did Steapa not inform you?”

Uhtred felt a fresh wave of shame.

“He did, lord.”

There was a pause then, on either side, the air heavy with potential accusations and unaired justifications. If at all possible, the room got even darker, shrouded Alfred’s silhouette in the blurry night like a jealous lover. Eventually, the king cleared his throat.

“Everything is fine,” he said weakly, and Uhtred wasn’t sure whether it was meant as a dismissal or as an attempt at reassurance, but it worked as neither.

“Of course, lord.”

Despite his agreement, Uhtred grit his teeth, too aware of how small Alfred looked in the vast darkness, trapped between high-arching walls of stone. He turned, and as soon stopped again. He couldn't stand this any longer, he realized, hated it with every cell in his body. But what was he to do about it? 

Uhtred hesitated, fought a last moment of doubt before he turned back, venturing out onto thin ice.

“It’s just…” he said, mind frantic in the black, “the corridor is very cold and my hands...”

He stopped himself, too uncomfortable with the obvious lie he was spinning.

“Could I guard the door from the inside?” he asked simply, blood rushing in his ears.

A heavy silence fell between them then, thick and ominous. It was deafening, buzzing, drowning out the drum of Uhtred’s heart. Alfred didn’t move even now, didn’t take his eyes of him, and Uhtred felt his thigh muscles tense, as if his body was preparing to run. The tension was killing him.

Then, Alfred shifted, and after Uhtred heard him exhale, he saw how his body tilted backwards, slowly, soundlessly almost, until it melted into the darkness.

“Only this once,” Alfred murmured, weak with exhaustion, and Uhtred nodded into the black, though it felt as if the king's permission hadn’t truly been directed at him.

“Thank you, lord.”

Heart still hammering against his ribcage, Uhtred took up his new position, every last one of his movements too loud, each one explicitly witnessed. He barely dared to breathe, and soon silence ruled the dark again. It was as if someone had blindfolded him, had blanketed his senses… as if the sight of Alfred’s vulnerable form, the rhythm of his breaths, was indeed forbidden.

But after a few minutes, slowly and surely, Uhtred’s senses adapted, and in the dim light of glowing coals he recognized the posts of the bed, its towering headboard, its furs; and under them, the smaller hill of a body, the jutting peak of a shoulder.

Throughout the night, Uhtred guarded Alfred while he slept, quietly now, and with even breaths, and hours later, when the first shimmer of dawn illuminated the sky, the little light it brought seemed like a torch to him. Selfishly, unable to resist, Uhtred drank in Alfred’s sleep-soft features, his tousled hair and curling fingers, the flutter of his eyelids as he dreamed…

It felt intimate, watching him sleep.

So intimate indeed, that when the bells sounded morning and Alfred stirred, Uhtred quickly shifted his gaze to his feet. He felt guilty for intruding on Alfred's privacy, but it was obvious that the king looked better that day, less pale and stiff, and he didn't rub his temples so much, nor clench his hands. Miraculously, he even finished his breakfast.

And so from that day on, the game begun.

Though first, on the third night, Uhtred suffered in the corridor while his skin crawled with invisible insects, stung with the pricks of a thousand needles that screamed at him to move.

Only this once, he told himself to the sound of Alfred’s screams, over and over and over.

Only this once.

That night, Uhtred grit his teeth so firmly that the resulting headache followed him all day. He felt utterly drained when he finally hit his bed, and before that, during the morning, Alfred looked no better, pale and rigid again, desperate for work as he left his bowl of gruel untouched.

On the fourth night, it was worse than ever, and when, to the very visible discomfort of the guards, Alfred began to beg for mercy, Uhtred told his common sense to go to hell.

The king didn’t wake up this time, was still thrashing when Uhtred announced himself in an effort to wake him, and when he finally understood where he was and with whom, it took a moment until he had caught his breath.

“I told you to ignore it,” he admonished then, but he sounded too hoarse to put much force into it, had screamed himself raw, and Uhtred didn’t care either way.

“It’s the fifth time, lord. It didn’t stop,” he reported truthfully, accusingly.

Because it was still early in the night, the room wasn’t as dark this time, a fire still crackling in the hearth, and so Uhtred saw how Alfred opened his mouth to reproach him, but there must have been something in Uhtred’s eyes that made him swallow his words. He looked terrible, gaunt and drenched in cold sweat, and when a shadow flickered across his face, his breath hitched a little before he looked away, towards the barred window, the night looming outside.

“Will it be morning soon?” he asked, with an apprehensive frown.

Uhtred shook his head. “Not for a while yet, lord...”

He didn’t ask this time, and Alfred didn’t give him permission to stay, but after another few seconds of tension, measured by their bated breaths, the king lay back down on the bed, and he said nothing more. And in the morning, after five hours of blessed silence, Alfred send Uhtred outside in order to get dressed, but before he did, their eyes met in a secret understanding.

“Thank you, Uhtred...” Alfred said quietly, and Uhtred felt as if a heavy burden lifted from his chest, as if he suddenly weighed nothing at all.

“Of course, lord.”

On the fifth day, Uhtred vowed to enter Alfred's room at the first sign of trouble, but to his surprise, it didn't even come to that. Because after Alfred had sketched the tasks of the next day, he hesitated before he send Uhtred outside, his thumb kneading the back of his fingers, and when Uhtred couldn't restrain himself and offered to stay, Alfred nodded silently, relieved that he didn’t have to ask.

Sharing Alfred's relief, Uhtred had thought that despite the chasm between them, despite Alfred's distant behavior, they had found common ground in this at least, arrived at an understanding... He had thought that, for the good of the country and himself, Alfred had decided to ease the awkward hierarchy that he so vehemently enforced everywhere else.

Well, he had been wrong.

Because on the sixth evening, when he had made the exact same offer as before, Alfred’s eyes had shot up from where his hands worked the clasps of his cassock, and the anger in his face had made Uhtred take a step back.

“Guards don’t usually stay inside the king's bedchamber, Uhtred,” he had snapped, sharp with sudden anger, “Let’s not make it a custom.”

Afterwards, Uhtred’s mind had spent the night beating him bloody, self-hatred thrashing and thundering, shame lashing him raw, all the while wincing at every one of Alfred’s blood-curdling screams, noises that felt like physical stabs to his gut. Breakfast had been hell, too, not only because Uhtred had been utterly exhausted, or because his and Alfred’s interactions had been drenched in uncomfortable silences, but because Alfred had looked half-dead, and it had pained Uhtred to watch him. His hands had shook where they held his spoon, and when he had stood, he had swayed so violently that Uhtred feared he would faint. Beocca had watched with wide eyes, clearly shocked at the king's decline, and it was partly that confirmation of the grimness of their situation that had made Uhtred swallow his pride and ask again the seventh night...

In response, Alfred had shot him a hateful glare, but he had agreed, and again he had been better in the morning, had even bloody thanked him again!

So now here Uhtred stood, back in the present, on the eighth day of Alfred's cruel game, rejected and sorely embarrassed. The soles of his feet burned from standing in one spot, and he periodically fought the urge to close his eyes, somehow both deeply exhausted and unbearably anxious, his heart beating faster than it had any right to. Without anything to occupy his time or mind, Uhtred was forever anticipating the moment he would startle, the moment his nightmare would start all over again...

This time, it took less than an hour to begin, but all night to end.

Chapter Text

The morning was cold, just like the day before, the windows above them still caked in snow and ice, and when the guards opened the massive doors of the king's hall, a few men were already waiting beyond, had fled their usual courtyard gaggle to gossip in the warmer hallways. Many of them looked rich, most of them fat, and all of them were dressed in warm coats of fur, their shoulders wet with melted snow. Yet, despite the thinness of his silken tunic, Uhtred wasn't cold. As he watched them approach, standing at his usual spot next to the throne, Beocca beside him, liquid heat ran through him in hot spurts of blood, his fury a furnace in his gut.

How dare he.

When a young, stick-thin priest beside him made the mistake of meeting his eyes, Uhtred's stare was so frightening that he dropped the wooden cross he'd been holding in his hand, and it clattered to the floor with a noise that made Alfred wince and bark at him to pick it up. The priest scrambled to do so, flushed pink with shame, and Uhtred scowled at him, anger boiling up from within.

How fucking dare he.

His thoughts were a train of livid expletives, one more obscene then the next.

Definitely not looking into Alfred’s direction, Uhtred shook his head, stared at the sand-coloured tiles of the hall. He wanted to bash someone’s face in, to smash the chairs that had been scattered through the room. The vengeful, beastly side of him was wide awake, all instincts and fight, no thought nor sense, and since they’d left for the hall, he had barely been able to keep himself from growling.

Next to him, the king looked like he’d been carved from stone.

Since breakfast, they hadn't spoken a word to each other, and now, Alfred sat straighter than a spear, his mouth set in a hard line. Though he hadn’t addressed what had happened, or even scolded Uhtred for his sulking, the air between them was thick with resentment. Uhtred didn’t even know who he was angrier with; Alfred for being a miserable prick, or himself for being so affected by it. It was as Ravn had always said: he who tethered himself to a mad man was bound to suffer, and Uhtred knew it, but he couldn’t bring himself to break free.

I hate him.

After another hellish night in which, as expected, the king had slept two hours at most, he’d emerged from his room much later than planned, with red-rimmed eyes and shaking hands, high-strung and half-dead. Yet, Alfred didn't renege his duties, was determined to put mind over matter, and so their schedule hadn't changed. Already, they'd been behind on time, but morning prayer couldn't be dispensed with, of course, and so consequently, Uhtred's stomach growling, they'd half run to the kitchens afterwards — which was laughable really, in hindsight, because Alfred hadn’t eaten a thing.

Instead, he’d written another letter to another bishop about whatever the fuck it was this time that was so important he couldn’t fulfill his basic needs, and still exhausted from the previous night, Uhtred had told himself to ignore it. He had told himself that Alfred was a grown man, and that he had every right to starve himself if he wanted to.

But of course, that didn’t work.

Because damn him, Uhtred cared.

After a few choking bites of bread, he had pushed his own bowl to the side, his appetite destroyed by the insanity of what was unfolding before him, and when Beocca had joined them, barely noticed by the king, he too had soon stopped eating. Old with worry, he sat famished and frozen, his eyes glued to Alfred’s frantically moving hand, to the deep circles underneath his glossy eyes.

They’d waited in silence then, on either side of the king, while madness howled in the erratic scratching of quill over paper.

Every so often, Beocca had shot Uhtred a pleading look that was full of gloom, and after minutes of this torture, when the king hadn’t swallowed a single bite of his breakfast and time was running out, Uhtred had finally lost it. He had pulled the small pot of ink away from Alfred’s side, and when, startled by the lack of it, Alfred had looked up, Uhtred had suggested he stop writing and eat.

To no one's surprise, his advice wasn't appreciated.

Alfred had snapped at him, livid at the patronizing interference, and Uhtred had thrown himself back against his chair in a display of barely controlled temper; and then they had seethed in withering silence, while Alfred had shuffled parchments in trembling anger, neither eating nor writing, until Beocca had cleared his throat to signal that it was time to go. When they’d prepared to leave, simultaneously stepping out from their seats, Uhtred’s arm had accidentally brushed against Alfred’s, and Alfred had flinched-

Flinched!

-as if Uhtred was a leper, as if he was something disgusting that shouldn’t be touched.

How dare he,  I hate-

“We will begin,” Alfred said, ripping Uhtred from his thoughts, and when he motioned for silence, the chatter around them cut off.

While Uhtred had been brooding, the seats before the throne had filled with about a dozen men, all of them either priests or nobles. In the first row, Uhtred saw Godwin, the cripple, and Bishop Erkenwald beside him, and when their eyes met, the bishop gave Uhtred a low, hesitant smile. It was the kind of smile one gave an ally that wasn’t quite trusted, and Uhtred repaid it by not smiling back.

Inhaling, Alfred straightened even further in his seat.

“I am pleased to see you here today in such large numbers,” he announced, and already, Uhtred felt the urge to scoff at his courtly affectation. The men who sat here were the local nobles and bishops, the leading churchmen, and in all other parishes, they would have had the right to stand as judges, to pass sentences and see them executed, but this parish was headed by the king himself, and so Alfred’s word overruled everybody else’s. While they theoretically still had the right to judge, they were practically powerless, and that resulted in empty seats, especially in winter, when most men preferred staying in their warm hall to being royal decoration.

But after the revolt... well, now all men whose heads hadn’t ended on the city wall were suddenly eager to show their fat bellies - lest their absence be noted.

“The people of Winchester will be reassured to see us united in the law of the land,” Alfred continued, knowing full well why so many had come. “God has given us a desire for justice, and more eyes and ears can only help in the pursuit of it." He paused, hesitated before he delivered unwelcome news. "Though today’s moot will take longer than usual due to the... recent adjournments,” he said, and Uhtred could practically see the suppressed sighs of the men before him.

Adjournments, he thought sarcastically, Is that Frankish for treasonous revolt?

Winchester's moot hadn't taken place in a while, had been postponed while the king had dealt with more important matters, and now they were all facing an endless, tedious morning. Yet Alfred, in the little speech that followed, tried his best to appeal to their sense of duty, was a ready example of virtue; stern and disciplined, suddenly without a trace of weariness.

Uhtred marvelled at how effortlessly he exploited himself.

While the king listed a number of former members who wouldn't join them for lack of life, loyal or otherwise, Uhtred’s gaze flickered over the assembly of men before him, realizing that he didn't know very many of them. He had rarely stayed in Winchester for long, and Coccham lay in the north of Berkshire, far away from Hampshire’s border, so it wasn't so strange that he didn't recognize them. He hadn’t had much reason to interact with the lords around Winchester.

Still... two of them he knew.

Lord Wulfric and Lord Eadmund were old, paunchy men, and their ugly appearances were upstaged only by their reputations. Both of them paid wergild rather regularly, and never for thanes or even ceorls, but for the slaves of other men, often slain in drunken rages. Yet despite their appetite for murder, neither of them had joined Æthelflæd at the battle of Wilton — the battle that crushed the revolt. On the contrary, Finan had heard rumours that they’d planned to join the uprising, only to change their minds once Steapa had rid Winchester of its rats.

But that was tavern gossip, of course, and drunk men said all kinds of things.

Now, sprawling in the second row of chairs, half hidden behind Erkenwald, neither of them looked particularly happy. Their brows were drawn as they watched Alfred speak, their arms crossed over their titted chests, and when Eadmund noticed Uhtred’s eyes on him, he glared back with open hatred.

It was then that Uhtred first suspected what would follow, and indeed, Wulfric stood the moment Alfred stopped speaking.

“Lord King, if I may speak…” he said, and when Alfred gave him a tight nod, Wulfric lost no time before he pointed straight at Uhtred. “Why is he here? He’s not a lord of this parish. In fact, I don’t recall ever seeing him attend our moot in the years before.”

How would you, when you never show up.

“I’ve attende—“ Uhtred began, but Alfred held up a hand, and he grudgingly obeyed.

“You are right, Wulfric,” Alfred asserted calmly, placating the mumbling men before him. "Uhtred presides over the moot of Wilton, and thus won’t be judging here today-"

Nor will you be, Wulfric, Uhtred thought scornfully.

“-but he is an Ældorman of Wessex, and thus entitled to attend all moots of the land as an honorary witness.” Thinking that the matter had been resolved, Alfred attempted to continue their work, but Wulfric didn’t sit down.

“He may be an Ældorman, lord, but I doubt he is of Wessex,” he commented spitefully, staring at Uhtred’s Danish braids.

“Hear hear,” Eadmund agreed from behind Erkenwald, where three other men started to fidget in their seats. Alfred noticed it, and raised his chin.

“You needn’t doubt, Wulfric," he assured, a little sharper than before, "Uhtred has proven his loyalty to Wessex time and time again. He has been sworn to the crown for years.”

Instead of backing down, Wulfric spread his arms in a gesture of benevolent candour. “But lord, so were the men who betrayed you,” he said, and Uhtred took a step towards him, his pulse spiking.

“You will not compare me to those rats!” he growled, scars stretching painfully as his hands curled into fists.

“Calm yourself, Uhtred,” Alfred warned. He had turned his head towards him, and now he held out a hand, directing him to step back. Grudgingly, Uhtred did so, his eyes still trained on Wulfric’s blotchy, barnacle-skinned face.

“I merely meant to say, lord,” the worm now said, “that I feel recent events should serve as a warning. The enemy is always closer than we think. It seems unwise to have a Danish lord at your shoulder, no matter his apparent allegiance.”

Uhtred stepped forward again. “I’m as much a Saxon lord as you are!”

“Uhtred, enough,” Alfred told him sharply, but Æthelwold’s insinuations were fresh on his mind, Wulfric’s sneer a thorn in his eye.

“You don’t look like a Saxon lord to me,” Wulfric taunted.

“Enough!”

“And still I could pay your wergild a hundred times over!”

“IT IS ENOUGH!”

The king’s command thundered through the hall, at once producing silence, and not for the first time, Uhtred wondered how a chest that slim could birth such volume.

“You’ll both calm yourselves,” Alfred ordered, heated himself, “There will be no threats of murder in this hall. You’ll act with dignity or you will be expelled. This spectacle is unacceptable.”

“Yes, lord king,” Wulfric yielded, clearly content with the seeds he’d sown, “Forgive me.”

Uhtred, on the other hand, couldn’t quite calm himself so quickly. He stared into the silence, pulse throbbing in his neck, until he felt the weight of Alfred’s eyes on him.

“Yes,” he said grudgingly.

Alfred’s attention returned to the room at large, the red wool over his chest rising and falling with strained regularity.

“There are clearly tensions to resolve, and in the future, I’ll make sure to address the concerns they spring from,” he declared while Uhtred felt himself bristle at the implication that Wulfric’s ‘concerns’ were in any way legitimate, “but this is a moot, not a tavern… and there are pressing matters to attend to.”

Alfred waited, ensuring compliance. When the silence held, he nodded, composing himself.

“Now we will pray,” he declared sharply, “To ask for God’s guidance in our duty.”

While Uhtred’s stomach knotted at the prospect of what was to follow, Wulfric bowed his head again, and when Alfred got up from his throne and knelt down on the lamb skin that had been laid onto the wooden platform at his feet, the men around him followed his example. Uhtred considered the lamb skin at his own feet, felt Beocca’s hand swiftly nudge his elbow before the monk knelt down himself.

This was why he hated prayer.

It wasn’t that Uhtred disliked prayer in general, he had prayed to Odin and Thor before, prayed regularly still, silently, in his head. And it wasn’t that he couldn’t stand to watch Christians say their spells, either; but every time he was present during public worship, these men, Beocca, Alfred… they watched him, noted his every reaction, eagle-eyed and sly, urging him to pick a side in a war he didn’t want to fight.

The last man standing, Uhtred shifted awkwardly, with itchy skin, but he stood fast, and after a pause that took just a little bit too long, Alfred started praying.

“Our father who art in heaven,” he began, and when he stopped, the men below him parroted him in a mismatched choir of voices.

“Hallowed be thy name, thy kingdome come,” Alfred continued, and this time, Bishop Erkenwald’s voice arose loud and clear from the mumbling mess, lead the way, and the men around him gained confidence as they leaned on him.

Alfred liked that, apparently, because he gave Erkenwald a faint smile before he closed his eyes and carried on.

He doesn't smile at me like that.

“Thy will be done, on earth, as it is in heaven.“

Not anymore.

Uhtred’s eyes wandered Alfred’s profile as he prayed, got lost in the flutter of his lashes, caught on lips that formed words with all the softness of love. In flashes of vivid shapes and colours, Uhtred remembered how beautiful he’d been, shackled in the grass, and how delicate he appeared in his dreams, when flowers crowned his head, and shackles turned to lilies.

I wish he'd smile at me.

“Give us today our daily bread,” Alfred said, and while usually, Uhtred didn’t understand Christian chanting, these words were English, spoke of simpler things, and Alfred recited them beautifully, with rhythm and passion that gave them life.

Watching him, Uhtred’s anger followed the murmurs around him, dissipated into the air, and sadness took its place.

By now, he was deeply, hopelessly lost.

Alfred treated him unfairly, even cruelly sometimes, but he couldn’t be angry with him. Not for long. Because despite the long, daunting nights, despite Alfred’s cutting rebukes and cold demeanour, Uhtred treasured every second he had with him. Hungry for plunder, he spent most of his waking hours at Alfred’s side, burned the sight of him into his mind, hoarded every word he spoke, and from his distant throne, the king gave generously, paid attention to him as lords gave rings to their retainers.

Yet it was never enough.

Uhtred’s heart beat faster when Alfred met his eyes, stumbled when he said his name, but these treasures didn’t stand the test of time. They ran through his fingers, spent the moment they were given, and so Uhtred’s love was tainted by constant, horrible longing, by the dark suspicion that Alfred’s favour was a passing pleasure… nothing but a brief interlude of unlikely fortune, doomed to end.

“And forgive us our tresspasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us,” Alfred sung, evoking memories of his sleeping form beneath the furs, of Uhtred’s guilty joy, the pleasure he took in watching him dream. “And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

Alfred had reached the end of his story, and when he spoke next, Uhtred joined him without thinking, whispered the sounds of a forgotten song.

“Amen.”

Startled, Alfred’s shoulder twisted to the side, his eyes wide where they shone over the cloth of his cassock, and Uhtred lowered his gaze, felt caught in the act.

Embarrassed and confused, he kept his gaze on the floor, kept it there while he listened to the rustling of Alfred’s robes, the scraping of chairs and the shuffling of men. He kept it on the floor while he followed Beocca's feet across the hall and around the corner, tiles changing their colors and turning to stone, and it was only then that Uhtred raised his head, looked at mud as he watched the people of Winchester crowd around the palace steps.

It was a dreary morning, but just warm enough to thaw, soldiers trudging through the mud to form a circle, thatched roofs dripping with slowly melting snow, and up in the crisp air, Uhtred could see the disembodied heads of Wessex’s traitors on the wall next to the city gate. They were unusually whole, had probably been frozen, preserved by the constant cold, and now their bloodied hair blew in the wind, crows circling above them as they waited for the thaw to do its work.

Even on the lee side of the wall, the cold breeze nipped at his skin, and he cursed himself for leaving his jacket in the hall, too flustered by his misstep at prayer to remember it. He thought for a moment about running inside to get it, but the idea seemed too humiliating. Besides, Alfred was next to him still, didn’t motion him to step aside, and so Uhtred stayed close to him, warmed by his proximity.

The king held up his hand, and the crowd fell silent.

The moot didn’t do much to distracted Uhtred from the cold. It was a dry affair, all in all, full of wrenches that grouched about stolen grain and men who lamented unpaid wages. After an hour of this, it begun to snow, or rather, it begun to rain icy flakes that melted as soon as they hit skin, and Uhtred realized that he’d made a big mistake.

Fuck, it’s cold.

Where Uhtred stood, right on the edge of the palace steps, the roof didn’t give him much shelter, and while Alfred’s white, hooded cloak saved him from the worst of the snow, the silk of Uhtred’s tunic was soon clinging to his skin, slick with water that pulled the last of his warmth from his body. The sensation was uncomfortable to say the least, but across the square, Uhtred saw a group of women point at him, whispering with glowing eyes and girlish giggles, and that lessened his pain a little.

While he listened to the sharp melody of Alfred’s voice, Uhtred folded his arms across his chest for warmth, trying to keep himself from shaking, his hands red and numb where he hid them in his armpits.

Fuck.

Behind him, sheltered from the worst of the weather, Wulfric grumbled something about an excessive sum, and Uhtred suspected that he was complaining about Alfred, because the king had just fined a man eighty shillings for the rape of a slave, and so Wulfric had to fear for his money.

I’ll get sick. I know it.

There was a pause while the fine was paid and recorded, a swell of noise from the chattering crowd, and Alfred used it to wave for a servant boy before he stared ahead again, the perfect picture of royal composure.

“Benwick,” he acknowledged, glancing at the young boy when he'd reached his side, “Lord Uhtred has been ambushed by snow in winter... Keep him alive.”

Clearly hiding his amusement, the boy quickly bowed before he left, and Uhtred rolled his eyes at the barb, but he didn’t object. Instead, he inclined his head, beard dripping ice-cold water.

“Thank you, lord,” he said, and Alfred turned his head towards him a little.

“You should have dressed more appropriately,” he chided him, but there was something almost like worry in his tone, and he grimaced when a shudder rippled through Uhtred’s body. “You are soaked. You’ll catch your death.”

“I’ll be fine,” Uhtred insisted.

Alfred didn’t answer, but he sighed, heavily, and when Benwick returned with a linen shirt and a thick coat of fur, Uhtred thanked him and quickly stripped, handing him back his drenched tunic. He felt self-conscious, changing so publicly, very aware of the scars he was baring, but a few women hooted at him from the crowd, looked disappointed when he pulled the new tunic over his head, and again, that made him grow confidence.

Once he was warm and dry, he released a sigh of relief, and beside him, Alfred’s shoulders lowered a little.

The women that had delighted in Uhtred’s physique soon left, and the moot went on without them, just as boring as before, but much more bearable now that Uhtred wasn’t slowly freezing to death.

For a while, time became a haze of moments in which Uhtred contemplated Alfred’s hair, its colour, the way it stuck to the side of his temples where the rain had dampened it, silky and smooth beneath the crown – and then he was pulled from his daydreams.

“—accused of the crime of sodomy!” the reeve announced, at once gaining everyone’s attention. A shudder went through the crowd, a potent mixture of alarm and fascination, and Bishop Erkenwald said something in Latin before he signed the cross, causing at least half of Winchester’s men and women to do the same.

Meanwhile, Uhtred was suddenly unnervingly aware of how he’d spend the last few minutes.

The accused was a young man, no older than twenty winters at most. He was pretty, there was no other word for it, with blue eyes and long, golden hair that fell across his shoulders in wet streaks, drenched by the pouring rain like the simple clothes he was wearing.

He has to be freezing.

“Which part of sodomy?” Alfred asked, unfazed by the excitement around him as he mustered the young man who shivered in the square.

The reeve, a grown man, blushed.

A rassragr.

“The woman’s part, lord.”

“And this was witnessed?” the king asked him, following procedure.

“Yes, lord.”

Alfred nodded.

“Who is the second man? Did he escape or is he known?” he asked, and the cold efficacy with which he handled the matter twisted Uhtred’s stomach into a painful knot, his stab wound throbbing painfully where his muscles tensed around it.

Gods, he’d hate me.

“He is the witness, lord.”

Alfred looked back to the reeve, visibly surprised.

“The witness is the second man?” he asked, and the reeve nodded, almost apologetically.

“Yes, lord. But he was…” he paused, unsure of what to say, “He was unaware, lord.”

What—

In the pause that followed, the expression on Alfred’s face was priceless, and it lifted some of Uhtred’s gloom. He could practically see Alfred’s mind spin in his head, trying to figure it out.

“How was he… unaware?“ the king asked eventually, still puzzled, until another voice rose across the square.

“I was tricked, lord.”

Extremely entertained by now, the crowd turned their heads, craning their necks to watch the man that had stepped from their midst. He wore the garb of a smith, and he was a little older than the accused, with brown hair and broad-shoulders, a pitiful expression on his face. He bowed, nervous under the king’s gaze.

“Go on,” Alfred ordered with a flourish of his hand.

“He looked like a woman, lord! It was dark… and I was... I, I had been to the tavern,” the man said awkwardly, to the whooping enjoyment of the crowd.

Never! Or could it—

Alfred frowned, unamused.

“You expect me to believe this?” he asked coldly, watching the man for signs of deception.

“It's the truth, lord.”        

Bishop Erkenwald leaned over Alfred’s shoulder. “He does look rather womanish, lord,” he said lowly, looking at the accused, and it was then that the young man spoke up for the first time.

“It is not the truth, lord!” he cried, furious, his pretty face marred by all-out hatred, “It wasn't dark, and he knew me! He’s known me a great many times, in fact!”

“No, I haven’t!” the smith protested, as the crowd around him laughed and clapped, delighted by the drama that was unfolding before them, “I have not! That’s a lie!”

“There will be order,” Alfred commanded, and he waited for the crowd to quiet down before he turned to the reeve. “Who has accused him?”

“The witness himself, lord,” the reeve confirmed Uhtred’s suspicion, “It is why I believe it.”

For the first time, Alfred’s attention turned to the accused.

“Now why would he accuse you if he’s... known you?” he asked him, a little unsteady in the end there, and in response, the young man scoffed, though his contempt wasn’t directed at the king.

“He panicked, lord, when his wife saw us,” he mocked, glaring over at the smith, who instantly blustered.

“That is not true—”

“You are married?” Alfred interrupted the smith, the blue of his eyes hardening.

“I am lord, but—”

“So you confess to committing adultery?”

Helplessly, the smith looked at the reeve, but he found no help. He nodded, then shook his head. He was squirming now, feet shuffling in the mud, sensing the turning of the tide.

“Yes, lord. But I didn’t know he was a man, I swear it!”

“You swear it before God?”

“I... I do, lord,” the smith replied, but his stammer didn’t go unnoticed, and when Alfred’s eyes narrowed, Bishop Erkenwald stepped forward, closer to Alfred’s ear.

“Sodomites cannot be trusted, lord,” he advised gravely, “They have strayed too far from God already.”

What nonsense. 

Uhtred rolled his eyes, but Alfred seemed to ponder it.

“Bring his wife,” he ordered after a pause, jerking his chin at the reeve, and the reeve in turn waved to another man who then hurried into an alley to the left of the square. When he came back, he held a woman by her arm, though she wasn’t struggling against his grip. She was of average stature, with mouse brown hair and a meek air about her, and she winced when he pushed her into the square, cringing from the noisy chaos around her.

Uhtred didn’t like it one bit, and he was relieved when Alfred held up his hand, stared down the unruly crowd with an irritated twist of his mouth.

“Order!” he called, a little sharper now, soldiers pushing people back to fulfill his wishes. “This woman does not stand accused of anything! We will treat her with respect!”

When the desired order had descended, he turned to the woman, still half-cowering before him. “You are the wife of the witness?” he asked her calmly, more so for the scribe behind him than for himself.

The woman nodded.

“And you swear to tell the truth, by all that’s holy?”

The woman nodded again.

“Speak up,” Alfred corrected her gently, all of his previous hardness gone.

“Yes, I will,” she promised. She spoke so quietly that it was hard to hear her, and for the first time, the square was actually silent, every last man straining to listen.

“Your husband says you saw him commit adultery with this man. Is that true?”

“It is, lord.”

“And he told you that he didn’t know it was a man?”

“Yes, lord.”

“Do you believe him?” Alfred asked, still gentle but with his brows drawn in concentration, “And remember now, God is watching…”

At that, the woman stilled, wide-eyed like a doe.

The man thinks, Uhtred heard Leofric.

While everyone waited for her to answer, she stayed silent, wringing her hands, until Alfred lost his patience.

“Well?” he demanded, and the woman closed her eyes as she whispered something towards the muddy ground. She looked terribly conflicted.

“Speak up,” Alfred repeated, and so the smith’s wife raised her voice a little.

“I do not, lord.”

“Why?”

She shook her head, too timid or unwilling to say more, but unfortunately for her, she didn’t have to.

“I’m his apprentice, lord,” the accused man claimed, watching her from his place in the square, “We’ve known each other for months.”

What?

A murmur went through the crowd, but Alfred’s eyes didn’t waver from the smith’s wife.

“This is true?” he inquired.

“It is, lord,” she confirmed, and the accused man, the apprentice, smiled grimly.

He wants revenge, Uhtred realized.

“But I never touched him,” the smith clamoured from the other side of the square, pale in the drizzle, “I didn’t recognize him in the tavern!”

His apprentice scoffed, lips curling.

“Oh, you’ve touched me many times,” he announced with all the bitterness of a scorned lover. “Night and day! Bright and sober day!”

That induced another bout of laughter from the crowd, and again Alfred held up a hand, unamused by the man’s theatrics.

“There is no need to brag about your sins,” he censured him harshly, but the young man squared his shoulders, unbowed before the king.

“I may be a sinner, lord, but at least I’m not a coward,” he declared, and that made it impossible for Uhtred not to root for him.

Tutting disapprovingly, Erkenwald leaned closer, and he whispered something into Alfred’s ear, but though Uhtred strained to listen, he didn’t understand a word.

“Quite right,” Alfred said, when the bishop straightened.

He turned back to the square, his crown dull under the colorless sky, cutting into the skin above his brows.

“As any previous encounters haven’t been witnessed—“

“I witnessed them!” the accused protested angrily, but the reeve shook him, and he was ignored.

“—and cannot be proven with certainty, I will concern myself only with the crime at hand,” he announced to the people of Winchester, before he addressed the smith directly. “I assume this madness occurred when you were drunk?”

“It did, lord. I could barely see.”

Oh, of course you couldn’t see!

Uhtred rolled his eyes, but for some reason, Alfred seemed to approve of the answer.

“You were... insane with ale?”

“Yes, lord.”

Nodding, Alfred looked to the apprentice, waited…

“I was not drunk, lord,” the man said readily, with his head up high, and Uhtred's heart sang with pride for him. “But I say neither was he.”

He’s brave. He's half mad.

“And you are not married?” Alfred asked, ignoring the rest.

“No, lord. I wouldn’t have done it if I was married,” the apprentice declared, with a withering glance to the smith, “I would never betray the person I love.”

Yes. Fuck him.

Beside him, Alfred sighed.

“Then this is my judgement,” he announced to the crowd, and turned to the smith. “For your adultery, you will be fined sixty shillings to pay to the church, and you’ll add ten shillings to your wife’s morgengifu — a payment that will be overseen by your tithing. Now as for your temporary madness… I’ll assume that you were unaware. But as that doesn’t change the sin of it, for the good of your soul, you’ll pay another sixty shillings to the church. Tell me if you understand your sentence.”

“Yes, lord,” the smith agreed quickly. The fines were harsh, but according to the verdict, he wasn’t guilty of sodomy, and thus his reputation would be saved.

“Now as to the accused,” Alfred said as he turned to the apprentice, and the square grew silent, tense with anticipation.

Don’t. Don’t—

“You’ve committed sodomy.”

Fuck.

At once, an excited ripple drove through the crowd, a disgusting, writhing wave of malicious pleasure, of mocking cries, spit and hateful glee. While Alfred waited for the noise to quiet down, his soldiers pushing people back, Uhtred felt a spell of dizzyness, his chest tightening with memories of sand and blood and laughing crowds.

When the chaos had abated, Alfred's voice rang across the square with impartial cruelty.

“You have committed it knowingly, in the full presence of your mind, yet throughout this trial, I have seen no remorse in you.” Again, he waited a moment, as if to give the accused a chance to object, but the man stayed silent, and after a short battle of wills, of stares, Alfred continued, with his mouth tight and his brows drawn together, irrevocably offended.

Fuck.

“I see no reason to lessen your sentence,” he spat, and the crowd hollered and jeered, pushed against the soldiers' backs, hurling insults into the square. The sight was so similar to Dunwhich that Uhtred’s pulse began to race, his heartbeat throbbing in his neck with sudden fear. Apprehensive, he looked to the king, waited for his sentence, distinctly affected, as if it was him who would be judged.

Alfred straightened and raised his chin, bracing himself.

“You’ll be fined two hundred shillings, to be paid to the Church in the span of two years,” he declared.

Two hundred! But—

“During said time, to absolve you of your sins, the law dictates that you’ll fast. No man is to give you anything but bread and water or to sell you any other food. If you break your fast, you’ll be fined another five shillings each time, as will the man who has enabled you.”

What the—

“If you leave Winchester before two years have passed, you’ll be declared an outlaw.”

What the fuck!

“Tell me if you understand your sentence.”

Wild green eyes stared at the king, but the apprentice didn’t answer, too incensed to speak. Again the reeve pushed him, and that did the trick.

“Yes,” he hissed, showing teeth as his lips pulled back.

"Then the matter is resolved."

The king nodded to the reeve, affirming that all legalities had been fulfilled and that the next case could be heard, but then his eyes returned to the apprentice one last time. Not as a judge, but as a man.

"May God have mercy on your soul," he said.

“And on yours, lord," the man replied, bowing to hide his hate-filled eyes. 

Alfred glared at him, but he let it slide.

An hour later, when the moot was finally over, Uhtred was still stewing in the injustice of Alfred’s verdict. It sat in his gut like a stone, crushed his insides, and as soon as they’d turned from the palace steps, were walking through the gate and into the courtyard, a trail of men behind them, Uhtred couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“You should rethink your verdict on the rassragr,” he said, “The smith’s apprentice.”

Not faltering in his steps, Alfred turned his head to him with mild interest. “Why? Do you know something?”

Uhtred frowned.

“No, but he’s done nothing that concern’s anyone but him.”

The courtyard was full of people, but they made way for them as Alfred’s expression soured, sensing that Uhtred was going to throw one of his pagan fits.

“It concerns the smith,” he said drily, and Uhtred groaned.

“But the smith wasn’t tricked,” he protested. “You know that!”

“I cannot know that. Not for certain.”

They had crossed the courtyard, were entering the palace now, and as they talked, the men behind them cast each other meaningful glances, but Uhtred didn’t see that, and he was too engaged to hear them whisper.

Alfred was not.

“But you do know it,” Uhtred tried again, desperate for justice, “Everybody does.”

“It doesn’t matter what I know, Uhtred. Not to the second man’s verdict. His crime concerns God. It is a sin.”

Uhtred waved his hands, feeling vindicated.

“So then again, it concerns only his own soul,” he argued as the murmurs behind him swelled.

Suddenly, in the narrow corridor, Alfred came to an abrupt halt, so abrupt that when Uhtred stopped with him, Bishop Erkenwald almost ran into them both. Uhtred watched him hurry to take a step back, averting his eyes.

Confused about what was happening, he looked back at Alfred, who was searching his face with a hard, inquisitive glare. For what, Uhtred didn’t know.

“Do you know the man?”

Uhtred shrugged.

“No, I don’t.”

“Then why are you so invested?” Alfred snapped.

Because I’m—

“Because it’s not right. Why punish him so harshly when he’s done nothing that concerns anyone but him?”

Alfred shook his head, his hair trembling with the movement.

“The church dictates it so,” he replied, as if that was a good answer, “I see no reason to stray from its guidance.”

“But why? Surely, there are worse crimes than what he did!”

“Yes, Uhtred. And there are worse punishments than two years of fasting!”

“What, two years on only bread and water? I don’t think I’d survive that! I’d become sick!”

“Then it is rather fortunate that you aren’t a sodomite,“ Alfred countered bitingly, and behind him, Uhtred heard Eadmund stifle a malicious laugh. Embarrassed, he flushed red.

But—

“Lord, there must be another option,“ he pleaded.

“The matter is settled, Uhtred, there is nothing to discuss,” Alfred insisted, his face all frozen, cold and wrong, but Uhtred wasn’t ready to give up, couldn’t accept that Alfred would think like this.

“But lord, you can’t mean to—” he started and stopped, for the king had turned away, was already done with him, and now frustration surged, hot and helpless as Uhtred grew desperate, “Listen to me- Alfred, listen to-“

Quick as a blade, Alfred turned back around.

“No, it is YOU who will LISTEN!” he shouted, eyes flashing fire, his words like a slap to the face, “It is lord king to you! As it is to everybody else!”

In the heavy silence that followed, everyone around them stilled. Uhtred fought the urge to step away from the king’s unfeeling rage, his heart aching from the blow, pain echoing through his chest.

But Alfred was pitiless.

“Am I understood?” he pressed, his eyes narrowed into dark, burning coals, and speaking took Uhtred a few seconds longer than it should have. He lowered his prickling eyes to the floor, cleared his throat, too shocked to answer right away.

“Yes, lord king,” he said eventually, but it came out as barely more than a choked whisper.

Alfred nodded grimly, lips thin with anger.                                                                                            

“As to your objections concerning my judgement, my decision is final,” he said, waving his hand as if to get rid of a tiresome insect, “I hear Steapa expects you at noon, until then you are dismissed.”

“But the war council, I was —“

“You are dismissed!” Alfred thundered, and after he had thus torn the broken fragments of Uhtred’s heart from his chest, he turned and strode down the hallway with echoing steps, Erkenwald and his gaggle of priests right behind him. The other men were a pack of wolves, the lot of them, Eadmund and Wulfric brushing past Uhtred with gloating smiles, bared teeth, gleeful to see him so firmly put in his place.

Uhtred schooled his features into a carefully neutral mask, unwilling to show his humiliation, but on the inside he was shivering, felt icier than he’d felt on the steps of Winchester’s square. Around him, the cold palace walls were pressing in, feeding from the last bit of his warmth, and it was then, as he watched the king vanish behind the next corner, his fellow Christians hurrying after him, that Uhtred finally understood how it was only a matter of time until Alfred tired of him.

Æthelwold had promised that Alfred would get rid of him, and now Uhtred realized that he was right.

At the moment, Alfred’s gratitude kept Uhtred in his favour, but that favour was crumbling already. The king was irritated by him, flinched from him even, and eventually, he would move on to someone with Saxon upbringing and Christian beliefs, someone who wouldn’t question his laws. Alfred was devout, after all, pious, and he wanted the same at his side.

“Uhtred.”

Startled from his dark premonitions, Uhtred lifted his head to see who’d said his name.

A few tiles away from him, Lady Ælswith had appeared out of nowhere, like a sceadugenga, a shadowed creature that fed on misery, and now she stepped closer, her long, black braid draped across her ice-clad shoulder, tight-lipped as ever.

“My lady.”

“I had hoped for a chance to speak to you,” she said, hands clasped in a cheap imitation of her husband’s trademark gesture. “I believe I haven’t thanked you yet for what you did.”

‘What you did’.

I saved his life, is what I did. I maimed myself.

Their eyes met as Uhtred waited, but Ælswith didn’t elaborate, and her eyebrows rose just a bit, along with her chin, so that her face radiated arrogance – almost a challenge. It was true that she hadn’t thanked him yet, and it seemed she wouldn’t do so now.

Uhtred shrugged.

“I only did my duty,” he replied, knowing that it would irk her to see him display humility. It was a Christian virtue, after all.

As he’d suspected, Ælswith’s beady eyes narrowed. She had a mean face, that woman.

“And you continue to do your duty every day,” she observed, her mouth twisting into a false smile, “Every night, too. Your children must miss you terribly.”

Uhtred’s eyes strayed just a little to the ceiling, he couldn’t help it.

Of course.

The first seeds of irritation were sprouting in his mind, Ælswith’s insinuations tickling them, urging them to grow.

“I see them when I get back, Lady. During the day.”

“Stiorra and young Uhtred… is that right?”

“It is.”

Ælswith smiled.

“And your youngest son? What is his name?”

Go fuck yourself.

Sprouts of irritation turned to pain and hatred, bloomed into flashes of tears and dark earth, a burning pyre, the screams of a son he couldn’t quite hate and couldn’t quite love.

“I haven’t named him yet,” Uhtred grit out between gnashing teeth, although he was sure she knew it already.

Ælswith’s eyes grew comically, theatrically wide.

“Oh, really? But isn’t he almost a year old now?” She tutted. “Well, I guess you’ve spend so little time with him—”

“My children are well,” he interrupted her, gruff now, “Hild cares for them, and they love her.”

“I am sure they do,” Ælswith patronized him cheerfully, ignoring his temper, “but children need to be with their parents – just as husbands need to be with their wives. It is only natural…” She looked at him, her mouth growing wider, tighter, “No matter how useful a temporary replacement may be.”

This was laughable, except that it made him want to rip her apart. His nights were hellish, as were Alfred’s, and he knew that it showed in their faces, yet Lady Ælswith didn’t inquire about her husband’s rest, nor about his state of mind... no, as always, she was selfish, feared only for her place at Alfred’s ear.

She wants to fight? Let's go.

“There’s nothing temporary about it,” he assured her, knowing she’d understand his meaning, “Hild will be with them for the rest of her life.”

Ælswith hummed, but her eyes gleamed with annoyance, and Uhtred wondered how a face so round could be so pinched.

“Well, there is no better education than that of an abbess, I am sure...” she praised snidely, “Are they Christian, your children?”

“No.”

Ælswith nodded, as if that answered all of her questions.

“My husband is slowly coming back to himself,” she promised, in a tone that meant to end their conversation, “In the future, I’m sure he will not rely upon you so heavily, and you will be able to spend more time with your children again… teach them about your own Gods – name them, maybe.”

Uhtred didn’t dare to breathe, to move. He wanted to reach out and strangle her.

“Lady,” he ground out.

The parting smile Ælswith gave him before she turned to trace Alfred’s steps down the corridor was devoid of any warmth.

“God is with those who trust in him, Uhtred,” she said as she walked away, “Everything will be as it should.”

As Uhtred watched her go, hatred coursed through him, black in his blood, thick vines of despair rooting him to the spot where Alfred had left him. He hated the ground he stood on, hated every last tile, the gossiping walls, the ever-flowing stream of priests that flooded by.

This life, this existence, it was unbearable.

It made him miserable.

But he was trapped here, chained to the palace like a dog to the house of its master. He couldn’t leave this place – its Christian hypocrisy, backstabbing lords and unjust laws – without also leaving Alfred.

And he couldn’t leave Alfred.

Alfred wasn’t safe here, for one, not among people like Eadmund and Wulfric, but beyond that… Uhtred simply couldn’t live without him anymore.

It felt humiliating, that realization.

How has it come to this?

How has he claimed me like this?

In a wave of shame, Uhtred’s father came to his mind, and suddenly, he wondered what he’d think of him. Uhtred was Lord of Wiltonshire, yes, was more prosperous than the Lord of Bebbanburg had ever been, but somehow he doubted that his father would be glad of it. They were Northumbrians, after all, were supposed to be hard, proud, independent… and instead Uhtred had chained himself to a king because he—

Because you’re a sodomite.

He felt sick.

He had never thought of himself as that sort of man, had always been with women, and even when his view of Alfred had… changed, it hadn’t really been a concern to him, because at the end of the day, as Ragnar had put it, a hump was a hump, and the Gods loved humping... But now... now Uhtred had seen the jeering crowd in Winchester's square, Alfred's disgust and Erkenwald's signage of the cross, the symbol of a God Uhtred's father had prayed to, deferred to, and who didn't love humping as the Old Gods did. 

A God who apparently hated humping.

And feasts, and fighting, and everything that was good in life - and instead of keeping his distance, of staying in the protective realm of Odin and Tyr and Freya, Uhtred had chained himself to a man who had chosen to dedicate his whole life to this God, and only this God… unquestioningly.

He’d have me fast for the rest of my life if he knew, he thought. He’d hate me.

For years, Alfred had beaten him for his loyalty, again and again, but instead of biting the boot that stepped on him, Uhtred now feared that it would kick him out…

What a fool I am.

It wasn’t an irrational fear, that much had become clear today.

Even Alfred’s wife thought that he would get rid of him soon enough, that he’d come back to himself… But then maybe he didn’t need to. Maybe he’d never left.

What a fool.

As he stood in the centre of England’s Christian power, surrounded by people who’d condemn him if they knew him, that were already condemning him for who he was, a dark suspicion formed in Uhtred’s mind, like shards of broken glass that fit perfectly together.

Why would Alfred urge him to tie himself closer to the crown? Why would he mention Bebbanburg so soon after their return, why inquire about where Uhtred would be once it was conquered? And why was he pushing Uhtred to restore his ability to fight?

Alfred knew Uhtred’s value, yes. He even believed in his loyalty. But Ælswith was right, he didn’t care for him the way he cared for his family, didn’t care for him the way he cared for Steapa, for Christians…

You fool.

No, Alfred was smart.

You should have known.

If Æthelwold knew it, if his wife knew it, then he knew it, too.

You should have listened to Finan.

There was no doubt in Uhtred’s mind that Alfred wanted him in his service, that he was grateful for what he had done and wanted to reward him for it, generously even. But he also wanted him far away from the whispers that could cost him his crown… because, eventually, Uhtred would poison his kingship.

And so, Alfred was impatiently waiting for Uhtred to recover.

Here, while he waited for Uhtred’s damaged hands to mend, the king kept him close. That way, it was easier to manage him; to stop him from causing trouble. Leashed like this, King Alfred was presenting his tamed Dane, dressed in Saxon cloth to make him as palatable as possible.

But the moment Uhtred could hold a sword, Alfred, in the name of God, would send him to conquer Bebbanburg. He would use him as an obedient warlord, would take him from his leash and task him with strengthening Wessex’s influence in the North.

In the far, far North.

Curling his ruined hands into weak fists, Uhtred turned back towards the palace steps. He had given everything to Alfred, had given his life, his pride… and still he was nothing more than a hound to him.

A Danish mutt that he could kick and praise as he liked.

“You are late… again,” Steapa accused when Uhtred reached him. “Very late this time.”

Uhtred didn’t look at him, marched straight through the palace doors, past guards who didn't search him for weapons because his advice wasn't valued. Desperate for warmth, he cupped his numb hands before his mouth and blew into them, trying to stop them from aching so terribly. It wasn’t really that cold outside anymore, the snow had melted and the night was mild, smelt of a coming storm, but Uhtred hadn’t wanted to wear Alfred’s jacket, wore one of his own thinner tunics, and so he was freezing nonetheless.

“Alfred said you would meet me to train," Steapa said. "But you didn’t.”

“Alfred doesn’t own me."

I’m not his dog.

Uhtred stared at tiles as he kept walking. Steapa didn’t reply, just walked alongside him, so and Uhtred soon felt a sliver of remorse at the thought of him, tired and cold, waiting in the courtyard.

Folding his arms across his chest, he sighed, forcing himself not to let his anger out on the wrong people.

“Sorry, I thought...“ He sighed, trying to apologize, “Because we said if I’m not there, that you’d… I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

Steapa shrugged, breaking his silence.

“Oh, I didn’t wait,” he said light-heartedly, “I’m just wondering what the fuck is going on.”

“Nothing is going on,” Uhtred lied. He tried to enter the corridor that lead to the chapel, but Steapa grasped the back of his tunic, so that Uhtred stopped and turned to him, and then he pointed straight ahead.

“You are very late,” he emphasized. “He’s gone to his rooms already.”

Fucking great.

Wordlessly, Uhtred started to march down the corridor.

“Didn’t you promise to pray with him this time, or something?” Steapa asked, for once having to hurry to keep up with him.

“I’m not a fucking Christian,” Uhtred replied moodily. “I’m not going to fucking pray with him.”

Steapa watched him as they walked, his scars scrunching into a frown.

“Are you sulking, then? Because you had your ass handed to you?”

Uhtred stopped in the middle of his next step.

“You heard about it?” he asked, indignation clawing sharp and red, “Has he said something?”

“He hasn’t said anything, no,” Steapa answered lightly, “But everyone knows everything around here.”

Uhtred groaned, then scowled as he waited for a monk to pass them. They were everywhere, these monks… like fat, brown ants.

“Gods, I hate this place,” he grumbled, and Steapa nodded grimly.

“Yeah, it’s full of cunts,” he agreed, eyebrows still drawn together, like he was contemplating it, and despite his horrible mood, Uhtred huffed a bitter laugh.

Steapa motioned down the corridor, signalling him to start moving again. If Uhtred was spoiling for a fight, Steapa didn’t want any part in it, and it was best not to keep Alfred waiting any longer.

He’s going to throw a fit, isn’t he?

For a while, they walked in silence, but then Uhtred had a disturbing realization.

“You’ve been here for decades,” he stated, as they made their way through the long corridor that lead to Alfred’s chambers, his tone suggesting that it was a horrible fate, “How have you not gone insane?”

Steapa shrugged.

“You need to know your place ,” he advised. “Keep your opinions to yourself.”

It wasn’t what Uhtred wanted to hear, but he supposed that wasn’t Steapa’s fault.

Just before they reached the corner that opened to soldier-lined walls, to that door, Steapa unexpectedly pulled him to a stop again. He watched Uhtred silently before he spoke, looked a little conflicted about whether he should get involved. Finally, he sighed.

“He’s a good king, Alfred…” he said, eyes earnest, asking Uhtred to listen, “A good man, too. But he’s got his limits and you are pushing them...”

“He’s the one pushing me! He—“

“He’s the king. He can do whatever he likes,” Steapa interrupted his protests, impatient, with a look in his eyes that reminded Uhtred of Beocca, “Keep your head down, alright? You have it good.”

Good?!

“And I like to have you around,” Steapa said, with a clap on Uhtred’s shoulder. “Less cunts that way.”

Uhtred wanted to argue, but Steapa had already turned around, was making his way down the corridor, and he supposed it wasn’t him he had to fight on this, so he let it be.

He felt a little queasy when he knocked on Alfred’s door, his stomach lurching, and he held his breath until he heard Alfred’s voice from the other side.

“Come in.”

Bracing himself for a fight, Uhtred pushed against the door and entered.

As always at this hour, the room beyond was only dimly lit, but Uhtred had no trouble finding the king. Illuminated by a candelabra next to him, he sat at the table that had formerly been used to make salves for Uhtred’s wounds, apparently deep in concentration, his lips moving soundlessly as his quill danced over the parchment in front of him.

You can’t be serious.

“Are you still working, lord?” Uhtred thought out loud, his irritation spiking sharp and grim, with a tinge of unwelcome worry.

He expected Alfred to start raging right away, to snap at him like he had at breakfast, but when the king looked up at him, he didn’t seem angry.

“I was just about to finish,” he answered calmly, almost penitently, and the unexpected reaction made Uhtred nervous.

What—

All evening, all day really, he’d prepared himself for a fight, and now, he wasn’t sure of what to do.

Conscious of every step he took away from the door, he slowly stepped towards the table, but he didn’t dare to come too close, hovered just on the border of Alfred’s circle of light.

The room, so veiled in darkness, with Alfred brightly illuminated in its middle… it felt like a trap.

Uhtred tensed as he watched the king write, scanned the room for menacing figures that stalked the shadows. Every time he turned his head, Uhtred thought he spotted something there, the outline of a shoulder, the glimmer of an eye, and he grew more and more restless, goosebumps spreading like a gust of air along his skin.

What? Are you afraid of the dark now?

Unfortunately, Alfred didn’t let himself be rushed. He scrawled two more rows of symbols, speech birthed from feathers, spoken by the skin of a goat, like magic, and Uhtred’s fear mixed with impotent anger, grew the longer he waited.

Get it togeth—

“You didn’t meet me in the chapel.” Alfred put the quill aside, turned his head, all of his attention on Uhtred, all at once.

“I missed the bells.”

Without a word, the king’s eyes returned to his spell work. He folded his hands and watched the ink dry, slowly starving Uhtred out, drowning him in his lies, and after a while, Uhtred’s throat felt dry and sore, hurt when he swallowed. Suddenly, he wondered whether Alfred knew that he hadn’t met Steapa in the courtyard.

Everyone knows everything around here.

The silence between them stretched and stretched, not so much uncomfortable as it was filled with shame and sadness, with disappointed hopes, and Uhtred remembered their last minutes in the cell at Dunwhich; how they’d sat next to each other in the dirty straw, how he’d thought that there would never be an unpleasant silence between them ever again, because they were bonded forever...

How naïve he’d been.

“I prayed for your soul, tonight.”

Alfred was still looking at the parchment before him. He had spoken without preamble or reason, send his words into the darkness, out of nowhere, as if they formed anything sensible.

“You prayed for my soul?” Uhtred repeated dumbly, thinking he’d misheard.

“I did, yes.” Alfred nodded. Satisfied with the work before him, he took up the ink-covered parchment, carefully, as if he was balancing glass, and then he folded it, until it looked like a neat square.

“I worry about it,” he said, because he hadn’t gotten an answer, and it took Uhtred a moment to realize that he didn’t mean the letter, so engrossed had he been in the movements of Alfred’s hands.

What am I supposed to say to that?

Alfred pressed the parchment against the table, then took up a candle with his other hand and let hot wax dribble from its core. When enough of it had collected on the square to seal its overlapping edges, he put the candle aside. Some time passed as they watched the wax thicken, and then Alfred pressed his ring into it, marking his letter with the royal insignia.

And after all that, Uhtred still didn’t know what to say.

Nor, it seemed, did Alfred.

He pushed his chair back, legs scraping on tiles, and when he stood, it was Uhtred who flinched backwards, unwilling to risk another brushing of arms, another punch to his gut. Alfred’s eyes shot to his when he moved, narrowing, but he didn’t say anything.

Outside, the wind was picking up, the lone branch of an ash tree beating against the window next to the bed, and Alfred’s eyes followed the noise.

It was a nasty, threatening sound.

Uhtred remembered it from the nights he’d spend in this room, the dreams in which Njal’s fist had banged against the door, rattled its iron frames, trying to break in... he remembered how he’d woken up, screaming for a weapon, only to find that it was the night itself invading.

Alfred turned back to him, moved to the rhythm of the sky, and he clasped his hands behind his back, his face half-hidden in the shadows. At the edge of their candlelight clearing, their arena, the straight line of his nose looked sharp as a knife.

“I must admit,” he began quietly, “that I had hoped you would become a little more… involved in Christian practice.”

There it was.

The fight.

The trap.

“You want me to convert,” Uhtred blurted, but Alfred clucked his tongue in disapproval.

“It is hardly a matter of conversion, Uhtred. You are baptised,” he said, refusing to accept Uhtred’s pagan nature, “Twice, I’ve been told.”

As a boy, Uhtred thought, Before I knew the nightmare you call God.

He squared his shoulders, did his best to look like the undaunted man he wished to be, but when his neck began to prickle, he stepped forward just in case, further into the light. There, he shook his head, denying Alfred’s wish.

“I believe in the Old Gods,” he said.

“Only in the Old Gods?” Alfred asked, quick as ever, and Uhtred stumbled, hesitated with the tiniest hitch in his breath, but it was enough.

Alfred smelled blood.

“Bishop Erkenwald has offered to teach you, Uhtred,” he charged forward, “About God. To answer any questions you might have.”

Again, Uhtred shook his head, shielded himself from Alfred’s attack.

“That’s kind of him.” He smiled, bare of any gratitude. “But I don’t have any questions.”

Frustrated with the strength of Uhtred’s resistance, Alfred folded his arms across his chest, false tranquillity falling away.

“You had questions this morning,” he accused, with a glare so intense that it rushed like the waves of the ocean.

“I had objections,” Uhtred corrected him, a little breathless from the sight, and it seemed that he was persevering, or at least that they’d reached a standoff, because Alfred let up.

His nostrils flared, but he strode closer to the table, began to fumble at the clasps of his cassock, the usual sign that he was preparing for bed, that their conversation was at an end.

“Your tunic is on the bed,” he snapped, with a gesture that again reminded Uhtred of the way one got rid of a fly, “It has been washed and dried, you can take it with you. Next time you decide to skip the beginning of your duties, there will be consequences.”

Uhtred was dizzy with the pace of Alfred’s tongue, but before he could answer, could argue, something flew at his head, and he rocked back, all instinct, moved by the memory of muscle. When he straightened, he realized that Alfred had ripped his cassock from his shoulders and flung it onto the table. But he was close, very close, and so the red wool had nearly slapped Uhtred in the face.

That was the goal, of course.

A casual, calculated display of contempt.

He’s the king, Uhtred heard Steapa say, He can do what he likes.

His pulse throbbed in his neck.

Fuck that.

“I don’t need the tunic,” he said, and Alfred’s head whipped around.

“Excuse me?” His voice was thin ice, cold and treacherous. 

Fuck you.

I’m not your puppy.

“I don’t need it," Uhtred repeated, "I have enough tunics to wear. You can give it to someone else.”

“Someone else,” Alfred echoed, his narrowed eyes like coals again, and the way he said it, as not quite a question, an almost-confirmation, was the most menacing thing Uhtred had ever heard.

Feeling sick, he forced himself to shrug, watched as Alfred's face turned unrecognizable.

“Get out.”

The king was seething, dark furrows in his pallid face, and Uhtred dreaded what would come next, but his fury, his worry, his love – they left him with no choice.

“I would like to stay,” he forced himself to say before he lost his nerves, heart hammering a rhythm of dread, and in response, Alfred laughed. He turned away, back towards the table.

“Don’t be ridiculous," he scoffed, and Uhtred's anger surged, dark and gnashing.

“Right,” he said, nodded bitterly behind Alfred's back, his hands on his hips, “I guess I’ll hear you scream then.”

Immediately, Alfred spun around, his finger pointed at Uhtred’s chest, like a weapon.

“Tread carefully, Uhtred,” he warned, tired of being disrespected. “You have served me well in the past. Well enough that it has made me lenient with your behaviour, but my patience has limits!”

Uhtred shrugged, unimpressed, beyond the point of no return. “As does mine, lord.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means I’m tired of watching you torture yourself! I’m tired of asking the same question every night! Every night!” Uhtred thundered, injustice crashing through his veins. “It means I am tired of having to wonder whether you’re going to thank me or punish me for it! For the same fucking thing!”

Instead of screaming back at him for his impropriety, Alfred’s face changed, emptied. He tugged at his perfectly straight sleeves, smoothing invisible creases, and then he clasped his hands, armour back in place, like a man without a heart.

It was frightening, how fast he could change.

“I’m not punishing you,” he said, voice carefully blank. “I’m… declining.”

“I see.”

There was no respect left in Uhtred’s tone, and the silence that followed was heavy with unaired blame. After a while, when Alfred didn’t say another thing, Uhtred crossed his arms over his chest, bitterness bubbling to the surface against his will, his mind a cauldron of hot tar.

“So what was it today? Was it because I reminded you that I’m a heathen? Did a fucking relic burst into flames when you said my name?” he asked sarcastically. “Or did you grow tired of this nightly game?”

He had expected Alfred to rage right back, had wanted him to, but the king’s jaw clenched with obvious, terrible shame, and Uhtred almost took it all back.

Faced with Alfred’s pain, instinct nudged at him, urged him to step forward, to put their shattered pieces back together… but he couldn’t move. His hands were full of his own pride, his feet frozen to the spot with rightful indignation.

“Game?” Alfred repeated quietly, emotionlessly. “You think this is a game, is that it? That I’m doing this for the sport of it?”

“I have no fucking idea what you’re doing this for!” Uhtred responded angrily, and Alfred glared at him then, eyes glistening with danger. They reminded Uhtred of the wyrms that had slithered through the mud of Somerset; a noiseless threat, the glint of jewelled scales his only warning.

Above them, as if the night wasn’t miserable enough, rain began to pelter the leaded window.

Its thick drops spattered against the unyielding glass, their wet remains distorting the moonlight that filtered in, throwing it from blue water to die in yellow flames, and its pale glow turned green, tainted the floor with poisonous fog.

“How would I know anything about you,” Uhtred muttered, barely audible over the relentless patter, “It’s not like you let me.”

His words picked at the scab on his heart, and it hurt, ripped at him terribly, so he turned away before Alfred could answer him, suddenly eager to put distance between them as he fled towards the door.

Coward, his mind mocked him.

“Wait.”

Run, you coward.

“Uhtred, wait.”

He didn’t, but when he reached for the handle, Alfred’s tone changed.

“Ealdorman Uhtred, I order you to stop.”

Growling with frustration, Uhtred spun around to face him.

“Why? What do you want?” he asked, no doubt looking as if he was ready to fight, anger and hurt making him reckless, and Alfred raised his chin in response, blue eyes flashing.

God, he—

He was beautiful.

A force of nature, like jagged rocks in a sea storm, and Uhtred would shatter and drown if he tried to navigate his moods.

“Come here,” Alfred commanded, “And lower your voice when you talk to me.”

Uhtred obeyed. Of course he did.

As always, his resistance couldn’t hold, was scattered by Alfred’s authority like the rain on the window pane above them, and when he came to a stop in front of his king, he waited there, wordlessly, for his inevitable lashing.

“You want to know why I decline your offer?” Alfred asked, his mouth narrow and tight with forced control. Feeling small, Uhtred shrugged, too hurt to admit any interest at all, but Alfred nodded nonetheless.

“It is because I am waiting for the return of my sanity. Because I am forcing myself to endure, so that I do not forever tremble in the dark like a scared child.”

And again, Alfred's sorcery worked.

It was as if the world reordered itself in a shuffling of stones and flames, poisonous mist lifting, and for the span of a breath, Uhtred’s anger vanished into the deep, his indignation plunging right after it.

“Fear is a luxury I cannot afford,” Alfred explained sternly, using his chance to speak, “I am the king. I cannot show weakness.”

Of course it had to be now, Uhtred thought, of all times, that he chose to be blunt. That he made himself vulnerable. Only Alfred could melt vulnerability into a weapon, fashion it into a sword to wield against Uhtred’s self-righteous anger.

But then… that wasn’t entirely fair, was it? Because Uhtred knew that Alfred was making an effort by explaining himself, knew that his honesty was exceptional... In the most literal sense of the word.

And still it was too late.

It didn’t change anything. The shame, the disappointment, the anger… it had all simmered in his guts for days, had grown thick and festered, and he couldn’t swallow it any longer.

Weakness, his mind whispered, he can’t show weakness.

“Is that why you can’t have a heathen at your side?” he asked, and the king blinked, startled by this seemingly unrelated question. He had clearly expected a different reaction to his candid confession, and for a moment, he simply looked confused, but then irritation began to brew in his eyes, grey shadows in the blue.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, and at once, Uhtred squared his shoulders, unsure of what he could reveal, how much of his own weakness he was ready to show.

“I know you’re going to get rid of me,” he said, bitter fear spilling out. “Everyone says so.”

Now, it was Alfred’s turn to straighten.

“Everyone?” he asked roughly. “Pray tell, who is everyone?”

“Your Ealdormen, your clergy, Finan, Æthelwold.” At his nephew’s name, Uhtred saw Alfred’s eyes stray towards the ceiling, and so he hurried to continue. “Steapa says it! Even your wife does!”

“And tell me, what gives them such sway over me, that I’d care so mightily for their opinion on the matter?” Alfred asked, quick as the thrust of a spear.

“Everything!” Uhtred retorted, just as quickly. “Common sense! The king and the heathen at his side? You think that’s going to work? Here? Maybe when I was far away all the time, when you were still distrustful of me, but now? It will be noticed, it will cause disorder!”

As he spoke, something flickered across Alfred’s face, a shadow that confirmed Uhtred’s suspicions, proved that what he was saying was true. Yet he didn’t get the reaction he’d expected.

“And I am cowed by that, is that what you think?” Alfred snapped, irate somehow, as if he was the wounded party in this. “That’s disappointing, Uhtred, I thought you knew me better than that.”

Are you fucking k—

“You thought I knew you?” Uhtred echoed disbelievingly. “And how exactly am I supposed to know you? What have you ever shared with me?”

Alfred’s jaw tightened, and though he didn’t utter a word, Uhtred saw the cross burn in his eyes, that bloody, terrible cross. It made him want to kiss him, a surge of desire that was too strong to withstand. Yet, before he could move, Alfred’s lips twisted in contempt.

“Forgive me if I do not declare my every thought to the world,” he bit, and his voice was ice, had never sounded colder. “The naivety with which you share your own became quite obvious today, as did the ease with which you form attachments – perhaps that simplicity has made you blind to the reality of our positions.”

And just like that, Uhtred didn’t want to kiss him anymore. He wanted to hit him.

 “Great, yeah,” Uhtred spat mirthlessly. “Definitely not punishing me at all.” He turned away, started pacing left to right, fuming and restless.

“I am stating the truth, Uhtred,” Alfred proclaimed mercilessly from behind his back, and again, Uhtred wanted to hit him.

“And what — in truth, lord — are our positions?” he asked as he whirled around.

“I am the King of Wessex, and you are my most powerful Ealdorman.”

Uhtred laughed.

“Your richest Ealdorman, maybe. Not quite so powerful.”

The king followed his movements with heavy-lidded eyes. When he spoke, his voice was dry.

“You have immense power,” he said.

Then why am I your lapdog? Why do you treat me like shit?

“Then why do I not feel it?”

“I do not know!” Alfred complained, as if Uhtred was being intentionally difficult. He tilted his head, jutting out his chin. “Your rise to power has been extraordinary. I have granted you incomparable privileges.”

Privileges.

How Uhtred hated that word. As if he hadn’t earned his rewards, as if he hadn’t paid every last one of them in blood.

“What is so extraordinary about a man building his fame and fortune?” he asked petulantly, and there they were; those flaring nostrils. Alfred unclasped his hands, took a step closer.

“What is so extraordinary?” he repeated, so low it sounded almost threatening. “Uhtred, you were born in Northumbria, I will remind you, not Wessex. You came to me without so much as a pound to your name! And yet you are an Ældorman here, a man that is half Dane, and Lord of Wiltonshire, no less, the most prosperous—“

“Oh, so me being half Dane is important now, is it?” Uhtred interrupted, putting his hand to his heart in mock surprise. “And here I thought you didn’t care what people thought of me.”

Across from him, Alfred looked as if he was losing his mind.

“I do not!” he snapped, his jaw sharp and tight, “You’ve spoken about your upbringing quite freely in the past, if you’ll recall, so excuse me for assuming you were proud of it!”

“I am proud of it! I just don’t like it when you use it to diminish me!”

Alfred shook his head, irate and helpless, watched as Uhtred kept pacing through the room.

“I admit that it has caused differences between us in the past—“

“Ha! Differences!”

“— but I have never thought that it reduced your worth,” Alfred pressed on, “If anything, your dual nature makes you more useful to me. It is why you are my most valued advisor!”

In the throes of his anger, right in the middle of his pacing, Uhtred froze, became a statue on the checkered palace floor, a chess piece, and suddenly, he was unnervingly calm.

“Your most valued advisor?” he asked, dangerously still. “Is that what I am to you? Because I’m half Dane?”

“Among other reasons, yes.”

Uhtred nodded, but instead of seeming appeased, he scoffed bitterly, looked deeply wounded, and Alfred covered his eyes with his hands, despairing in the face of his irrational behaviour.

“How could you possibly take offence at that?” he groaned, but Uhtred ignored him, turned away again.

He stood still, mangled hands on his hips, and he stared blankly ahead, against the ironbound door, momentarily numbed by his anger. At his silence, Alfred uncovered his eyes with a sharp inhale, frustrated beyond belief.

“Speak, Uhtred!” he demanded, all royal, all imperious, and Uhtred’s mind grew even more distant. When he spoke, not daring nor stupid enough to defy a direct command, he sounded eerily quiet, and he didn’t answer Alfred’s question.

"Do you know what I thought, those first few days?” he asked, gaze roaming over the rich tapestries that hung from the walls. “When I woke up? When of all rooms, I woke in this one?"

Surprised by the sudden change of topic, it took Alfred a moment to decipher Uhtred’s words, and in his confusion, his face was almost empty, but then a dark shadow veiled his eyes, and he grew guarded.

“What did you think?” he asked, suddenly hesitant, almost drowned out by the tangled rush of rain and wind.

“That we shared more than this,” Uhtred said.

Behind him, staring at his back, Alfred became even more guarded. He waved his hand, an unseen, habitual gesture of royal impatience.

“More than what?” he asked, as if it was a riddle, as if it was impossible to solve, and Uhtred turned around, his sadness rotting in the blink of an eye, wounded heart screaming for a fight.

“This hierarchy! All these rules, these stupid titles,” he retorted, familiar anger burning in his blood, “This stupid courtliness.”

In response to his outburst, the king merely rolled his eyes, not quite believing Uhtred’s childishness.

“We are at court. Courtliness somewhat comes with the territory.”

Fucking bastard!

“And what about the condescension, does that come with it, too?”

“No, Uhtred, you provoke the condescen—“

“But I don’t want to!” Uhtred shouted, beyond caring. He’d been frustrated for weeks, had felt helpless, and now he was exploding, pain turning into pure volume. “I don’t know what you want from me!”

“Lower your voice!” Alfred hissed, eyes darting to the door, to the no doubt nervous guards beyond.

“Why? Because you’re ashamed of me?” Uhtred asked, still too loud, too aggressive, like a stabbed boar, and Alfred frowned. He looked as if he’d suddenly been drained of anger, didn’t seem irritated anymore but worried somehow, as if Uhtred had lost his mind.

“What is the matter with you?” he asked quietly, almost softly, and Uhtred’s pain roared in his chest.

“What is the matter with me?" he repeated. "What do you think is the matter with me?! I’m not doing great, in case you haven’t noticed!”

You ungrateful fucking bastard!

As if he had heard Uhtred’s thoughts, Alfred’s eyebrows rose, and it seemed to Uhtred as though the room shook, gasped, a sudden tremor in the air, but perhaps it was only the pounding of his blood that made it so.

“I have nightmares too, you know?” he scowled, unable to help himself, “I’m exhausted. I can barely close my eyes without seeing yo—”

He stopped himself just in time, watched as Alfred took a step backwards, away from the light.

“If this assignment is too much, then I’ll find—“

“What? You’ll find what?” Uhtred interrupted him, another wave of fury erupting from the white-hot fire in his chest, “Another guard? Someone else you trust to watch you sleep?”

In the following, earthshattering silence, the gusts outside the palace howled like beasts, battered against the windows as if to get in, and in the dimming moonlight, vengeful shadows coiled around the king’s shoulders, shielding him from further harm. Suddenly, Uhtred was sure that the room was alive, was breathing down his neck, and his head shot to the side just in time to see the darkness freeze where it had been creeping closer, ready to swallow him.

“You may leave, Uhtred. You clearly need to rest,” Alfred said, sounding strangely hollow.

Uhtred only laughed, kept his eye on the circling darkness.

“Clearly, lord,” he countered bitterly, all the while turning his head, staring down the black, “But how can I rest when it keeps chasing me?”

“What are you talking about?” Alfred whispered. Uhtred could barely make him out now. He was buried in the shadows, a guarded treasure.

“I can’t sleep, I can’t rest, I—“ Uhtred stopped, tried to collect himself, to fight off his rising panic, “It’s there every minute of every day! I can’t forget about any of it! Not the despair, the pain, the— the death and… about what you looked like, what you said… I don’t know if it’s the fear, the torture, but I can’t forget it... Do you understand?”

Alfred didn’t answer, but he stepped out towards the middle of the room, emerged from the night to lean on the chair between them, as if he needed it to stay upright. As if the shadows were trying to pull him back into the dark.

There was only a small circle of light around them now, and Uhtred watched its creeping borders as he talked, kept himself sane by spilling his insanity.

“I don’t know what you did, what spell you cast, but I hear it every night... You say it to me every night… it’s like you talked about us and I – I saw you in Valhalla, on a throne, and I saw the cross, and – and then you called my name and you looked at me and I felt it …”

Uhtred’s heart was hammering. He felt unreal, as if he was dissolving into the air around him.

“It’s like you cursed me.”

Visibly agitated, Alfred pressed his free hand against his chin and turned his head to look at the bed, the cross above it. He didn't move, didn’t say anything, but his fingers were white where they gripped the chair’s rail, and that should have told Uhtred to stop, to let it go, but he didn’t notice it, too caged was he in his own mind.

“And even when I’m not dreaming, I think about it… I think about how Finan said you stayed with me when I was dying, and after I woke up, when you sat at my bed and you—” But now he saw how Alfred stiffened to stone, how the line of his shoulders tensed underneath his robes, and so he faltered, bravery dying mid-sentence.

They burned, the things he couldn’t say.

"Then you got Pietro from Rome, and you gave me those clothes, and the lands... and all that attention," Uhtred said, and it was that last word which hung in the space between them with uncomfortable gravity.

When the silence grew deafening, he shrugged, unseen.

"I thought something had change between us,” he said, “I thought you cared for me…”

“Uhtred, I—“

Thunder crashed into the room, swallowed Alfred attempt to speak, and he let go of the chair as he turned his head away from the cross, ready to try again, but Uhtred continued without looking at him, too scared to let him have his turn.

He scoffed, pain spilling from him like blood from a wound.

“I’m so stupid, I thought we were friends,” he mocked himself. “How simple of me, right? How naïve.”

The king closed his eyes, grimaced as Uhtred hurt himself with the words he had given him, but Uhtred didn’t see it, still didn’t dare to look at him.

“Because it’s true, what you said… for all your generosity, you are just as distant as before,” Uhtred accused, riveted by the tiled floor, “Sure, I see you all the time now, but you aren’t there, not really. No, we have positions! You're the king—”

“Uhtred—“

“—and I’m nothing but your dog."

Alfred winced. “You are not my do—“

“But you train me like a dog!” Uhtred accused, determined to finish, to let Alfred know he saw through his manipulation. “If I behave, you praise me, but if I disagree, if I do anything wrong, any little thing, you withdraw all of your favour! You turn cold as ice!”

“It is not a conscious decision,” Alfred said quietly, almost contritely, “I didn’t mean to give you that impression.”

“Then why do you recoil from me? Why do you treat me like a leper?” he asked, and Alfred opened his mouth, but he didn’t say anything, was lost for words. Tense, he averted his gaze.

Uhtred continued without him, thoughts forming on his tongue before he knew what exactly he was thinking.

“And then you worry for my soul, and again, like an idiot, I thought—“

“Uhtred, stop, I—“

“But no. No, it’s because you want me to convert!”

“No, you are baptiz—”

“Because you cannot have someone like me in your witan!”

“Uhtred—“

“Because clearly, it’s not me you care for, it’s the whisperings of noblemen who would—"

"STOP! STOP THIS NONSENSE!” Alfred cried then, so loudly that it made Uhtred flinch, shocked into silence. Even the shadows had recoiled from them, and as Uhtred listened to his own, laboured breathing, the king straightened, his gaze harder than Uhtred had ever seen it before.

“Of course I care for you, you fool!” he snapped accusingly, “I could have told you so a minute ago, had you let me speak!”

Uhtred’s heart stopped in his chest, stuttered through a heartbeat that felt as long as a lifetime, and he watched, stunned, when Alfred shivered beneath his heavy robes, put his hand against his mouth as if he had just vomited, as if his feelings had thrown themselves up against his will.

He cares.

Beneath them, the room was definitely shaking, rocking, like the waves of an ocean Uhtred was lost in.

He cares.

Despite his agitation, Alfred’s face was lined with that hated, ever-present exhaustion, something stronger twisting underneath, and though normally, Uhtred could read him easily, a lifetime of arguments familiarizing him with Alfred’s expressions, he didn’t have a bloody clue what it was. He couldn’t tell if it was anger or disgust or something else.

He cares.

“I don’t understand, why—“ Uhtred started, but Alfred raised his hand – a mute, unforgiving demand for silence.

“Of course I care for you,” he repeated, as if it was preposterous to think otherwise. By now, he’d found some of his usual control, had reined in his voice, but he was no less irritated. “It is precisely for that reason that I worry for your soul. I do not concern myself with the whisperings of anybody!”

“Then why humiliate me in front of your Ealdormen for asking questions?” Uhtred asked. He was confused, didn’t know what to believe, and despite the hope he felt at Alfred’s words, today’s injustice was a fresh wound in his heart, a potent seed of doubt.

Alfred’s eyebrows rose to the ceiling in sarcastic amazement. “I humiliated you?" he asked. "I did? For asking questions?”

“Ye—“

“No, Uhtred!” Alfred interrupted, suddenly livid, “No, it is me who was humiliated! You questioned nothing less than my authority! In public! For a sodomite!”

For a sodomite.

Uhtred growled, his own rage roaring again, dizzy with his instable, ever changing emotions.

“So what?!” he asked bitingly, “The punishment you gave him was too harsh!”

“The punishment I gave him was set by the Church!”

Uhtred scoffed, righteous fury churning up his throat, injustice cracking his self-control. He was tired of toeing Alfred’s line, of being forced into the same cage the king had apparently spend his whole life in.

“Fuck your Church!” he cursed. “A bunch of dotards and leeches! Too lazy to work and too cowardly to fight!” As if he had hit him, Alfred recoiled in disgust, stepped back into the dark.

“Uhtred, they are men of God!”

“A weak God! A God for men who spend their lives on their knees!” Uhtred thundered, and before he could stop himself, he spit at the ground to Alfred’s feet, his fury like an unchained beast, hungry for blood.

He regretted it before his spit had hit the ground.

The night boomed with thunder as the darkness surged, pushed against the circle of light that shielded him, candles flickering in the sudden draft, and Uhtred knew that he had gone too far. Fully expecting Alfred to rage, to explode, he braced himself, but to his shock, the king didn’t even flinch.

Instead, Alfred simply stared, judgingly, and when he didn’t say anything either, Uhtred couldn’t stand the burn of shame in his cheeks, started pacing in his cage of light, full of nervous energy. Still, Alfred remained motionless, and he observed Uhtred wordlessly, with the air of a man who was watching a child's fit of temper.

“You will regret this,” he finally observed, almost pityingly, “This will follow you into your dreams.”

Terror gnawing, Uhtred spun to face him.

“No, it won’t!” he exclaimed, “Because I don’t believe in your stupid God!”

Alfred’s eyes were blue lightning, flashing in the dark.

“Yes, you do, Uhtred, don’t be difficult now,” he warned, “You yourself say that you can’t forget what I said. You yourself saw the Lord’s cross when you were dying. You felt God’s power.”

“I didn’t feel anything!” Uhtred denied, but then real lightning struck, illuminated the room, and the cross above Alfred’s bed ignited into liquid gold, blinded him as the floor shook, walls trembling as if they threatened to collapse around him. Then it was over again, and the shadows returned all at once, crashed against their circle of light like a battering ram.

This time Alfred noticed it too.

Yet while Uhtred shivered, eyes darting through the newly fallen darkness, the king looked to the window with awe-wide eyes, not searching, but finding something in the night. Then, he returned his attention to Uhtred.

“You believe,” he declared with painful confidence, “You fear him, and there is no fear without faith.”

Uhtred wanted to argue, but the words wouldn’t come, his mind still dazed by the sudden violence that had ascended from the sky.

It’s his God, his mind whispered anxiously, His God is watching you.

Alfred didn’t wait for him to collect himself. He was full of zealous vigour now, knew that he had the upper hand.

“It isn’t for lack of faith that you run whenever someone tries to address the topic,” he argued, “It’s because of your misguided pride. You’re too stubborn to listen and let someone talk to you, to let them help you figure it out.”

Caught between Alfred’s confidence and the all-surrounding shadows, Uhtred felt backed into a corner, and he didn’t like it one bit.

“I don’t need to figure it out!” he growled, “And if I did, I certainly wouldn’t need one of your fucking priests for it!”

Alfred huffed.

“I wonder where your disdain for my priests is when you speak to Beocca,” he said loftily, and Uhtred felt his anger return full force.

“Don’t you dare bring Beocca into this.”

“No, because then you’d have to acknowledge the truth.”

“What truth!?”

“That your disdain for Christendom is nothing but a worn-down relic of your past! A thin excuse to avoid the consequences of your true feelings!”

Pushing his hands against his hips, Uhtred grunted derisively, mocking the idea, but Alfred continued, his words a shower of arrows, undeterred and deadly. He was talking himself into a rage now, spoke faster and faster and faster.

“You act as if Christians are weak, Uhtred, but you’ve fought beside us. You have won beside us time and time again. You carry Thor’s hammer on your chest, but God has cut the truth into your skin.”

“God didn—“

“All day, you claim you don’t believe, but when night falls you flee from my chapel and cower before my cross. In victory, you huff and puff, full of pagan arrogance, but when you fear death, you come to me for comfort, let me calm you with promises of martyrdom.”

Uhtred’s insides clenched like fists.

“How dare you use that against me! You have no righ—"

“How dare I?” Alfred interrupted him, as merciless as he was in battle. “How dare I? Every opportunity you get, you disrespect my priests, the Church, even God! And still we both know that you’d choose a seat in heaven over one in Valhalla, because the people you love most are Christians, Uhtred.”

“No, I—“ Uhtred couldn’t finish, didn’t know what was happening, what he was thinking, feeling. He turned, spun away from Alfred’s all-seeing eyes, his body moving as if it looked for a way to escape, to flee this godforsaken room, its shadowed corners that watched him, grabbed for him.

It wasn’t true.

It wasn’t.

He loved Ragnar, loved Brida. They were family. Home. So it wasn’t true.

Was it?

He loved them, but would he choose them over Hild, over Finan? Over Beocca?

Beocca is my family. Beocca is home.

But isn’t Thyra family?

Isn’t Ragnar home?

How perfect was heaven if it missed his father, his brother? What joy was Valhalla’s feast without his friends? Wasn’t it too late, anyway? Hadn’t he made a decision? Hadn’t he sworn to stand against Ragnar should he attack Wessex?

You chose Alfred. You already chose Alfred.

Shut up.

Over your own family. You ungrateful, traitorous—

Half insane with frustration, Uhtred pressed his aching hands against his eyes and roared, fingers thrumming in the cold, throbbing red with pressure. But he barely felt the pain, because his mind was fighting itself, tearing claws into its own flesh, and his heart felt as if it was ripping in two.

Alfred goes to heaven.

Shut up!

You have to go to heaven.

SHUT UP!

“Uhtred, your hands—“ Alfred grabbed his arm, but Uhtred tore free, furious.

“NO! SHUT UP!”

“UHTRED!”

No doubt, Alfred would rage at this new affront, but Uhtred was too overwhelmed to care, was as shaken as he was angry, lost, exhausted by all these conflicts, these arguments. Alfred’s lecture had left him dizzy and confused, his head splitting open, and the room shook and shook, trembled around him like Niflhel.

Why couldn’t it all just stop? He didn’t want it anymore; this unworldly war, these ripping feelings, their endless, stupid fighting!

“I will forgive your disrespect if you apologize at once,” Alfred demanded, no doubt thinking himself generous, and Uhtred promptly roared again.

When he lifted his head, he saw that the king was close, not an armlength away. Finally free of shadows, he looked too detailed, too sharp, and when Uhtred took another step towards him, fast and wild, half-insane in his pain, Alfred instinctively shrank back. He was vibrating with tension, fine hair trembling against his cheeks.

“Did you choose that poem on purpose?,” Uhtred demanded to know, “Did you recite it to me because you knew it would work?”

Again, Alfred hadn’t expected Uhtred’s question, but this time he glared at him, his brows drawing into a dark, irritated frown.

“Don’t be ridiculous… I thought we were dying, I didn’t expect us to survive the hour,” he shook his head in bitter disappointment, “I gave my last moments to you, my last breaths, and you seem to think it was a ruse!”

“Alright, tell me then! What was it?” Uhtred exclaimed sarcastically, too insecure to be sincere. The circling darkness mocked him now, whirled dark clouds that pushed him closer to Alfred, to the man he wanted to run from, the man that glared at him with something akin to hatred.

“What was it? I shared my soul’s solace with you! Words that are sacred to me!”

“So what, you recite some holy poem and I’m supposed to be grateful forever?”

“Of course not!”

“So what then?!”

“I already told you!” Alfred snapped. "I care for you! I wanted to comfort you! Why do you think I cried when you threatened to kill yourself!”

“I don’t know! Maybe because you’d feel guilty, responsible as a lord, maybe—”

“Oh, please!” Alfred snarled, at the end of his rope. “Don’t tell me that makes any sense to you!”

Despairing, Uhtred threw up his arms. He hadn’t expected that Alfred would speak of his tears, mention them ever again, and it disorientated him, spun the room in circles.

“I don’t know! Why would you cry?!” he retorted, his strength waning with every passing second, “I’m just your advisor, right?”

Alfred hissed more than he spoke.

“Just my advisor? Just?” he repeated, visibly distressed now. His hand pressed against his stomach, his face rigid with disapproval. “Uhtred, I have given you everything! I’ve fought to keep you alive! I’ve buried you in rewards! Being my advisor is the highest position there is– a privilege most men would kill for!”

Uhtred shrugged, helplessly. Privilege or not, it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t most men, couldn’t stand to be most men.

Not to Alfred.

“I hold that position because you need me!” he accused, feeling his defences crumble, pain flooding his eyes, itching, “Because I’m useful to you! We aren’t exactly close!“

The room spun faster when Alfred scoffed, short and bitter.

“Uhtred, I value your opinion above all others, I spend more time with you than I’ve spent with anyone in years, and you think we aren’t close?”

“OF COURSE NOT! I CAN’T EVEN CALL YOU BY YOUR NAME!” Uhtred shouted at him, half sobbing, pain finally bursting, and silence hit them like a fist.

Alfred looked as if he had been struck, physically slapped, but Uhtred didn’t see it.

He was blinded by tears, swaying on the ever-moving ground, his chest heaving with heartache and frustration. Breaking, he turned away, stumbled right into the looming dark, desperate to escape. With shaking hands, he found the door, but before he could open it, hands were pulling at his arms, on either side, Alfred’s voice in his ear as he turned him, somehow both frantic and soft.

“Don’t, Uhtred, stop—"

"Let me go!"

"No, stop. Stop...”

The hands were insistent, held him more firmly the more he struggled, and finally Uhtred sobbed and slid down the door, his tunic too thin to protect him from the wood that scraped against the scars on his back.

Even now the hands didn’t leave, and when Alfred’s blurry face appeared in Uhtred’s vision, when the king was so close that Uhtred could smell him, he hid his face in his arms, couldn’t stop the broken sobs that escaped him.

“Don’t!” he gasped, when Alfred laid a hand on his back, his thumb sliding over Uhtred’s neck, and Alfred’s hands left him, where pulled back as if he’d burned himself.

“Uhtred…“

For a while, the only noise in the room were Uhtred’s stifled sobs, half-swallowed breaths that choked him while he pressed his mouth against the damp fabric underneath it.

How he hated himself.

“Uhtred please,” Alfred whispered again, so close, “Please, I... I am king… I can’t just—“

“I know, I’m sorry,” Uhtred shuddered, already mortified by his display, but unable to stop it.

“There’s protocol. Certain things cannot be changed, I—”

“I know!” Uhtred repeated, begging him to stop talking, the shame unbearable, “I’m sorry!”

Alfred’s hand came back then, calmed his trembling shoulder; a faint touch, tentative, the way one touched a spooked horse. Uhtred’s shoulder warmed underneath it, almost too the point of discomfort.

“I’m sorry,” he choked again, throat crushing close when fresh tears shot into his eyes.

“It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t okay. Because Alfred was watching him, was watching him cry, and he was supposed to be a warrior.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he whispered into the black of his tunic, wet with tears and spit.

“You are in pain and you are exhausted,” Alfred soothed him, unexplainably gentle, “It’s understandable.”

He said it as if he himself wasn’t equally exhausted, as if he wasn’t scarred from what they went through, and the shame of Uhtred’s tears became too great to bear. More desperate for dignity than comfort, he shook off Alfred’s hand, wiped at his eyes with his dry sleeve, the cloth rough against his skin, and when he had hidden the evidence of his sorrow, he leaned back against the door, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

In the refuge of darkness, he tried to find his bearing.

“I’m the worst guard,” he mocked himself brokenly, in a poor attempt to own his shame, to hurt himself before Alfred could, but the words felt hollow.

When Uhtred opened his eyes, he saw that Alfred’s mouth formed a grim, tired line.

“You are no guard at all,” he said softly, “You know it as well as I do.”

Cramped into the doorway, the king was sitting right beside him, on bare tiles, his legs awkwardly folded beneath him. Their bodies were unthinkably close, and Uhtred smelled it again, that scent of wool and parchment, of something comforting and safe, like wet earth after a storm.

It reminded him of Alfred’s crown against his shoulder, of Alfred’ hair, silky against his jaw.

“Then what am I?” he asked quietly, caught in the calm emptiness that descended after one had cried.

Tell me. What is my use?

“You are my confidant.”

Uhtred huffed, but there was no malice in it now, only exhaustion.

“That’s just another word for advisor,” he mumbled, grief swirling in his foggy chest, his thrumming head.

“It is not.”

Uhtred sighed. He didn’t want to play games anymore. He couldn’t.

“I don’t understand why I can’t just be your friend,” he said, collecting his courage before he met Alfred’s eyes. The king’s pupils were blown wide in the shadows, black pools in a grey, sleepy blue.

Uhtred looked away. He was too close.

“You know that it isn’t so easy.”

“Why?”

“Uhtred…” And there it was again, that tone that Alfred used when he thought Uhtred should know better.

Uhtred adjusted his head, pulling his shoulders up against the door to escape the draft of air that came from underneath the door frame, the floor cold enough beneath him.

“I hate this place,” he whispered into the dark, voicing it for the second time that night.

Beside him, Alfred leaned back against the wall, adjusted his robes until he could pull his knees to his chest. He looked younger that way, decidedly unkingly, and Uhtred was reminded of how vulnerable he’d been on the wooden decks of Æthelney, when he’d been king in nothing but name.

Softer.

Almost more alive.

Back then, Uhtred hadn’t noticed how often his eyes strayed to him, to his worried eyes, to that thin, sky-blue tunic, fluttering in the wind, snug against the small of his back… but now he wondered how he’d ever seen Alfred as anything but heart-achingly beautiful, and just as in the marshes, his gaze caught on blue cloth, bunched up nervously between delicate fingers.

“Being king is a burden as much as it is a privilege,” Alfred said, his hands pressed against his knees.

“Reminds me of serving you,” Uhtred mumbled, and Alfred huffed.

It was a bitter sound, short and sharp.

“I am sure,“ he agreed, unexpectedly tolerant of Uhtred’s lip, “Though I fear that involves more of the first than of the latter.”

Surprised by Alfred’s honesty, his misery, Uhtred looked up to study him, but just that second, the king leaned in, was impossibly, breath-sharingly close, and Uhtred froze.

Wha—

As quick as he’d come, Alfred leaned back again, but he’d taken Uhtred’s hand in his own, pulled at it until its palm was on his knee, and Uhtred’s heart started to hammer in his chest like it had never before.

What is he—

“Am I hurting you?” Alfred asked, and for a moment, so very overwhelmed, Uhtred thought he meant in general, but then he saw, felt, how Alfred’s thumb brushed over his scar.

Still mum, he shook his head.

It didn’t hurt.

It ached.

“Pietro tells me that kneading helps it heal,” Alfred thought out loud, seemingly engrossed in the texture of Uhtred’s scar, “Is that true?”

Uhtred didn't know. He’d been told a great many things in life, but now that Alfred had begun to massage the palm of his hand, it was near impossible to remember any of them. Everything felt misty. Too close to his dreams. Just this morning, Alfred had flinched from him. And now they sat here, huddled in the dark, and the king was touching him, touching him in a way that—

“I think so,” he forced himself to say, and Alfred sighed – a long, shaky exhale.

“It is a curious thing, healing,” he murmured, “One should think it would be best to leave a wound alone…”

In the dimness, Uhtred saw that Alfred kept his eyes on his scar, and yet he wasn’t sure whether they were talking about it at all.

“Your injuries were horrific,” Alfred whispered, his voice breathless and unsteady, and his trembling thumb burned circles into Uhtred’s knotted skin, “Your burden is horrific...” He looked away, sightlessly into the darkness, and Uhtred knew that he was hiding tear-filled eyes.

No.

“I’ve ruined your life.”

No, don’t—

Only hours ago, Uhtred had bristled at Ælswith’s ungratefulness – at her refusal to name his sacrifice – but now that Alfred acknowledged it, he wanted nothing more than for him to stop.

Alfred’s breath hitched in the silent room, betrayed pain that felt worse than Uhtred’s own.

“You ruined nothing, lord,” Uhtred tried to soothe him. “I did my duty.”

“No,” Alfred denied, still watching the darkness, “No, this went far beyond duty, I know it...” His blue tunic slid softly against Uhtred’s palm, a stark contrast to the hardness of his knee, and when Alfred’s hand returned to hold his own, it was damp with soundless tears.

Uhtred’s soul ached for him.

“I stayed because I wanted to, lord,” he promised, “You couldn’t have forced me.”

Alfred nodded, breath trembling, touch tightening before he spoke.

“I know... It’s why I do consider you my closest—“ he stopped, swallowed his words, "... my closest, most loyal servant.”

Servant.

“Your servant?” Uhtred echoed, as he watched Alfred’s smaller hand on his larger, numb one, watched him open and close his mouth as he struggled for words.

How am I still just a servant?

“We can never be friends,” Alfred muttered, as if he’d heard his thoughts. It sounded solemn, like a vow, yet he couldn’t look Uhtred in the eye, and his fingers were still circling, like thoughts, ravens in the sky. “You must understand that.”

Uhtred shook his head.

No. He didn’t understand that at all. He didn’t want to.

“Then you must understand it now,” Alfred commanded him, not unkindly, “I’ve learned since Odda that I cannot call myself a friend to anyone. It would be a lie…” He trailed off, no doubt thinking of Odda's end. His boots shifted on the ground, leather scruffing against stone, and then he turned, their reddened eyes meeting in the dark.

“The crown is all-important,” Alfred whispered, as if it was an ancient prayer, sacred and terrifying, “I wouldn’t want you to believe…” He stilled, didn’t finish.

“To believe what?” Uhtred prodded, and Alfred looked down, watched his thumb on Uhtred’s scar.

Then he let go of his hand.

“I simply do not wish to give you a false sense of security,” he said, and Uhtred’s aching hand fell onto his knee, and then it lay there, half curled around it. It felt immeasurably wrong, dangerously right, and so Uhtred pulled it back.

“Why would you give me a false sense of security?” he asked, frowning, but Alfred frowned back at him, spoke in the tone one used to scold a child

“Uhtred, you’ve already become reckless,” he complained. “You feel too safe as it is.”

“Safe from what?” Uhtred pulled his hands even closer to his chest, taken aback by Alfred’s renewed rigidity.

The king shook his head and averted his eyes, as though he couldn’t stand to look at Uhtred’s swollen face, and for a while the thrumming rain became a blanket to them in the dark, a pause that seemed to last forever… then Alfred spoke again, quietly this time, but with a bleak detachment that send shivers down Uhtred’s spine.

“If you publicly undermine my authority, I have to punish you publicly,” he explained, once more staring into the darkness. “There is things I cannot allow, no matter my feelings. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but—“

“And if I was a friend to you, I’d first and foremost be your king, always, and I fear that you’d forget it…” He paused, seemed to swallow around a lump in his throat, “And that you’d…”

“That I would what?” Uhtred pressed.

But Alfred only bit his lip, and silence ruled again. For a while.

“I fear that you’d run into my blade,” he whispered then, again hinting at his riddle, “That you would feel too safe and then…“

Uhtred held his breath. These silences were killing him.

“And what?”

“And do what Odda—”

“This cannot be about betrayal!” Uhtred blurted, but Alfred didn’t answer him, didn’t even look him in the eye, and Uhtred’s expression changed into one of helpless disbelief. He felt sick, dizzy against the door.

“Again?” he asked incredulously, already begging to be heard, “I will not betray you! How many times do I have to say it? How many times until you believe me? What do I have to do? Do you need it in a letter?”

Alfred gave him a sad smile, but he didn’t look at him.

“You don’t know what the future holds, Uhtred,” he said, “Odda didn’t plan to die a traitor.”

“Oh for— Fine! Let’s say I betray you,” Uhtred agreed, apparently left with no option but to play along. “Let's say I do. Then you execute me. And that's fine. Because if I betray you, I don’t care if I’m safe.” He spit the word out like rotten food, pulse throbbing. “If I betray you, I deserve to die for it!”

At that, Alfred’s smile turned even sadder.

“That is very noble of you to say,” he said, so fucking miserable, and Uhtred rolled his eyes, hated him as much as he loved him.

“Don’t,” he tried, but he gave up, not exactly sure what Alfred was doing, “I don’t understand why you won’t believe me.”

Beside him, Alfred’s eyes were dove-grey in the dark, his features fuzzy and gentle. Here, in the secrecy of his shadowy chambers, Alfred looked nothing like the man who’d condemned the apprentice, nothing like the man who'd punished Uhtred for everyone to see.

“I do believe you, Uhtred. But the fact you do not fear me doesn’t make me any less of a danger to you.” 

Uhtred held his gaze, daring with confusion. “It doesn’t feel like you are a danger to me... It feels like the opposite," he confessed, and Alfred nodded solemnly.

“And I want it to remain that way.”

“But why would—“

As if to still him, Alfred reached out, took his hand again, cradled it in both of his, and Uhtred’s concentration faltered at once, room whirling, his frustration dying away as Alfred drew patterns on the ugly surface of his scar, Uhtred’s mind confined in the quiet of his palms.

What is he doing?

Again, the king was holding his hand, caressing it in the newly fallen silence, and though the door dug into Uhtred’s back, a constant pressure that was hell on his scars, he didn’t move a muscle. Cradled between Alfred’s palms, his dead hand didn’t look so horrible to him, and he drank in the sight of it, the feel of it.

But why—

There were no questions about his scars this time, and Uhtred didn’t cry, wasn't despairing, nor dying, and there was no real reason to hold Uhtred’s hand except to hold it, and it was then that it hit him, like a strike of lightning.

He wants to.

Alfred wanted to hold his hand.

Nothing had changed. And yet everything had.

Like ever before, Uhtred couldn’t touch the king. He wasn’t allowed to, and he wouldn’t have dared to. But somewhere along the way, on the road from Dunwhich to Winchester, he’d become a person the king touched. Just because he wanted to.

Because he feels safe to.

Eventually, Alfred's fingers stopped their circling. But he didn’t let go.

“I am Wessex, Uhtred,” he explained with a frown, “I cannot afford to be a friend, to promise loyalty...” He sighed. “I feel guilty even for being a father.”

Outside, the storm had abated, the rain tapered off to a drizzle, its patter a gentle song on the window now, not the otherworldly attack it had been before, and as Uhtred watched the moon’s pale glaze in the cross above the bed, he couldn’t understand how he’d ever been afraid of it.

“So what you’re saying is that duty will always come first?”

“It must come first,” Alfred corrected, with a shaking voice that spoke of hidden fear, of ever-looming failure.

“Right,” Uhtred said. He considered the cross a little while longer, his eyes flickering over the room, his lord’s prison – but he couldn’t shake his hope. They’d been imprisoned before, after all. Together.

None of it could stop them.

I love him, and he loves England.

“I’ve sworn an oath to you,” he told Alfred, met his gaze once more, solemn and searching. “Have I not kept it? Have I not been loyal to Wessex?”

Alfred frowned, his face ageing in seconds as he ducked his head, deep rings beneath his eyes. “Of course you’ve kept it,” he agreed, full of guilt.

I love him, so I love England.

“Then why should I keep you from a duty that is my own?” Uhtred found his footing as he spoke, gained ground, in his mind and in the room, knowing what he said was true.

“I didn’t want to suggest—“

“If you do your duty, and I mine beside you, why can’t we be friends?”

“Uhtred,“ Alfred tried again, but Uhtred wrapped his fingers around his wrist with all of the little strength he had, pushed back for once, unwilling to let himself be silenced, and Alfred stilled, gaze falling to their joined hands.

“I am not asking for your loyalty,” Uhtred clarified, as much for himself as to reassure Alfred, “I'm not so naive. I understand that we aren’t equals, that you aren’t just a man... and I know that you could never go against Wessex, that you can't tolerate disobedience — but that’s not what I'm asking you to do!”

“Then what are you asking for?” Alfred had schooled his features, as if they were negotiating. He looked tense and small against the massive stones of the palace.

Scared.

Uhtred shrugged.

“I want to talk to you sometimes,” he confessed, “To you, not to that royal mask you wear all the time. I want to know you.”

At that, Alfred huffed and shook his head, letting go of Uhtred’s hand.

“And the next time I order you to kill me?” he asked sarcastically, clearly not believing that it was a good idea to strengthen the bond between them, but Uhtred replied without hesitation.

“I won’t want you tortured, lord,” he replied, “And I’ll stab you faster than you can say ‘head on a spike’.”

Alfred huffed again, but this time from amusement, and Uhtred felt the thrill of triumph in his blood.

“I’ve learned from my mistakes,” he said, serious despite his veiled elation, intent on making himself heard. “I won’t fail you again.”

His promise rang through the room, heavy and final, and Alfred sighed, then groaned as he pressed a hand backwards, against the wall, pushing himself upwards and off the floor. He stepped out of their alcove, winced as he curved his back, illusions of youth destroyed by aching muscles and cracking bones.

Below him, Uhtred was still waiting to know how they’d proceed, what they were to each other, but with the king towering above him, his crouched position on the floor felt rather vulnerable, rather ridiculous, and so he rose as well, blood returning to his legs in a rush of pins and needles.

They stood like that for a while, deep in their own thoughts, in the dark room that held no evil except for their own fears, in blessed, comfortable silence, and then Alfred stepped to the chest at the foot of his bed and lowered himself down onto its furs.

He looked pensive as he smoothed the fabric of his crinkled tunic, hands running over his thighs in a manner that Uhtred tried not to think about too much.

“Will you mind your tongue in public?” he asked dryly, eyes on his hands, and Uhtred’s heart jumped in his chest, sensing that Alfred was coming around to his proposal.

Trying to act unaffected, he shrugged.

“If I can speak freely in private.”

Alfred looked up, watched him with heavy-lidded eyes. Then he gave him a small, hesitant nod.

“I would like you to speak freely in private,” he admitted grudgingly. “What use is an advisor if he doesn’t speak his mind.”

Uhtred stepped closer, back into the circle of light, and he leaned against the table, against the red cassock that Alfred had so callously flung at his face. Now that his anger was gone, the whole thing seemed funny to him.

“So we will talk, lord? When we have time for it?” he asked the king, who was still anxious it seemed, kneading his own palm this time, for lack of another, his blue eyes restless as he pondered it.

Finally coming to a decision, he focused them on Uhtred.

“We will,” he agreed, “On one condition.”

“What condition?” Uhtred frowned, and Alfred shifted uncomfortably on the wooden chest.

He opened his mouth, then hesitated.

“I meant what I said,” he said eventually, “About your soul, Uhtred... that I am worried about it.”

You can’t be serious.

“Lord, I’m not—“

“But just as you do not expect me to be less than a king, I do not expect you to become a priest,” Alfred hurried to add, his tone clipped. “I, also, am not naive. I know you won’t give your life to God and pray three times a day, it’s just that I want... I’d hoped you would...“

I would what? Uhtred thought, with a rekindled spark of anger, Become Christian?

“That I would what, lord?”

Alfred hesitated again, exhaled a breath that trembled from his lips, fearing that his next words wouldn’t be well received.

“If we are… friends,” he said cautiously, pronouncing the word like it was foreign to him, “Will you go to confession for me?”

Uhtred froze, held his breath.

Turn to me, Alfred whispered into his ear, brushing his fingertips along Uhtred's temples, his lips unbearably close. Turn to your Lord.

“Lord, I—“

“Please, Uhtred,” Alfred said, quietly, feet away. “It would unburden me.”

He was pleading.

Pleading.

Helpless, Uhtred groaned and threw his head back to stare at the ceiling. This was it. He was going insane.

“How long does confession take?” he asked, already annoyed with it, with the strange guilt and the prayer and the no doubt sour priest that was going to lament about his every behaviour.

But when he straightened, Alfred was smiling, smiling, looked adorably pleased, and Uhtred had to avert his eyes for fear of losing control.

“Less long the less you sin,” he heard Alfred say, as if that was good news, “Which should serve as an incentive.”

He hummed, his heart still unsteady, stumbling, drunk from Alfred’s joy.

“So you will do it?”

“I guess.”

“Thank you, Uhtred.”

Alfred’s voice was too warm, too genuine, and Uhtred’s body buzzed like a hive, sparked with lightening that spread through his limbs. It was too much. He smirked, too sharply, hiding his nerves beneath familiar insolence.

“Don’t thank me too soon, lord. I will inevitably betray you.”

Alfred didn’t take the bait. He watched Uhtred with dark eyes, still smiling, and then, out of nowhere, he squeezed his eyes shut, face distorting, his hand balling into a fist, pressing against his mouth, and just when Uhtred thought he was having a fit, was in pain – Alfred yawned.

He yawned.

It was adorable. Everything about him was adorable.

Alfred blinked, surprised. “I think I’m tired.”

“You are exhausted,” Uhtred agreed. “You should sleep.”

“Probably…”

Let me stay. Let me protect you.

“I assume you want me to go?”

Alfred didn’t even think about it before he nodded, but he didn’t scoff either, didn’t say anything condescending, and that was enough. Uhtred pushed off the table behind him.  

“Then I’ll be outside, lord, if you need me.”

“Thank you, Uhtred.”

Uhtred nodded awkwardly, uncomfortable again. “Goodnight, lord.”

He turned to leave, but when he reached the door, Alfred stopped him again, for the third time that night.

“Uhtred?” he called, sounding nervous, and Uhtred turned to him, saw that he was standing at the edge of his bed, hovering.

“Yes?”

“Maybe we could be less… formal… when we are alone.”

For a moment, Uhtred forgot to breathe. But he nodded. Slowly. “I would like that, lord.”

Alfred nodded back.

“Then you may call me by my name,” he said, as if that wasn’t a miracle, and Uhtred grew warm, joy blooming bright where the king grew meadows in his chest. He couldn’t have kept the smile off his face if he’d wanted to.

“Thank you,” he breathed.

The king smiled. That tiny smile. The smile of Christes mæsse.

“You are welcome...”

In the gentle candlelight, he looked almost flustered, as if he had suddenly become self-conscious, and Uhtred thought his heart might burst with the love he felt for him… except he didn’t fare much better. More awkward than he’d ever been, he nodded again, the corners of his mouth trembling, with soft knees and cloudy limbs, and after one last look at his lord, at Alfred, he turned and left the room.

That night, he stood in the hallway again, with tear swollen eyes, back among guards who tried their best to see nothing, be no one… but he wasn’t angry anymore, wasn’t even tired, and Alfred didn’t scream.

Chapter Text

What followed was happiness. There was no other word for it.

After their fight and consequent reconciliation, Alfred slept through the night, and the next morning, he ate breakfast, devoured his gruel with an enthusiasm that had Beocca stare at him in utter shock, and though the king still worked too much, his shoulders weren’t as rigid as before, and his hands didn’t shake. Indeed, Alfred looked healthier with every passing day, and as he recovered, Uhtred’s own exhaustion lessened in turn, his endlessly circling thoughts clearing like the sky after a storm.

Best of all, Uhtred’s sleep became restful again.

The nightmares that had plagued him so insistently disappeared from one day to the next, and other, better dreams began to take their place. In these new dreams, some things didn’t change; Alfred was still in every one of them, sat beside Uhtred’s bed and held his hand, but this time Uhtred wasn’t wounded, wasn’t dead, and the king was calm and unharmed, unburdened by grief or pain.

It was pleasant to dream this way, of peaceful, companionable silence, and so Uhtred would've been happy if his nightly visions had kept to nothing more than that, but soon, they morphed again. In a whirl of warming colours and blurring edges, they evolved into something so much more.

Something far, far beyond pleasant.

“I come to you in the middle of the night,” Alfred recited, in the best of visions, and he let go of Uhtred’s hand to climb onto the bed, as bare-chested as he’d been on the cross. “Dream of me, Uhtred.”

Startled by Alfred’s approach, Uhtred sat up against the headboard, but the king drew closer still, entrapped him, his knees on either side of Uhtred’s hips.

“You are the man that would taste bitter death for me,” he murmured as he cradled Uhtred’s head in his hands, and then, with an artlessness that made Uhtred’s mind collapse into nothingness, Alfred, fuzzy-edged and glowing, kissed him. 

He pressed and plundered, tongue warm and honeyed, until Uhtred clung to his shoulders, dizzy, panting, unable to do anything but hold on, to think of anything but Alfred’s name. When they finally parted for breath, Alfred lost no time before he guided Uhtred's hands to his lean waist, to glistening muscles, trembling with forbidden excitement and fading restraint.

“I am all drenched in gratitude, Uhtred. All steamed with sweat,” he panted against Uhtred's lips - a perverted distortion of the words he’d panted on the cross. “Turn to me... I want to convert you./Come to me... I want to seduce you."

What followed was an erotic haze of naked skin and friction, deep moans and sliding heat, of images that were somehow both explicit and vague, intensely carnal and torturously intangible. Lacking actual practice, Uhtred's mind was too inexperienced to give him exactly what he yearned for, but it did its best, and unfortunately, its attempts were enough to embarrass him.

“Sweet Jesus, this is the fourth time,” Finan joked when he woke him, quirking a brow, and Uhtred, shame-faced, quickly pulled another fur into his lap. “You’re like a dog in heat. Are you dreaming of me?”

“Of your mother,” Uhtred threw back. It was a terrible comeback, but he was desperate for diversion.

“Ah, yes. She was tireless.” Finan nodded soberly, and Uhtred laughed, utterly horrified by the mental image that created. He threw a fur at Finan's head, and then he hurried down the stairs, rushing like a child on Giul, full of giddy, heart-fluttering anticipation. He hurried through his moonlit ‘breakfast’ and wash, even though he had plenty of time to spare, and when it was finally time to go, the night was icy, freezing even, but he didn't notice it, was comfortable in Alfred’s jacket. Inside him simmered a heat that had nothing to do with physical warmth, and for once, he didn’t fear the prospect of where he was going. Instead, he couldn't arrive soon enough, and he bumped shoulders with Steapa not a moment after the bells had begun to call for prayer, happily trading a few more insults with him until they reached the chapel.

Now that he and Alfred were close again, Winchester's palace had lost its intimidating glare. The priests and nobles that crawled all over it still made him shudder, were an infestation that clung to every nook and cranny, but the palace itself looked friendlier around them. During the day, flocks of birds chirped from its high roofs, its glass windows sparkling bright in the winter sun, and similarly, the chapel had lightened, its shadows dispersing like fog. It didn’t threaten Uhtred anymore, didn’t lunge for him. Instead, Uhtred felt almost at ease inside it, as if he’d been welcomed into the home of a stranger, and so before he opened the door that led inside it, he silently thanked Alfred’s God for the fragile truce between them, assured him of his good intentions.

I won’t harm him.

I promise.

Although he felt a little silly talking to a deity, Uhtred was rewarded for his effort. For when he entered the glowing den of stones and benches, Alfred, dressed in soft black robes, turned to face him, and the corners of his mouth twitched when he saw who had opened the door.

“I see you are on time,” he observed dryly, in a manner only he could turn into a sign of affection, and in response, Uhtred rolled his eyes.

“It’s a miracle, I know.”

“Not quite.” Alfred gently shook his head, unable to tolerate such heresy, but still he couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at his lips, and in turn, warmth spread through Uhtred’s chest.

Similar to the menacing shadows around them, Alfred’s walls had disappeared. Never before had the king been so relaxed in Uhtred’s presence, and never before had Uhtred been so tense in his.

Get a grip…

Before that night, the chapel had preyed on Uhtred’s fear, had stalked him, but now that it had lost its threatening nature, its shallow light and perfect privacy turned its prey into a predator. Uhtred’s blood was infected with Alfred’s affection, was rushing through his veins, heated without a trace of anger, and as he drew closer to the king, his every muscle tightened. Alfred’s eyes were warm but light as ice, his greying beard freshly trimmed, and Uhtred wanted to pounce on him, press him against the pillar behind him and-

Stop it.

Unaware of the danger he was in, Alfred turned and stepped to the altar. Like dark water, his silken hair brushed along his cheeks when he leaned in, kissing the small ivory cross that had been put there, beneath the bigger, wooden one. The kiss was nothing more than a quick touch of lips, a casual movement of practiced devotion, and yet Uhtred felt himself stir at the sight.

Gods, he is so-

The king turned back to him, all dignity and flowing motion.

“Will you join me in prayer? Or will you watch?” he asked, innocent and full of hope, and Uhtred, suddenly ripped from his carnal fixation, felt caught and tensed even further, lost in the middle of the aisle.

“No, I-“ he started, but saw Alfred’s face fall, and stopped.

Damn it.

He was undecided. He didn’t want to pray of course, not truly, but during the last four days, making Alfred happy had quickly become an addiction he struggled to control.

“I don’t know any prayers,” he finally said, thinking that this settled the matter, but to his surprise the king only hummed, his expression doubtful.

“You knew the Lord’s prayer,” he corrected, thinking back to when he’d heard Uhtred mumble it in the king’s hall.

Uhtred shrugged.

"Barely, lord. I knew one word… at the end.”

With a twitch of his lips, Alfred raised a challenging brow.

“The end is a start," he said, adorably proud of his own play of words, full of childish delight, and Uhtred’s insides disappeared at the sight, air fluttering where primal lust had coiled just seconds ago.

Helpless, he sighed and shrugged again.

“I can sit with you if you say the words,” he allowed, sounding resigned and feeling a little embarrassed for folding so quickly. It was worth it though, because Alfred gave him another smile now, tentative and lopsided, and again warmth spread through Uhtred’s body. Almost against his will, he remembered what those lips did in his dreams, how they glistened, and the fire inside him rekindled.

Stop it!

Uhtred didn’t let his thoughts show in his face, of course, but he feared to be found out nonetheless. During the last few days, fuelled by his dreams, Uhtred’s carnal desires had become frequent and intense, almost uncontrollable, and haunted by ever-present guilt, he worried that Alfred could somehow come to read his mind, or that one day, during prayer, Alfred’s God might whisper Uhtred’s filthy fantasies into his ear…

And then Alfred would kill him. Or at the very least condemn him to a decade of bread.

“Come here,” the king commanded now, gentle but assertive, pointing at the spot next to him, and by the Gods, it was disturbing how affected Uhtred was even by that.

I’m so fucked.

So fucked.

After a brief hesitation, he did as he was told, and when Alfred knelt down, lifting his robes with such elegance that it brought Uhtred to the brink of insanity, he followed suit and dropped to his knees as well.

“Fold your hands, Uhtred.”

Unthinkingly, Uhtred complied. Beside him, Alfred was close enough to smell, and Uhtred’s deep inhale was no doubt mistaken for a sign of spiritual preparation, or reverence, or some other nonsense.

After he’d reassured himself that Uhtred had followed his guidance, Alfred raised his blue eyes to the cross, and so Uhtred reluctantly did the same.

“We thank you, oh Lord, for you have preserved us over the course of this day, and brought us unto this evening hour," the king began to pray, displaying a calm and steady certainty that was no doubt meant to serve Uhtred as an example, "May your protection prevail. May it safeguard us throughout our life, the woes of our suffering, and the attacks of our enemies.”

As Christian prayers went, this one wasn’t so bad, Uhtred thought. At least it was useful, not another tedious lamentation filled with pleas for humility and patience. These words spoke so effectively to his martial nature, in fact, that he suspected Alfred had chosen them on purpose.

“Now, through the silent hours of the night, deign to watch over us, whom you have protected in all the dangers of the day, and grant that when the night is passed we may be found unharmed and untarnished, ready to offer our morning praises to you.”

There it was. Untarnished.

Of course he had to include it.

Sometimes, it seemed as though the king of Wessex was more terrified of sin than he was of hostile invaders, and for a second, Uhtred’s mood soured. But when he glanced to the side, full of poorly hidden annoyance, he saw how Alfred licked his lips, caught a fleeting glimpse of pink, and his irritation dispersed like a flock of birds.

Fuck.

“Be merciful, oh Lord,” Alfred asked with glistening lips, “and spare us from the evils we have deserved by our sins, that with devout minds and peaceful souls we may stay on the pure path of your love… Amen.”

“Amen,” Uhtred mumbled obediently, the pure path long abandoned.

The king didn’t speak again, but they knelt for a while longer, in silence, no doubt meant to contemplate something profound, and then Alfred’s hand brushed against Uhtred’s shoulder. It was a fleeting touch, an unassuming gesture meant to rouse him from his thoughts, and yet to Uhtred, time stretched around it, swirled around his shoulder, each of Alfred’s fingertips a tiny point of pressure that brought long-sought relief, a soft quenching of desire, and then renewed, deepened tension.

When Alfred's hand pulled back, Uhtred sat frozen, but beneath the surface, his mind was whirling.

God.

This was the reason for his growing insanity, for his soul‘s torment.

That Alfred touched him now.

Constantly.

Since their clash and subsequent reconciliation, the king of Wessex put his hands on Uhtred with a natural familiarity that bordered on possessiveness. He brushed against Uhtred’s arm when he required his attention, pressed against the small of his back when he wanted him to move, and when they walked through the palace, he stayed so close that their shoulders grazed each other at every corner. In summary, his distant behaviour had turned upside down, and the sudden change drove Uhtred insane with desire.

Next to him, Alfred rose from the floor with a steadying hand against his middle, emphasizing the slender waist that lay beneath his tunic.

“Speaking of peaceful souls,” he began, waiting patiently until Uhtred had followed his lead before he continued. “Did you go to confession… finally?” Alfred shot him a look that was half annoyance and half affection. “Or are you still stringing me along?”

Uhtred almost choked on his breath, startled by the king’s teasing choice of words.

If only you knew, he thought, you wouldn’t make these kinds of jokes.

But he shook his head.

“I kept my word, lord. Beocca is traumatized.”

His heart fluttered when Alfred huffed.

“Oh, I am certain,” he agreed wryly. He was practically glowing with approval now, probably relieved that Uhtred’s soul was saved. “But sacrifices must be made, and surely he finds strength in knowing that he’s doing the Lord’s work.”

Uhtred laughed.

Before his inner eye, he recalled Beocca’s pained expression as he’d watched him attempt to list all the times he had humped, unashamed and unmarried. Of course, it was impossible to remember all separate occasions, and so Uhtred had grouped them by listing the women involved, and he'd come as far as thirty before he had run out of names. When he'd started to identify the rest of his sins by their landmarks and physical attributes, such as tavern names and one memorable Mercia-shaped mole, Beocca had stopped him, markedly appalled. In summary, Uhtred doubted that Beocca found much strength in any part of his new duty.

But before Uhtred could say as much, Alfred urged him to move. With a delicious press of his hand against the small of Uhtred’s back, the king steered him towards the door.

“How was it?” he asked, cautiously. “First confessions can be daunting.”

Uhtred shrugged. The ghost of Alfred’s fingers climbed his spine in a whisper of sensation.

“It was fine. I’d trust Beocca with my life.”

Humming in agreement, Alfred nodded as Uhtred held open the door for him, but he stopped to meet his eyes, not quite satisfied.

“Freeing?” he prompted encouragingly, holding his gaze.

“Fine,” Uhtred repeated.

The king sighed, but decided to move on, leading the way as they stepped out of the chapel.

“We’ll have to work on your remorse, Uhtred,” he admonished teasingly.

“You asked me to go to confession, lord. Remorse was never mentioned,” Uhtred shot right back, but Alfred didn’t let him get a rise out of him. Instead, he momentarily slowed his step as they started down the corridor, letting Uhtred take his place beside him.

“Remorse will come with time,” he claimed, in a tone that suggested it was the way of the world. “Concerning the act of confession itself, I’d like you to go once a week.”

Surprised, Uhtred half-turned to him as they made their way down the hallway.

“Once a week?” he repeated, plainly reluctant at the prospect, “Lord, I won’t have anything to confess if I go once a week.”

Next to him, Alfred huffed.

“Somehow, Uhtred, I highly doubt that,” he said, shooting his Ealdorman a look that spoke of mild amusement. “Not only because it is you we are talking about, but because there is always something to confess. We are all sinners.”

“Yes, so you’ve mentioned… but once a week? How about every two weeks?”

“Absolutely not. Weekly confessions are a compromise already. I myself confess almost daily.”

A compromise? This whole thing is a compromise on my part!

“But lord, I-“

“Once a week it is, I will hear no objections to this. Death can strike without warning, Uhtred, we must strive to be prepared at all times.”

Uhtred sighed, resigned to his fate.

Then I should probably keep away from you, he thought.

He didn’t agree with Alfred’s assertion, but it seemed that Alfred didn’t need him to, and so they walked beside each other in comfortable silence, shoulders brushing at every corner, until they reached the royal chambers and the door fell shut behind them.

“Only two days now,” Alfred observed as soon as they were alone, and Uhtred felt his hand twitch around the non-existent hilt at his side.

“I know.”

“Have you decided if you want to attempt it?”

Uhtred hesitated. He knew what he had decided to do, what he’d been forced to decide, but it wasn’t the answer he wanted to give.

The day after his and Alfred’s fight, in the bleak, leafless courtyard, Uhtred had met with Steapa to train for the first time, with numb fingers and freezing air in his lungs, and though he should have expected it, he’d been gutted to discover that he couldn’t hold his sword. Heavy as an anvil, it had fallen out of his hand and clattered to the palace tiles, his fingers spasming, opening under the pressure of its weight.

The failure had hurt – Uhtred’s hand and his pride.

To make matters worse, Alfred, sheltered by the palace cloister, had been there to see it happen, and Pietro too, and while the king had watched the clattering sword with carefully passive eyes, the Roman had quickly rushed to Uhtred’s side, scolding him for his frustrated cursing.

“You have the restraint of a whore,” he’d muttered, pushing his fingers into Uhtred’s aching wrist, and while Steapa had snorted, Alfred had pretended that he hadn’t heard.

Pietro’s massage had helped a little with the cramping, but it hadn’t given Uhtred any more strength, and in the end, they’d bound the weapon to his hand with thick strings of leather, tightening his fingers around a hilt he couldn’t hold. Afterwards, he and Steapa had gone through a few movements, never actually touching blades, too fearful that the impact would break his wrist or tear his tendons.

Yet even then, Uhtred’s leather-bound hand had soon been stiff with pain, and his arm so weak that he couldn’t hold up his sword. Dizzy with exertion and crawling fear, drenched in sweat and out of breath, Uhtred had squatted down, bitterly disillusioned.

It was then that Alfred had approached him, hovering next to where he sat.

“This is progress,” he’d claimed, in the same voice he’d used to argue that fighting wasn’t everything, and Uhtred had glared at him, foul with grief.

“No, this is a disaster,” he’d fumed, almost forgetting himself, “lord.”

Undeterred, Alfred had merely shrugged. “It will improve with time.”

“You don’t know that!”

Fearing another screaming match, Steapa had swiftly bowed and pulled Pietro away by his shawl, and the king had watched them leave, the giant and the dwarf, but he hadn’t pushed the matter any further. Instead, tense and quiet, he’d reached for Uhtred’s arm, helping him up from the ground, sword and sweat and all, and in the bitter cold, he’d unbound Uhtred’s hand with pale, patient fingers – wordlessly, like a servant.

Then they’d stood there, and Uhtred, disarmed by Alfred’s sudden humility, had stared at the walls of the empty courtyard, at the colourless winter sky.

“I want to be the one who cuts off Hæsten’s head,” he’d growled, with dark eyes, shivering and vengeful, and Alfred had turned to him, still so carefully restrained.

“I would enjoy nothing more.”

In his mercy, the king hadn’t commented on how unlikely it was, hadn’t corrected Uhtred’s ambitions, but three days later, Uhtred had to admit that his wish was nothing but a fantasy. Here, in the privacy of Alfred’s rooms, he sadly shook his head.

“I won’t try,” he murmured towards the floor, crushed by the admission. “There is nothing to be gained. I know my wrist would break before the sword draws blood.”

Nodding, Alfred watched him with pinched brows. Surely, he’d known that this would be the outcome, yet he looked just as unhappy as Uhtred felt. He averted his eyes and clenched his jaw, and after a stifling pause, he opened his mouth again, almost reluctant.

“I could stay the execution,” he offered hesitantly, reluctantly. “It doesn’t have to be Epiphany. Not at all costs.”

Uhtred shook his head before he’d even finished speaking.  

“No. That is generous of you, but I want him dead as quickly as possible,” he lied, and as soon as he had said it, he looked away. It took all of his strength not to take the words back, not to fold and accept Alfred’s gracious offer.

Uhtred wanted, yes needed, to kill Hæsten.

But even more than that, he needed reassurance that Alfred was safe, and while the palace walls had lost their terror, he worried about the vermin inside them, the disgruntled lords and priests whose whispers grew louder the longer Alfred kept him close. Those shadowy men surrounded the king every day, circled like vultures, and if involving the Church in Hæsten’s execution, mollifying its bishops with perceived importance, meant that Alfred would be immune to their plotting... then there was no other option than to have it on Epiphany.

Unaware of Uhtred’s turmoil, Alfred nodded.

“Then Epiphany it is.”

He stepped away and sat down on the edge of the bed, his black tunic a stark contrast to the light furs around him. The fabric was tight around Alfred’s forearms, wrapped itself around his wrists like a second skin, and Uhtred noticed how thin they were, how easy it would be to encircle them, to press them into the bed…

No, stop.

“Have you thought about my other offer?” Alfred asked without transition, blue eyes searching Uhtred’s own, “How you want to spend your evenings?”

“You mean your evenings?” Uhtred asked teasingly, and Alfred gave him a small smile.

“I suppose.”

Two days ago, during breakfast, Alfred had asked him whether he was sure that he didn’t want to take Erkenwald up on his offer, and Uhtred had answered that he’d prefer to carve his eyes out with a spoon. From his childhood in Bebbanburg, he knew that nothing was more tedious than Christian instruction; Beocca had tortured him for hours back then, ecstatically ranting about saints who fixed broken eggs and preached to seagulls, and yet almost none of it had stuck.

If Uhtred knew one thing, it was that he didn’t want to suffer through any of that ever again.

At least, he’d been determined not to… and then Alfred had offered to teach him himself, and unfortunately, the promise of more time with him meant that Uhtred would have agreed to suffer through pretty much anything.

Fortunately, Alfred didn’t know that, and for the purpose of negotiation, Uhtred acted as if he was reluctant to accept the offer.

“I don’t want to hear anything about saints,” he warned, trying to minimize his torture. He stepped towards the bed, crossed his arms over his chest. “I hate saints.”

Alfred looked at him as if he had sprouted a second head.

“You hate saints?” he asked, in a tone that emphasized just how preposterous he thought that statement was.

“I do,” Uhtred agreed, “I think they’re rotten liars, the lot of them.” He raised his chin in a wordless challenge, stepped even closer, almost towering over the king now, and Alfred shook his head, once again caught between amusement and annoyance.

“Uhtred, these aren’t the fireside stories of your Gods. The lives of the saints are historical events. They have been documented,” he said, and Uhtred’s brow climbed even higher.

“By who?” he asked.

“By monks, of course,” Alfred answered, as if it was obvious, and Uhtred snorted, his suspicions confirmed.

“Did these monks see how Saint Sithun fixed those eggs? Were they there?“ he asked provocatively.

“Swithun, Uhtred. And he’s not a saint, just a bishop.”

“Saint Sebastian then,” Uhtred tried again, unperturbed by Alfred’s correction. He thought of Ubba’s test, of King Edmund’s last, tortured wheeze. “When the arrows couldn’t kill him, did the monks see that?”

Exasperated, Alfred shifted on the bed. It was an insignificant motion, no more than the slightest adjustment of his weight, but Uhtred was much too aware of it, saw how seductively Alfred’s hips moved beneath the fabric of his robes, and it made him want to step between his knees and-

Fuck.

“They heard it from direct witnesses, Uhtred,” the king sighed, oblivious to Uhtred’s sinful preoccupation.

But he had sidestepped the question, and in response, Uhtred smirked, cocky now.

“They heard it from liars,” he announced, and Alfred shook his head, exasperated.

His hair rippled with the movement, shining dark silk. Right at Alfred’s temples, a few strands of it had turned grey, but instead of lessening his allure, they enhanced it, realized his abstract beauty. Like a vain painter, Alfred’s God had adorned him with perfect imperfections, was flaunting his creation, and Uhtred fought the urge to touch, because in a worldly revival of man’s fall from grace, the king was God’s forbidden fruit. Uhtred wanted to sink his teeth into his neck, wanted to taste the curve of his half-hidden ear, to bury his nose into Alfred’s hair and inhale him deep into his lungs.

What the fuck is wrong with me?  

“You are being foolish,” Alfred said.

And you delicious.

“I’d rather be an honest fool than a holy liar,” Uhtred answered.

Alfred huffed and gave him a strict glare, but he wasn’t upset. Not truly. Rather, it seemed that their argument had enlivened him, as though converting Uhtred to his faith was a challenge he enjoyed. Like a game of chess. Or a battle. 

For the time being, Alfred decided to negotiate for peace.

“No Saints’ Lives then,” he agreed benevolently. “We will start with the Nativity, the birth of Christ. It fits the season.”

Uhtred shook his head, smirk reappearing.

“Look at you. I haven’t said yes yet, and you are already planning my lessons.”

“You wouldn’t argue about saints so much, Uhtred, if you didn’t want my lessons,” Alfred announced knowingly.

That was true, of course, and Alfred’s eyes glimmered with such confidence that Uhtred shrugged and looked away, too close for his own comfort. As always, the king pursued him, prodded at him, hungry for his submission, and Uhtred gave in eventually, but only after a little more resistance… because he rather liked the way Alfred looked when he got flustered.

Afterwards, in the afterglow of their battle, they discussed the next day, got tangled in a few organizational matters, and then, much too soon, their conversation ebbed away and it became time for Uhtred to leave.

He bowed, unwilling.

“Goodnight, lord,” he said, moving to leave, but apparently, Alfred wasn’t ready to let him go. He held up a hand, mustered Uhtred with sharp eyes.

“You don’t use my name,” he observed, calm and to the point, yet it sounded almost like an accusation.

Uhtred stopped short.

“Lord?”

“I’ve given you permission to use my name,” Alfred stated calmly, “Yet you don’t use it. In fact, if anything, you call me lord more often now than ever.”

Light blue eyes watched his every move, and Uhtred squirmed, speechless.

“Is something the matter?”

“No, lord.”

He hadn’t anticipated this, hadn’t even noticed the behaviour himself, but now that Alfred had brought it up, he felt surprisingly uncomfortable, as if he’d been found out.

“Then why?” Alfred asked, and Uhtred shrugged.

“I guess I’m saving it,” he admitted before he could think of an excuse, and in the following silence between them, he felt his traitorous face begin to tingle as he tried to hold the king’s stare.

“Saving it?” Alfred asked, uncomprehendingly, “For what are you saving it?”

Uhtred licked his lips, suddenly hesitant. But he’d already said it, so there was no going back.

“A special occasion, I suppose,” he mumbled. “It feels like using it should be special, I don’t know...” He shrugged for the third time, mortified now, cursing himself for his own honesty. “It’s stupid.”

Alfred hummed, but in contemplation rather than agreement, and his eyes turned gentle. It was the last straw that forced Uhtred to look away. He focused on the unthreatening edge of Alfred’s collar, his cheeks and ears burning as he finally, definitely flushed.

The short pause that followed felt like a lifetime.

God, this is pathetic.

Just when Uhtred thought he’d die on the spot, Alfred released him from his torment.

“You honour me, Uhtred,” he said softly, pensively, and Uhtred cleared his throat, very aware of the weight of Alfred’s eyes on him, of his own stupid, glowing face.

“May I go, lord?” he asked, cringing at how subservient he sounded, how his question was an obvious attempt to retreat. It didn’t matter. Whatever was happening made him feel much too vulnerable, was sickeningly intimate, and he would escape it any way he could.

Alfred watched him a second longer, a knowing smile tucking at his lips.

“You may,” he allowed.

Chapter Text

Above them, the sun stood at its highest point in the sky. It shone down onto their sweating faces with unusual vigour, illuminated sand-coloured tiles and green, ivy-clad walls. Sparrows dipped into the courtyard, hopping on the ground in search of food. They were thin, with winter-blackened beaks, but to Uhtred, it felt as if the colder season, with all its discomfort and austere joylessness, had retreated for the day. 

Warm with sunlight and movement, he grunted and rocked to the side, Steapa’s weapon passing by his chin so closely that, for a heart-racing second, Uhtred feared that he wouldn’t be able to dodge it. His lungs felt as if they were going to explode, knees ready to collapse, and so Uhtred hurried two steps back and raised his arms in a gesture of defeat, his dagger raised into the air, his palm burning around it, fingers clinging to the hilt in red-hot cramps. 

“Wait- Wait!” 

When Steapa heard his cry and halted his advance, body rocking to a stop, Uhtred unceremoniously dropped to the ground, trying desperately to catch his breath.

“Fucking-” He gulped for air. “Hell… I need a break.”

Steapa smirked and lowered the wooden stick in his hand. Satisfied with his work, he watched Uhtred’s prone form cough and groan on the tiles.

“You’re getting better, lord,” he announced, confirming Uhtred’s tentative suspicion, “In a few months, you’ll be back to normal – as unskilled as ever.”

“Funny,” Uhtred retorted, exhausted but happy, glancing up at Steapa, “I wonder how you’ll like that joke when I beat you for the first time.”

Steapa huffed.

“If you beat me,” he corrected, showing teeth.

It was a grin between friends, yet he looked scary enough to send lesser men to hell, and for the umpteenth time that day, Uhtred silently thanked the Gods, thanked the God, that Steapa wasn’t his enemy. Cheered on by restored hope and cloudless skies, he grinned back at him, but then a renewed wave of pain seized his hand, shooting up his arm in a string of fire, and his smile faltered as he frowned, a dark mark appearing on the shining optimism their banter had invoked. 

“If indeed,” he murmured. “Still can’t hold my sword.” 

Steapa only shrugged, unperturbed. “You can dodge an attack and hold a weapon,” he said, nodding to the small but deadly dagger that Uhtred was still gripping with grim determination. “That’s enough to kill a man.” 

Squinting against the sun, Uhtred gave him a weak nod. 

“Right...”

But what about two men? 

What about four?

And what about an army?

His doubt must have shown on his face, because Steapa sighed. 

“The Roman’s right, lord. You lack patience,” he grumbled, and Uhtred wanted to protest, but he held his tongue. 

After all, Steapa meant to encourage him, and it would have been nice to believe it, to think that practice and patience could solve all of his problems - only Uhtred wasn’t so sure. The fear inside him was too great to dismiss, and so he cast their conversation as far from his mind as he could. Instead of worrying about the future, Uhtred switched his weapon to his unstrained left hand, accustoming it to its weight, and tried to focus on the present. He stretched his limbs out on the floor and turned his head to the side, closing his eyes for a moment as he enjoyed the sun, mossy sandstone warm against his cheek. 

Left without an answer, Steapa sensed his mood and left him alone, sitting down on one of the nearby benches, and for a while, Uhtred didn't move. When he opened his eyes again, he watched the vertical stream of languid priests and busy servants that poured through the shadowed arcade. Like this, with his head on the floor, Alfred’s priests looked as if they were walking straight down, all the way down to hell, a torrent of people that was as rotten as it was unremarkable. 

The court , Uhtred thought mockingly, the least impressive of all mortal dangers. 

Like a rabid bat. Or a festering boil.

As he enjoyed the warmth of the floor, watching and judging, the fattened, cross-draped boils watched him right back, visibly irritated by his strange and unseemly behaviour. A few times, Uhtred saw their eyes catch on the ring of scars that crowned his head, stumble to his nail-pierced hands, and when afterwards, he met their gaze, they lowered their heads and hurried on, shamefaced and rattled, like children.

Their reactions gave him a dark sense of satisfaction; he wouldn’t lie. 

Drops of sweat ran down his temple, stung his eyes, and still he was too content to care, his body too heavy to move. His veins were thrumming with that full, exhilarating happiness that followed rapid movement, and he wondered how he’d managed to go without it for so long, how he’d almost forgotten about it. 

It was only when he heard a crash to his right that his peace was disturbed, and he quickly sat up. 

There, an arm’s length away from him, lay Osferth, gasping for air. 

“Here it is! Another win for Wessex’s deadliest and most handsome defender,” Finan cried triumphantly above him, raising his glinting sword towards the sky. “Witness me in all my God-given glory!” 

Grinning, he bowed to a passing group of young nuns, delighting in their half-hidden glances and shy giggles, and one of them, a pretty girl with fair strands of hair that spilt from a close-fitting bonnet, was so distracted by him that she slowed her step. When Finan winked at her, she blushed and froze completely, so that one of her sisters ran into her and the pair nearly tumbled to the ground. It was an unexpected mess, and while Uhtred laughed, Steapa shook his head and hid his eyes behind a meaty hand, muttering something about insufferable Irishmen. 

When the nuns had righted themselves, red-faced and mortified, Finan turned to his fallen opponent, pleased with the havoc he had caused.

“Are you alright there, baby monk?” he asked Osferth, who had by now made it onto his hands and knees, puffing and groaning. Finan reached out a hand to him, and Osferth took it, pulling himself up from the floor. 

“Alright?” Finan asked again, mustering Osferth’s lowered head, a tinge of worry in his voice because he hadn’t gotten an immediate answer.

The young man nodded.

“Yeah, yeah… just my pride,” he announced stoically, brushing the dust off his robes, and Uhtred winked at him from his spot on the floor.

“I know the feeling, Osferth,” he assured, heart softened by the sight of his men, safe and playful, gathered around him. He was filled with a sense of camaraderie that he had missed for too long, and he didn’t want Osferth to feel excluded from it, or to feel less capable than the older, more experienced fighters around him. 

The monk gave him a shy smile before he himself reached out a hand, and Uhtred took it, abused muscles aching.

In truth, he was startled by the ease with which Osferth pulled him up, but then he supposed Osferth was a young man, malleable in that way only young men seemed to be, and in recent weeks, he had spent most of his time training. The boy shared Alfred’s narrow face, his intelligent eyes, but he had chosen the path of a warrior, and after hours of training, Osferth's shoulders had become much broader than those of his father. 

While your shoulders have grown narrower,  Uhtred reminded himself moodily.

“Oi! Another round, or what?” Finan called across the yard, slicing through Uhtred’s dark thoughts as he mustered the figure that had been watching from one of the archways, silent as a shadow. “Can’t go home yet, anyway. Your wife’s still fucking the neighbours!”

With a roll of his eyes, Sihtric stirred, but before he could answer, Steapa’s massive body rose from his bench.

“No!” he denied, stepping towards the middle of the courtyard as he adjusted his belt, his sword hand already on his weapon. “No, you’ve avoided me long enough, Irishman. It’s time you man up and face me.”

“Much harder to do when it means looking at something like that,” Finan retorted, pointing his sword at Steapa’s scarred head. He gave Sihtric an apologetic shrug, but he was already turning around, preparing for a challenge, and he looked delighted, almost giddy as the tip of his weapon followed his opponent’s every move.

Thankful for a break, Uhtred heaved himself off the floor and took Steapa’s place on the bench. From there, he watched Osferth step aside to make room for the two men, his eyes gleaming with excitement, ready for a show.

A show Finan and Steapa were happy to provide. 

At first, they traded a few half-hearted blows, probing for each other’s weaknesses, for habitual reactions that could be exploited, but the sound of metal soon grew louder, their movements quicker, and Uhtred’s eyes glued themselves to their glittering swords, curious who’d be victorious. Just when their fight began in earnest though, his attention was called away.

“Uhtred.”

Alfred.

Startled, he spun around, fight forgotten, and there he was, the king, standing under the shaded colonnade, no more than six feet behind him.

How the fuck-

“Lord,” Uhtred greeted, at once rising to show his respect. 

Reluctant to draw more attention than necessary, Alfred silently motioned him closer, and Uhtred obeyed, quickly bridging the short distance between them. As always, Alfred looked regal, stern and dignified, and despite his enthusiasm, Uhtred kept some distance between them. He was very conscious of the fact that he was covered in sweat, that a mere minute ago, he’d been lying on the dust-covered floor. 

Gods, I must smell like a turd.

Alfred was watching him, steel-eyed and all-seeing, and Uhtred felt the urge to squirm.

“You are stealthy, lord,” he observed, to distract himself from the quiet intensity of Alfred’s gaze. “I didn’t hear you approach.”

Turning his attention to the fighting men, the king shrugged.

“You were distracted,” he reasoned, too humble to accept the offered compliment, but Uhtred could tell that he was happy with it nonetheless. For a few moments, they watched the fight together, the clashing blades, both furious and harmless, and then Alfred looked at him again, just fleetingly, before he directed his gaze to contemplate his folded hands.

“Will you walk with me for a while?” he asked, as if the thought had just occurred to him, “Or are you still training?”  

Uhtred’s heart stumbled like a drunk. 

It was a powerful drug, Alfred’s favour.

“I can walk,” he said, a little too quickly, and then immediately cringed at how eager he sounded.

Thankfully, the king didn't seem to notice it, though. He simply acknowledged Uhtred's answer with a dip of his head, then turned to step back into the shadowed arcade, and as soon as Uhtred followed, he mourned the warmth of the courtyard, a dark chill licking at his damp skin and up his neck. He’d discarded his jacket during training, was dressed in nothing more than one of his silken tunics, and if it had been up to him, they would have stayed in the sun. But Alfred was the sort of man who spent his time buried in books, who dressed for the theory of winter rather than its unpredictable reality, too busy to look outside, and Uhtred supposed the excessive warmth of the sun would have made him uncomfortable in his woolen cassock.

In any case, in the presence of beauty, Uhtred’s discomfort was soon forgotten.

Here, in the shadows, a light breeze wove through the pillars as they walked, and while Uhtred’s hair was bound for practice, the king’s looked tousled. Its strands shifted in the draft, and where its usual sleekness gave Alfred an edge, it now softened him in its disarray. It was an unusual sight, that softness, and in the secrecy of his own mind, Uhtred compared it to how Alfred looked in those early hours of the morning, right before sleep faded under shifting furs, and the flutter of his eyelids announced a new day.

“Walking facilitates the mind, I find,” Alfred announced into the silence, his steps measured and even, “It helps me to order my thoughts.”

“Beocca says the same,” Uhtred mentioned diplomatically, for he didn't actually agree. In the past, when problems had arisen, he’d always preferred the quiet of the night, with its comforting stillness and solitude, its long hours, free of watching eyes and never-ending demands on his time.

Now, expecting neither stillness nor solitude, he frowned when Alfred didn’t say anything else.

“What did you want to discuss, lord?” he asked, unsure of what the king had to order his thoughts about, what problems he was alluding to, but Alfred merely shook his head, his hands firmly clasped behind his back. 

“Nothing.”

Frown deepening, Uhtred searched Alfred’s profile for a clue about his mood, but he found nothing. They continued their walk in silence, and though Uhtred tried to keep his distance, still worried about his possible stench, Alfred stayed close to him. It was as if he sought shelter in Uhtred’s proximity, as if he knew of a purpose for their meeting, of something Uhtred knew not, and so when finally, they came to a halt, Uhtred stopped right beside him, stayed closer than propriety demanded, instinctively covering him from unseen threats. 

They had reached the darkest corner of the cloister, sheltered from the bustling activity around them, and yet Alfred seemed restless. He glanced down both sides of the colonnade, then to the middle of the courtyard, then to Uhtred, and all the while he looked unsure, disquieted somehow.

Uhtred frowned. Was he missing something? Reflexively, his own eyes travelled the courtyard, looking for enemies, for potential threats and quick routes of escape. Alfred’s restlessness had infected him, and now his thoughts raced around Æthelwold’s ominous threats of a renewed rebellion, dark shadows suddenly lurking beneath the sunlit reprieve of a bitter winter - like the calm before the storm.

Has something happened?  his mind whispered, panic growing. Has he been threatened?

In his left hand, Uhtred was still holding his dagger, and pain flared as his muscles tightened around its leather-bound hilt. Typically so purposeful, Alfred’s current behaviour, his wandering eyes and hesitant silence, didn’t seem right.

Are we being watched? 

Is there going to be an attack?

Uhtred’s body tensed, quickly flooding with nameless fears, and without thinking, he looked to his friends, to Steapa, his brothers in arms, calculating how many men they could take.

How many men can you take, hm?  his mind whispered anxiously. 

One? Two?

Beside him, the king shifted his weight, and Uhtred woke from his spiraling terror. 

What is he -

Alfred looked agitated, but not necessarily fearful. Frowning, he cleared his throat.

“It’s a nice day,” he observed, almost listlessly, like a weary host, and tension fell from Uhtred’s body in a rush of prickling air.

“A nice day?” he repeated in disbelief, his muscles loosening as relief washed over him.

“Yes,” Alfred said gravely. “Don’t you think?”

“No, I- It is, lord.”

“Yes... It is…” 

The king nodded stiffly, but he didn’t meet his gaze. Instead, he watched the courtyard, followed clanging swords and passing nuns, and Uhtred realized that he had rarely seen him so lost.

Look at him.

“Sunlight seems to draw people outside,” Alfred stated, apparently still grasping for a subject, and when he finally turned to face Uhtred, he frowned and his pale eyes narrowed. “What?” 

Uhtred tried his hardest to suppress his reaction.

“Nothing, lord," he said, but insolent delight had already begun to pull at the corners of his mouth, madness bouncing off his ribs.

Gods.

“It doesn’t seem to be nothing.”

That's adorable.

“It’s just…” Uhtred donned the most earnest expression he could muster, “I’ve never seen you so interested in the weather before...”

For a moment, Alfred only stared at him. Then he sensed Uhtred’s meaning and huffed as his shoulders relaxed.

“Do not be childish,” he chided, instantly more sure of himself now that he was back to sniping. “I was making conversation.”

Losing his fight for restraint, Uhtred smiled. 

“Is that what it was, lord?” he asked, his enjoyment evident.

The king didn’t answer right away. Shaking his head, he glared a steely blue, and Uhtred looked away, careful not to take his teasing too far. He knew that Alfred wasn’t used to this kind of banter. It wasn’t kingly, didn’t fit the rules of the court, and so Alfred, perfect monarch that he was, tried to disapprove of it.

Except he couldn’t quite bring himself to do so... 

Uhtred’s mirth was infectious, even without eye contact, and it seized Alfred’s heart against his will, threatening to topple his dutiful dignity, so he spoke before he could lose his composure.

“You asked for this Uhtred,” he stressed, amusement bright in his voice, yet still half-indignant, battling his hurt pride, “It was you who insisted we talk.” 

Uhtred chortled.

“About the weather, lord?” 

That caused the scales of Alfred’s mood to tip, and Uhtred quickly put up his hands in a gesture of appeasement, the attempt dampened by the dagger there, baring its blade in an all too incongruous manner. They watched each other then, and Uhtred held his breath to keep from laughing. 

“I am happy to talk,” he promised, voice cracking, and Alfred’s scales tipped further. 

“This was a mistake.”

“No, please, I-“

“It’s already obnoxious and I’m minded to end it.”

“Don’t,” Uhtred requested earnestly, abruptly sobering up. “I want to. I swear.”

“Then talk,” Alfred snapped, sounding more petulant than Uhtred had ever heard him, “You are most certainly capable of doing it without much thought.”

Uhtred nodded, ignoring the jab. After all, it was a just price for his earlier joy. For a second he panicked, fearing that he might not actually think of something to say, but a moment later, two or three things came to his mind, easily, as was his nature, and his nerves abated.

“Did you finish that law about sending the sons of all ealdormen to prison?” he asked, and watched Alfred roll his eyes to heaven in an exasperated plea for God’s intervention.

“It’s compulsory schooling, Uhtred,” he corrected snidely, “I am making sure that the future leaders of Wessex are being formed into men of noble character – who value wisdom over vengeance and loyalty over greed!” 

“Right,” Uhtred agreed, with a sarcastic edge to his tone. “That makes a renewed rebellion less likely… except if they end up resenting you for taking their youth.”

“I am not taking their youth. I am ennobling it.” 

“Of course, lord.”

Alfred shot him a punishing glare, and Uhtred relented, glancing away. He knew it was risky to do this, to keep needling like this, but he was addicted to testing the boundaries of their new relationship. Every reckless step forward, every insolent remark that passed without consequence, filled him with a bright warmth that made the sun feel like a dying flame.

“So did you finish it, that law?” he asked again.

“I did, yes. Why do you ask?”

Uhtred hummed, his gaze trained into the distance.

“On what age have you decided?” he asked. When he didn't get an answer, he looked to Alfred, who was looking back at him, wordlessly, a single brow raised. 

“What?"

“Nothing,” Alfred echoed him mockingly, “It’s just that I have never seen you so interested in my laws before.” 

“That’s not–“ Uhtred shook his head, perplexed. “That’s not the same thing at all! I’m not pretending to care about the weather. You’re a king. Anyone would take interest in the work of a king!”

Now, Alfred’s eyebrow rose to the ceiling. 

“Is that so?” he asked, more than a little skeptical. “Is that what you wanted to talk about then, Uhtred? My work... The grain crisis in Kent?”

Uhtred shrugged, suddenly unsure. He hadn’t expected that Alfred would make a big deal out of it. In truth, he had simply wanted to know more about him, to hear his thoughts, his voice, to be to Alfred what Finan was to him, what Gisela had been – a refuge for his thoughts, his worries. 

“Yes?” he asked, though he had meant to sound certain, and in response, Alfred's mouth pulled into a mocking imitation of impressed acknowledgement.

“Well in that case, let me tell you about my decision to reroute grain to Eorpeburnan.”

“Eorpeburnan?” Uhtred repeated, taken aback by the subject of conversation. Eorpeburnan was indeed in Kent, or at least he thought it might be, because to his knowledge, it was barely a town. In fact, he had heard of it only once before, in a conversation between soldiers – about brothels that weren’t worth visiting. 

“Yes,” Alfred agreed thoughtfully, as if he had read his mind. “It is barely more than a settlement, but it is strategically important. I had planned to build a burh there, come spring. Today’s deciding question revolved around the needed number and size of carts, you see. If they are too small, the endeavor becomes too costly - too many carts and horses for the amount of grain that is required, especially since the benefit of this effort is still rather uncertain.” As if deep in thought, he angled his head to the side and raised a finger, calling attention to his next point. “However, the needed amount of grain cannot be changed, and if I send only a few carts and they are too large, there’s a risk that they’ll get stuck when it rains, for the needed roads aren’t Roman and they flood and turn to mud. Then in that case the grain would be ruined and the cost even higher.”

Uhtred stared at him. His enthusiasm was already hopelessly lost, regret brewing, and Alfred enjoyed that, visibly, for he was only just beginning.

“It took me a while to calculate the risk, I will admit,” he explained, “At first, I took an interest in the weather, actually. The frequency of rain in-”

“Point taken,” Uhtred groaned, interrupting him, and Alfred hummed but nodded soberly.

“Ah yes. Perhaps we should avoid that particular subject,” he said, a twinkle in his eye that betrayed his otherwise serious expression. “The general logistics then. How the crown comes into possession of grain in the first place; how the tithing is paid depending on its nature and site of taxation. Clearly, to tax coin is easy, but to tax grain-”

Uhtred sighed loudly.

“I said point taken,” he repeated wearily, and Alfred finally stilled. It was his turn to look triumphant now.

“How quickly your interest has waned,” he observed, with a self-satisfied smirk that heated something in Uhtred’s body, deep inside his gut.

“That’s not-“ he started to argue, but before he could finish, a loud bout of laughter interrupted him, and they both turned their heads, searching for the source of the noise. 

It was Sihtric, who stood doubled over, hands on his knees as he shook with laughter, at last breaking his silence, and when Uhtred followed his eyes, he saw that Finan had grabbed a passing monk by the back of his robes and was now using him as cover, swinging him around to escape Steapa’s attacks. The monk was quickly bleeding colour, screaming at Finan to let him go, and Steapa was caught in a conflicted dance of charging and stopping, appeared to be a mixture of helpless, scandalized, and highly entertained.

“That is-“ Alfred began, eyes widening as his shoulders stiffened, and Uhtred hurried to intervene before he lost his best man.

“Finan!” he cried, giving his voice an authoritative edge that existed for Alfred’s ears alone. “Let the man go! What do you think you are doing?”

At once doing as he was told, Finan turned, surprised at Uhtred’s tone, but understanding dawned on his face when he saw Alfred, presumably noticing him only now.

“Apologies, lord,” he called back, quickly bowing in the king’s direction as his hostage stumbled to safety, cursing him. “Lord king. I didn’t mean to cause offence.” 

Uhtred shook his head in disapproval.

“This is the king’s court, Finan. You will act accordingly, or you’ll leave,” he told him harshly, still controlling the damage done, pre-emptively managing Alfred’s temper. “You should know better than to mistreat the servants of your God.”

“Yes, lord. You are right, lord. Forgive me.”

“Well…” Uhtred paused, unsure of how to end this play they were staging, “You better... see that it doesn’t happen again.”

Hurriedly, Finan nodded, though he shot Uhtred a knowing look.

“Yes, lord. Lord king.” He bowed again, more deeply this time, turning back to Steapa before he straightened, no doubt hiding a theatrical grimace. 

Careful to hide his own amusement, Uhtred turned to Alfred.

“Forgive him, lord. He likes to play the jester,” he said, fully expecting a lecture about decency, but to his surprise, Alfred didn’t seem too angry. He was frowning, yes, but his eyes didn’t carry the cold disapproval he showed incapable servants or daft guards. Instead, there was something warmer there, something more familiar.

“I am well aware,” he declared, with a resigned sternness that seemed almost paternal. “I spent enough time with him to see his nature for myself. He is a good man, but it is crucial that you set him boundaries.” 

Uhtred didn’t answer right away, too surprised was he by Alfred’s statement. In theory, he had known that Finan, like Alfred, had been glued to his bedside in Dunwhich, that the two men must have spoken, but Alfred’s tone suggested a degree of aquaintance that hadn’t quite dawned on him before. 

While Uhtred digested this new information, Alfred’s frown lessened a little. 

“Though I must admit that his behaviour is not without merit,” he continued, thinking out loud, “It was a comfort, in Dunwhich. I don’t think I could have-” Just as abruptly as he'd begun to speak, Alfred broke off and lowered his head. His jaw tightened. He looked like a man who'd realized that he'd misspoken, and Uhtred felt a lump form in his throat, the air between them heavy with unspoken truths. 

What? he thought, You couldn't have what?

But Alfred remained silent, stood stiff as the columns before them, and Uhtred shifted uncomfortably, easy banter forgotten.

Oh Gods.

What do I say?

With every creeping second, he could feel his neck warm in the cold, his skin prickle in the draft. This was terrible. This was worse than Alfred asking him why he didn’t use his name. Uhtred wanted to stop it, to say something, anything, and yet the silence kept ringing.

Do I acknowledge it?

Do I ask him how it- how he-

A hot flash rushed through his chest, his face, embarrassment flaring like fire.

No. 

I can’t do that.

That’s too personal, that’s-

Alfred exhaled, clearing his throat.

“Why the monk?” he asked. His voice was too flat, so tense it sounded brittle, and yet Uhtred recognized it as salvation, a valiant attempt to change the subject. He frowned, trying to comprehend the question.

At first, he thought that Alfred had to be talking about a monk in Dunwhich, or about one of the men who had swarmed around Uhtred’s bed in the palace, making pastes and praying, but then, after a moment of confusion, he realized that Alfred’s attention was focused on the courtyard again. When he followed his gaze, he found the object of his curiosity - a young man in robes, narrow-faced and lanky – and though Uhtred was relieved to escape their previous predicament, he felt slightly blindsided.

“I… what?”

“Why do you have a monk among your men?” Alfred repeated, watching Osferth impishly bump against Finan’s shoulder as he said something inaudible. The boy had a lopsided grin on his face, prominent cheekbones and a regal nose, and there, beneath the winter sky, he looked more like Alfred than Edward ever had.  

“I doubt you keep him for his spiritual guidance.” 

Uhtred shook his head. Then he huffed, because the notion was funny, and his heart pounding.

“He’s not providing much guidance, no.”

“Then why?”

Because he’s your son.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Uhtred shrugged, dagger pressed flat against the golden symbol of Wessex that spread across his stumbling heart.

“Osferth is a good man to have,” he said, because it was true. “You’d like him. He’s sickeningly pious.” 

“Is he?” 

Though he tried his best to sound unconcerned, Alfred’s tone perked up. Tense only seconds before, it seemed that he had already forgotten his earlier misstep, was suspiciously invested in the conversation, and despite his nervousness, Uhtred felt warmth spread through his chest. He nodded, though he followed it with a sigh. 

“He really is. Won’t shut up about hell, that boy,” he complained, and Alfred’s features softened even further. 

“It suits a man to be God-fearing,” he praised, bright-eyed, before he remembered his earlier question, “Though I suspect it is not his piety you value.” 

Uhtred huffed again, nerves slowly abating.

“Of course not, no. But Gisela liked him... And he’s loyal, you know? Courageous, too. Last spring, he killed a man twice his size by jumping on him from a tree – it must have been nine feet, at least.” Uhtred shrugged. “Pure luck, but courageous nonetheless.”

Humming, Alfred looked to the floor. He sounded disinterested, as if Uhtred was rambling, but his expression was too blank, his eyes still soft and shining bright, and he looked hopelessly, unmistakably proud. 

Warm with affection, Uhtred wondered how Alfred had ever managed to trick anybody.

“He was sickly thin when he came to me,” he elaborated, primarily to feed Alfred’s happiness, though he was a little proud himself. “This year, he’s finally gained some muscle…”

Alfred nodded pensively. 

“Yes, he looks strong.” 

“Mm… Still, he’s not a warrior.”

At once, much too quickly, Alfred turned to stare at him.

“Unskilled?” he asked, almost comically dismayed, and Uhtred shook his head to calm him.

“No, not unskilled,” he denied reassuringly, boldness blooming, “Just that war doesn’t suit him.” 

Alfred frowned, contemplating this, and when he turned his attention back to Osferth, Uhtred carefully looked around them. He counted five guards, four priests and two passing servants, all far enough away, and then he scanned the arcade, left and right. When Uhtred was certain that they were alone, he stepped to the nearest column, leaning against it with his back towards his men. There, he watched Alfred watch Osferth, his blood rushing, excitement building as he prepared for his moment. 

It was time.

“Osferth is soft-hearted,” he said, drawing on his courage. “Like his father.”

As predicted, Alfred’s eyes shot to his, wide with surprise, but when he saw that Uhtred was waiting for him, was studying him, surprise sparked panic and he quickly turned away, expression snapping into habitual nothingness, into that safe mask of a king. 

“Who is his father?” he asked, in an attempt to save himself, but the change in his behaviour was too sudden, his question too hastily spoken, and so the effort became laughable.

Undeterred, Uhtred kept silent. 

He waited, watched as Alfred’s profile stiffened further with every passing second, and as always when he found himself backed into a corner, Alfred grew irritated.

“Well?” he asked sharply, and Uhtred shrugged, careful to keep his tone gentle, his voice low. 

“I thought you’d know how that works, lord.”

Possibly growing even stiffer, Alfred didn’t speak, but he looked to Uhtred’s men, who were still fighting and laughing, and then he quickly scanned the rest of the courtyard, eyes catching on the gaggle of priests to their left, on the five guards at the palace entryway.

“None of them are close enough to hear us,” Uhtred promised evenly, calming him, “I made sure.”

Alfred looked at him then, his expression intense but unreadable, and after a while, Uhtred wondered whether he was in trouble, whether he’d pushed a step too far. In the prolonged silence, dread pooled in his stomach, whispering that this was a secret too heavy for their fragile bond to bear. 

But then Alfred returned his gaze back to Uhtred’s men, dark hair framing eyes that were pale as clouds.

“I am not soft-hearted,” he murmured, as if their struggle for dominance had never occurred, and Uhtred released a breath that he hadn’t noticed he’d held.

“Yes, you are,” he replied, full of fondness.

It was the wrong thing to say. 

Like Thor’s hammer, it gathered a storm in Alfred’s eyes, brought back his irritation, clouds turning to shadows in the blink of an eye. Clearly, the king was unhappy with Uhtred’s easy manner, with his light-hearted declaration.

“I mean it, Uhtred.” Alfred glared at him, old worries resurfacing. “Do not fool yourself into believing your own lies. Refusing to listen to me will not change the matter.”

Uhtred sighed. He had meant to banter, to feel the power of his privilege, selfishly maybe, and he was becoming increasingly frustrated with Alfred’s excessive reactions.

“I listen to you, lord. I-”

“Do you?” Alfred interrupted him harshly, gaze piercing into Uhtred’s soul. “I’m not so sure. I asked you to mind your tongue in public, and you take a risk like this...” He shook his head, brows drawing together as he finally looked away, into the ivy-clad distance. “I say it again: you feel too safe.”

Now that Alfred wasn’t watching him anymore, Uhtred rolled his eyes, tired of being lectured. He hated this feeling. Since his feelings for the king had changed, Alfred’s criticism cut him more deeply than it had in the past. 

“It’s not in public if no one is listening,” he argued sullenly, “And it’s not a risk if I am sure of that. You don’t need to worry, I know what I’m doi-”

Alfred scoffed.

“I don’t need to worry? Uhtred, you- I’ve executed dozens and dozens of people.” 

Startled into silence, Uhtred frowned, his mouth opening in wordless confusion. What was that supposed to mean? Whatever it meant, it was ridiculous. Unconsciously rising to the challenge, he pushed himself off the column behind him, stepping closer.

“Of course you have! What does that have to do with anything?” he asked defiantly, and Alfred turned to answer him, decidedly unimpressed by Uhtred’s attempts at deflection, his refusal to comprehend.

“Some of them were my friends," he said, his face tight as he watched Uhtred shrug.

“So? That doesn’t mean I’ll join the list. And it doesn’t mean that you aren’t soft-hearted... You do your duty, but you hate it.” 

Now, to Uhtred’s horror, the king raised his chin.

“Are you calling me weak?” he asked, bitingly, a wounded animal, and Uhtred felt his own irritation disappear, his temper cooling in regret’s icy grasp.

“What?! No, that’s not- No!” He shook his head, quickly denying the charge, urging Alfred to hear him. “I would never call you weak! That is the last thing I think of you!” 

“Then why challenge me?”

Already tired of their bickering, Uhtred sighed and looked to the ceiling. There, high above him, Roman stones mocked him, reminding him of centuries of self-important men, of legacies and expectations, all of which pressed on Alfred’s shoulders...  so when Uhtred’s eyes returned to the man he loved, he knew he had himself to blame.

Alfred looked hurt.

His eyes were hard, rigid in the way that reminded Uhtred of the night of their fight, and for a moment, he closed his eyes, world spinning. Not in a million years had he thought that his careless teasing would spin out of control like this. Yet he should have known better.

What is wrong with you?

Why do you keep pushing him?

Swallowing his instinctive impulses to argue, to react, Uhtred opened his eyes and forced himself to stay calm. Determined to fix his mistake, he tried again.

“Lord,” he begun, trying his best to sound deferential, to soothe the king’s pride, “I’m simply saying that killing is harder on you than it is on me. It has nothing to do with weakness and all to do with disposition. Every man must fight his own limits. It is an honorable thing.” 

Uhtred waited, hoped for his words to take effect, and finally, after a moment that felt like ages, Alfred’s eyes flickered down to Uhtred’s hands, his expression softening, and he looked away.

“Like you fight your injuries?” he asked, his voice unexpectedly soft again, more curious than displeased, and Uhtred’s shoulders lowered a bit as his pulse slowed. He nodded, then realized that Alfred couldn’t see it.

“Yes, lord.”

“Or the inability to hold your tongue.”

Uhtred sighed, knowing he deserved it. “I guess, yes…”

“Your obstinate bouts of disobedience, your recklessness, your pathological-”

“Alright, that’s-“

“ What are my limits, then?” 

Alfred turned back to him, expectant and open, and Uhtred froze, caught unprepared by the sight. Beneath the constant, throbbing pain of his scarred palm, he felt the ghostly press of lips against knuckles, against taut skin and aching bone. He felt his own skin, sheltered between shaking hands and damp with tears, scorched by the warmth of a kiss that lasted forever and not long enough.

“Are you going to watch Hæsten die?” he asked Alfred, and the king looked back at him in disbelief. 

“Of course. Why?”

Unbothered, Uhtred shrugged, as if it was a valid question. “You didn’t watch my fight with Leofric.”

At once, the king frowned and shook his head, ridiculing the idea.

“That was different, you know that,” he argued, and Uhtred raised a brow, secretly delighted by the admission.

“Why?” he asked teasingly, “Were we not so important?”

“You were not so disliked, Uhtred,” Alfred corrected, and just as he realized that he had walked into a trap, Uhtred smirked and raised a brow. 

“See!” he said triumphantly, boyish glee on his face as he raised his dagger and used it to point at Alfred’s chest, at his heart, “Soft-hearted.”

Alfred froze in the midst of his rebuttal, surprised blue eyes drawn to the flash of Uhtred’s blade, but before he could say something, before Uhtred could realize what he had done, another voice boomed across the courtyard.

“DROP THE WEAPON!” Steapa bellowed, his mail rattling as he took two strides in Uhtred’s direction, separating from the group of startled faces around him, a mountain of muscle and iron that was suddenly, unwaveringly trained on one person alone, “NOW!” 

Accompanied by the clattering of metal on stone, Uhtred threw up his hands and took a step backwards, sheepishly grimacing as he watched Alfred hold up a palm, halting the guards that were already rushing towards him. In the chaos around them, the king looked calm, his lack of fear plainly visible in the ease of his movements, face schooled into a display of cool composure. Beneath that composure, visible only to those who knew him, was a hint of amusement.

Steapa, on the other hand, didn’t look the slightest bit amused. 

“Uhtred!” he cursed, as if it was a full sentence, veins stark against his neck, and Uhtred raised his hands even higher.

“My mistake!" he shouted back, happy to admit it, "Didn't think!"

Steapa snarled.

“You ever point a weapon at him again and I will turn you inside out and milk your spleen!” 

Instinctively, Uhtred felt the urge to talk back, his current pose humiliating enough for his liking, but after a second of thought, he swallowed his pride. 

He had fucked up - it was true. He’d held a weapon to the king’s heart, in a time of political turmoil no less, and the fact that his face wasn’t pressed against the ground this very moment, a dozen spearheads pointed at his back, was a veritable miracle - a feat that few people could have pulled off. Looking around him, he was very aware of the commotion he had caused, of the many eyes that were trained on him as a consequence, and he knew well enough that it was the definition of public.

No, this wasn’t the time to argue. 

Unfortunately, Finan didn't seem to share his opinion.

“You know we can hear you, right, big guy?” he asked Steapa, uncomfortably loud in the tense silence, prepared to poke a beehive for nothing but his own entertainment, “You wouldn’t make it more than two steps towards him.” 

Steapa spun to face him, rushing with unspent aggression.

“Why, because I’d slip in your blood?” he growled.

“That’s enough.” 

Alfred’s voice was quiet, the correction mild, but it carried, and all of them, Steapa and Finan, Uhtred, stopped their posturing as soon as he had spoken. Finan and Steapa stepped away from each other, friendly coexistence spoiled for the day, and Uhtred dropped his hands as his men gathered near the gate, huddling together, more careful after the peace had been disturbed. 

Self-conscious, Uhtred cleared his throat, very aware of the dagger at his feet.

“So much for my recklessness,” he said lightly, though it wasn’t entirely in jest. “I suppose I have to thank you for sparing me a beating.”

Above them, the sky had drained of colour, and strands of hair fluttered across Alfred’s eyes before he flicked them away with a practised shake of his head.

“I was conflicted for a moment,” he confessed coolly, “After your performance today.”

“My performance? “

“The ridicule, the insolence-”

“I wasn’t trying to ridicule.”

“And yet you outdid yourself.”

“What did I-“

Alfred held up a hand, shushing him with a mock frown.

“Don’t argue with me, Uhtred,” he warned, speaking lightly enough, “You’ve lost more fights this last hour than I have in a lifetime.”

Uhtred’s mouth fell open, but not in protest. Unable to help himself, he grinned.

That bastard.

This was it. This was what he had wanted. What he had craved. 

Alfred wasn’t chiding him - he was teasing him.

Teasing him with that casual, painless brutality that could only exist between people who cared for each other and knew it. Uhtred recognized it from his own banter with Finan, from Beocca’s affectionate rebukes and Gisela’s playful threats, and to see it mirrored in Alfred’s words, in the twitch of his mouth, created a feeling inside him that simultaneously calmed and thrilled him. 

It felt like love.

Like home.

Giddy with it, he tried to think of a rebuttal, of something he could say to keep their game afoot, but then Alfred dropped from his field of vision, crouched down to pick up the dagger at his feet, and Uhtred was so surprised by the movement that he lost his train of thought. Suddenly, he was towering above his king – and it felt wrong to him, even if it hadn’t been his fault.

Unsure of what to do, his body froze in a state of uncomfortable limbo, waiting for the moment to pass.

It was a stupid reaction. One that Uhtred’s younger self would have ridiculed him for, would have ridiculed any man for, but the arrogance of his youth, that unbending pride, had long disappeared. While he had managed to hold onto it during the reluctant year of his first oath, fueled by ambition, the decade of service that followed had eroded its foundations, had blurred his hatred for Alfred’s domineering hand, bit by creeping bit, until suddenly he'd found himself cradled in it, ensnared by the thrill of subjugation.

Over the years, the King of Wessex had slowly, cunningly, spun his web in Uhtred’s mind, trapped him like a spider its prey, a woman luring her beloved, and now Uhtred was helplessly, mindlessly devoted. 

So when Alfred straightened and put the knife to his chest, pointing it right at his heart, Uhtred felt nothing but relief. 

“Careful,” he said, with a glance at his chest, at the tiny, needle-like point where metal pierced silk, “That’s a sharp blade.”

Alfred smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Oh, I am sure. My guards were rather concerned.” He looked across the courtyard, at Steapa, who was calmly watching them, and at the palace guards, whose eyes were on Uhtred’s men, their hands on their weapons. “Not now, it seems.”

Amused, Uhtred smirked.

This was a show of power. An attempt to set the record straight.

Undisturbed, he held Alfred’s gaze and shifted to the side, trying to lessen the pressure of the blade, but Alfred’s hand followed him, and if anything, the sting increased. Uhtred could always have stepped back, obviously, could have easily evaded an attack if this had been a fight, but it wasn’t, and so he conceded, stilling his movements. 

“What are we doing?” he asked, and in response, Alfred adjusted his grip. The blade shifted, prodded at skin, and Alfred’s eyes followed his own movement, transfixed by the sight of gleaming grey against blood-coloured cloth. 

“Do you believe I could end your life?” he asked, rougher than before, reaching the core of his agitation.

Uhtred knew that it was this question that stood at the centre of their quarrels, and he tried to consider it, truly, but the way Alfred watched him, waiting for an answer, made that surprisingly difficult. He looked commandingly, unforgivingly beautiful – sharp and lean and dangerous - and to his everlasting shame, Uhtred realized that he didn’t care to know the answer, that it excited him to be at Alfred’s mercy.

Trying not to think of that too much, he shifted again, this time to lessen a different pressure.

“You certainly seem charmed by the idea, lord,” he quipped to lighten the mood, but Alfred didn’t react to it at all. Without so much as a blink, he kept staring into Uhtred’s soul, as serious as ever.

“You are wrong, Uhtred, in your impression of me,” he declared, not unkindly. “It is important to me that you understand that. I condemned you to death. If the Danes hadn’t attacked, you would be dead as we speak.” A frown darkened his face, a thought that he’d rather have kept away. “And I could have watched it. I simply chose not to.”

Uhtred nodded, but his eyes told another tale. 

“Yes, you simply chose not to…” he repeated slowly, as if tasting the words on his tongue, “I guess that’s true. Just as you’ve simply chosen not to kill your nephew. Or your son’s bastards. Or-” His eyes motioned to Osferth, but Alfred quickly shook his head.

“God commands me to be merciful,” he corrected, “It has nothing to do with my heart.”

Sensing triumph, Uhtred grinned.

“Why, lord, is God not in your heart?” he asked, and promptly hissed when Alfred pushed the dagger a little bit deeper.

The sensation wasn’t painful, not truly, but it was uncomfortable, stung just enough to quicken Uhtred’s pulse, and his excitement grew darker, balling into molten heat.

He laughed, at himself more than anyone, and Alfred shook his head.

“You are being difficult today,” he complained.

“It’s my nature, lord, I cannot help it. You must set me boundaries.”

Alfred scowled at him and raised his chin, no doubt considering another twist of his wrist, but he sensed that Uhtred wouldn’t soon back down, and he had been in enough battles to know that sometimes, winning meant biding one’s time. 

“I will,” he sighed, lowering his weapon. “Believe me.”

Careful not to cut himself on its blade, he turned the dagger in his hand before he motioned for Uhtred to take it, but when Uhtred’s fingers closed around the part of the hilt that wasn’t taken, careful not to touch Alfred’s own, the king didn’t let go. Instead, he took a step forward, so that they were suddenly, unusually close.

Between them, in their joint hands, the dagger pointed at Alfred’s stomach. 

Its tip clinked against the clasp of his cassock, much closer to his body than when Uhtred had pointed it at his chest, and for a moment, Uhtred merely stared at it, disconcerted and confused. Then he looked up at the king, who was so, so close, watching him, steady and calm, and Uhtred understood his gesture as the sign of trust it was designed to be. 

From the corner of his eyes, at his left, he saw Steapa shift uncomfortably, and at his right, the palace guards, whose eyes were watching his every move; it was obvious that they wished to intervene, to pounce on him...

But they couldn't. 

Technically, the king was pointing a dagger at himself.  

Uhtred's lips twitched into a trembling smile, and in the stillness, the closeness, his eyes found Alfred’s again, and he wondered if the king could hear his heart. It was beating in his throat, much too loudly, drunk with the significance of Alfred’s actions, the details of his skin, his jawline, sharp as ice.

How?  he thought. How are you this beautiful?

“They’re nervous again,” Alfred observed drily.

As am I.

“But you are not, lord.”

Uhtred forced his voice to remain steady, wondering whether he was asking a question or making an observation, but Alfred scoffed.

“Why would I be?”

No sooner had he asked did he let go of the blade, and Uhtred had enough sense left in him to pull it away, as quickly as he could. There was a tremor in his hand as he sheathed it at his belt, icy blue bearing down, and he hoped to all the Gods that it wasn’t too noticeable, that it could be interpreted as a symptom of his damaged muscles. Embarrassed, he kept his eyes on Alfred’s chest and waited for him to take a step back, his heart still much too loud, but the king didn’t move.

“Osferth,” he whispered instead, low enough that no one could hear them. “Despite his nature – you’ll keep him with your men?”

Uhtred nodded without hesitation.

“I will,” he assured, just as quietly, “He’s useless in a fight, but we’d miss him if he wasn’t there.”

Alfred hummed, and though it was barely more than a noise, it sounded haughty. Then, at last, he stepped back, and Uhtred felt his body relax, felt it sigh, as if all this time, he had held onto an edge, scared to let go. It was curious how one could crave someone’s proximity so much and yet handle it so little. 

“If you'd miss him, then it seems you appreciate the Christian virtue that is mercy,” Alfred said, unaware of his crisis, and Uhtred conceded, tired of resisting. 

“Sometimes, lord,” he allowed, enjoying how his confession lit a spark of pleasure in Alfred’s eyes.

The king hummed.

“I wish we could say the same about humility,” he mused. “Or patience, or chastit-.”

“You lack mercy today," Uhtred interrupted him, though his accusation was weakened by the admiration that shone through it. “Isn't that unbecoming of a Christian king?”

Astonishingly unconcerned, Alfred shrugged.

“Not necessarily,” he reasoned, changing his tone to mark a recital. “'For whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.' That is what Saint Paul advises.”

“A helpful saint, that Paul,” Uhtred admitted only half-sarcastically, brows rising in reluctant approval. “Seems better than Saint Swithun.”

To his delight, it was Alfred who laughed this time, really laughed, and it was such an unusual sound, full of genuine enjoyment, low and brief, that Uhtred’s heart jumped in his chest, a jolting happiness he felt in his bones. 

“Oh, you have no idea,” he agreed. “Though Swithun is still a bishop, Uhtred, not a saint.”

“Right, how could I forget.” Uhtred rolled his eyes at the correction, and Alfred smiled, faintly, but then his tone turned serious again.

“I could teach you tonight, about Saint Paul,” he said, suspiciously casual. “He has said many things that I think you’d appreciate.”

I doubt that.

Around them, the wind was picking up, and Uhtred shook his head as he shivered in the draft.

“We said no saints,” he reminded Alfred, whose eyes narrowed.

“Mmh... We also said you’d mind your tongue in public.”

Uhtred felt another laugh climb his throat.

“Again,” he teased, “you're so resentful today.” 

Alfred’s face emptied, careful not to endorse Uhtred’s impertinence, but it was a shallow defense, for Uhtred could see that he was enjoying himself. Beside them, shadows slipped along the wall, the sun moving from its peak, and Alfred’s face changed, mask falling away. He seemed on the brink of speaking, his eyes dark with hidden meaning, and Uhtred waited for him to say something, to learn whatever had provoked the change, but Alfred kept silent. He stood like a stature, with his hands behind his back, elbows forming perfect triangles, and despite his prolonged silence, his attention didn’t waver, trained on Uhtred alone, so that soon, as before, awkwardness seized Uhtred’s spinning mind. It grew stronger, nurtured by the mocking sighs of the wind, by the spotlight of Alfred’s patient attention, the all-seeing depth of his eyes.

Uhtred forced himself to stay as still as he could.

“What?” he asked, covering his anxiety with humor. “Is there something on my face?”

“Reminiscence,” Alfred professed calmly.

“Remi-what?”

Foregoing an answer, Alfred pointed blindly to a spot in the courtyard, waiting for Uhtred to take the bait. He didn’t look there himself, was still focused, unwaveringly, on Uhtred's face, and when Uhtred finally gave in and followed the line of his finger, there was nothing there to see.

Intensely aware of Alfred’s eyes on him, he frowned.

“I don't understand,” he admitted.

“It is where you stood. When you first came to Winchester.”

Oh.

Right.

“You stood there, unannounced and needy. A stray mutt at my door,” Alfred declared, with rare cruelty, and Uhtred’s mind immediately growled, old resentments rushing up. Annoyed, he brushed them aside. He was a grown man. It shouldn’t have been this easy to push his buttons. Still, while he didn’t protest, he adjusted his arms, pressing his hands tighter against his chest as Alfred shook his head, apparently appalled by his memories.

“Covered in leather and fur, with that scraggly, unkempt hair...” The king's lips curled around his words. “You looked wild - like a Danish pagan.”

Uhtred shrugged, fighting the urge to roll his eyes.

“So?” he asked, and then startled when Alfred took a step towards him, pursuing him in the way that was his habit. His movements were slow and precise, and his eyes ran over Uhtred’s body from head to toe, devoured him, so that for the first time in his life, Uhtred felt like prey.

It was a ridiculous notion, of course, and he quickly shook it off his mind, but his breath hitched as the king’s eyes lingered on the golden Wyverns of his chest.

“So now I’m teaching you scripture…” Alfred replied, his tone suddenly gentle, full of something that Uhtred couldn’t name, “And you look like a Saxon.”

Uhtred stilled.

Momentarily at a loss for words, he found himself breathless, Alfred’s eyes a rolling ocean, devoid of air, and when he failed to collect himself in time, to say something, anything, Alfred stepped back. He tilted his head to the side, almost playfully, like a painter considering his work.

“It suits you better,” he said, and Uhtred laughed, nerves spilling over, entranced by the small smile that pulled at the corners of Alfred’s lips.

“You would say that, lord,” he argued.

“And I’d be right.”

The king was smiling now, truly smiling, full of that nameless something that sang a melody in Uhtred’s heart, hopped along his ribs, like a black-beaked sparrow, and when Uhtred smiled back, the world disappeared. They stood frozen for a time, and for each other, forgotten in that empty space, that dream, surrounded by the sounds of birds and wind, until a bell clashed down, like thunder, and woke them from their peace.

Alfred’s smile fell as petals from a rose, as hands from Uhtred’s wrists.

“Prayer,” he breathed, and before Uhtred could so much as blink, he had started to walk, down the arcade to their left, steering towards the corridor that led to the chapel.

Helpless, Uhtred hurried after him, and when they had nearly reached the entrance, he broke.

“Shall I come?” he asked, because prayer was a pain, but a lesser one than seeing Alfred go.

Next to him, Alfred froze to a stop.

“To prayer?” he asked, brows climbing to high heaven.

Stupid.

Stupid, needy idiot.

“No, I mean... ehm...”

Gods-

Uhtred wished the ground would just swallow him. He shrugged, mortified.

“I don’t know,” he finished lamely. A shiver ran through his shoulders, caused by embarrassment as much as temperature, and seeing it, Alfred followed it with his eyes.

With a faint frown, he cleared his throat

“I think you should get rest,” he advised gently, though they both knew that it was a command. “I know you refuse to acknowledge the weather, Uhtred, but it is rather cold and you look half frozen." Alfred gave him a stern look, playfully reproaching him. "As much as I appreciate your Saxon dress, you have a habit of wearing too little of it.”

Uhtred huffed, thankful for the change in topic.

“Hardly my fault,” he replied, determined to win back his pride before they had to part, “You have given me three silken tunics and a jacket that is thinner than a bastard monk. How am I to dress for winter?”

The corners of Alfred's mouth twitched as he hummed.

“I have squandered my silver, is that what you're saying?”

“And neglected your lordly obligations,” Uhtred added, mirth glittering beneath the surface, “I am freezing.”

Attempting to hide his obvious amusement, Alfred crinkled his brows and looked past him, pretending to ponder the problem.

“I suppose you could always buy something with the enormous fortune I have given you,” he suggested wryly, and Uhtred quickly turned his laugh into a grunt before he shook his head, apparently appalled by the idea.

"Oh, but lord," he complained, trying to keep a straight face. "I’d end up in leather and furs, like a pagan.”

This time, Alfred barely managed to stifle his smile, and the sight of his struggle warmed Uhtred’s insides.

“Quite right,” the king agreed, blue eyes twinkling, “Next time you save Wessex, I shall drown you in wool. It’s cheap, warm, and it might muffle the complaints.”

Uhtred laughed, delighted by the joke, and watching him, Alfred finally smiled too, utterly unkingly, before he caught himself again and emptied his expression.

“Enough now,” he commanded, as if he himself had nothing to do with Uhtred’s behavior. “I must go, and so must you.”

Nodding, Uhtred bit his lip.

“Yes, lord.”

“You may come to my rooms tonight.”

Uhtred blinked.

“Yes, lord,” he croaked, his tongue unusually dry and foreign in his mouth. Unaware that his words could be misconstrued, Alfred was already turning into the dark, and Uhtred watched him go, playing his words on a loop.

Come to my rooms tonight.

None of Alfred’s commands had ever been so blatantly seductive, so open for misinterpretation, and as he strode away, his robes clung to his waist, red as sin, to the alluring curve that flared out beneath his hips, so that Uhtred’s mind temporarily lost itself in carnal bliss, caught in a vague replay of images and sounds, of things he dreamed of but did not dare consider.

Come to me.

But this wasn't one of his dreams, wasn't an unconscious haze, no. Here, in the sun-lit courtyard, Uhtred's mind lay bare, unprotected by the dark obscurity of silence and furs, and so he didn’t think about how Alfred looked, when he appeared to him at night, in those dreams...

Tonight.

He didn’t think about what hid under those flaring robes...

Come, Uhtred.

He definitely didn't imagine it.

Gods -

Not Alfred with tousled hair, spread out on the furs of his royal bed, naked, reaching out-

Come here-

Ordering Uhtred to join him, his pupils blown wide-

I want to seduce you. I want to t-

“Is this what you want?”

Caught off guard, Uhtred’s head shot up like that of a startled deer. Framed by the gloom of stones and torches, Alfred had paused in the corridor, a lean specter of beauty, half-turned, his narrow waist on full display, and for a moment, all Uhtred could do was stare.

“Hm?”

“You said you wanted to talk, Uhtred,” Alfred reminded him impatiently, as if Uhtred was being particularly dense. He gestured to the courtyard, loosely. “Is this what you meant by it?”

“I- Yes, lord,“ Uhtred confirmed, and because he couldn’t help himself, he raised a mocking brow. “A little heavy on the threats of execution, maybe, but in principle...”

And there it was. That look. That exhilarating mix of disapproval and affection that Uhtred had come to crave. Half-hidden in the shadows, Alfred shook his head and smiled a weary smile, dark lashes fluttering over brilliant blue, and that plucked on the web in Uhtred's mind, caught his breath in his chest as his body brimmed with a need that remained unfulfilled.

“Find me later,” the king sighed, and strode away.

Chapter Text

“Uhtred!”

Shit.

“Wait, slow down, I -”

Dread pooling, Uhtred sped up.

“Oi!”

He had felt Finan's eyes on him since their group had left the courtyard, but he had hoped that it was nothing, that it was just a figment of his imagination. Unfortunately, he wasn't paranoid, and it wasn’t nothing. No, his intuition had been all too real, and after Sihtric had wandered off in search of his wife and they had lost Osferth to midday prayer, Finan saw his chance, pouncing on him.

“Hey!”

It was past noon now, which meant that the taverns had spilled their sated guests onto the muddy streets, clogging them with burping lords and merchants, heavy-pouched thieves and whores. Ever the opportunist, Uhtred tried to use their bodies as human shields, but Finan was agile, quick on his feet, and firmly glued to Uhtred's heel, he easily weaved around soldiers and nuns, dodged servants and beggars as they burrowed into the sweating, breathing mass of flesh.

“Will you wait already! You are acting so strange,” he complained grumpily. "Seriously!"

Despite their pace and the thickening crowd, Finan's breath was free of any signs of exertion, and Uhtred had to fight an overwhelming urge to run.

“I am not acting strange,” he argued, not slowing down as he used his shoulder to push forward.

“But you- What is going on?”

“Nothing is going on.”

“Then why are you in such a hurry?” Finan challenged. Determined not to lose him in the crowd, his eyes were trained on Uhtred’s back, intend on his target, and when Uhtred didn’t slow down in response to his question, didn’t even look back, Finan saw his suspicions confirmed. He smelled blood now.

“You don’t even know what I am talking about yet!” he accused, jabbing a finger into Uhtred’s back when a lull in their progress gave him the chance, “Or maybe you do... which would make this even worse, I think.”

“Alright, what are you talking about?”

“Oh please, you’ve lost your chance now!”

Shit.

Thus cornered, desperate to escape, Uhtred pulled up his shoulders and awkwardly squeezed into the open gap that yawned between two heavyset women on his left. They were deep in conversation, and as he pushed past them their breasts pressed against his arms, soft and intimate in a way that was thoroughly unpleasant. They gawked and shrieked at him like plump chickens, red-faced and indignant - and then promptly did it twice, because Finan followed without shame or hesitation.

Fuck.

Uhtred realized there was no escaping him.

He was doomed.

“Slow down,” Finan demanded again, from behind him, more obviously annoyed this time, “You can’t lose me, you child. We live in the same house, remember?”

“I’m not trying to lose you,” Uhtred lied, though it didn’t sound the least bit convincing, “I’m just trying to go home and get some sleep.”

Behind him, Finan snorted.

“Sure you are," he mocked. "While you do that, kindly tell me what’s going on.”

“It's nothing.”

Uhtred's gut was roiling. He could feel Finan grow frustrated now.

“There is no point in lying to me, Uhtred. I know you.”

“Of c-” Just then, Uhtred stumbled. His breath caught and he stiffened, stomach tightening, muscles stuttering, falling forward - and then, fortunately, he managed to regain his balance - but for a price. His vision blurred, spun around him while lights danced, and he grunted a curse as his gut wound screamed, scars pulling at tissue and skin, angry and red.

Gods-dammit!.

When he looked down to see what had almost caused him to fall flat on his face, he saw the leg of a man who sat propped up against a wall to his right. Dressed in rags and with his hands outstretched, Uhtred recognized him as a frequent guest of the Stag's Crown - a tavern Beocca favored for his dinners whenever Thyra was upset with him. Now, at midday, the man looked drunk off his arse, no doubt already full to the brim.

“A coin, lord,” he moaned pitifully, “for my family," and Uhtred felt the vengeful urge to kick him.

“Get lost!” he growled instead, pain throbbing in his gut, hot and stabbing, and as he watched the drunk scramble away, he felt Finan's hand fall on his shoulder.

“You alright?” his friend asked, concerned that he might have injured himself. 

Quickly, Uhtred nodded.

“No, I'm fine, just-” he broke off, shrugged Finan's hand away. It felt too warm on his shoulder, too close, and anyway, Uhtred didn't want to talk about the state of his injuries, his ruined body. It was the same, after all, always the same. There was no point in talking about it.

Uhtred suddenly felt very tired. He wanted his bed. Keeping his eyes on the muddy street, he pushed on, and Finan followed him without hesitation, as if nothing had happened.

“You are my brother, Uhtred.”

Inwardly, Uhtred groaned. 

“Yes!” he groused, “And you mine!”

He meant it, but his thoughts were still fettered to his shame, too caught up in his disturbing unsteadiness, in his ever-present, ever-public weakness.

Stupid. Stumbling through the streets.

He thought of how effortlessly Finan was pursuing him, of how difficult it had been to escape Steapa’s blows.

Like a drunk.

Like a baby.

“Why not talk to me, then?” Finan asked, but Uhtred shook his head, full of hatred.

Useless.

“If there was anything to talk about, I would tell you,” he promised, seized by sudden grief, by the realization that he spoke the truth, “But there isn’t. Nothing is going on.”

His heart fell, blackening, turning to coal.

Nothing. Because he would never have me.

Burning, crumbling-

Because I’m a cripple and he is the king.

Shriveling-

Because I’m a man, and he's-

Dead.

A saint.

Behind him, he could hear Finan huff.

“Yeah?” his friend asked, obviously not buying it, “Nothing, huh? Then explain to me why Beocca is telling everyone and their grandmother that you, Uhtred of Bebbanburg, went to confession.”

Fuck.

For a moment, Uhtred stopped, shut his eyes. A headache was forming at his temples, matching the pain in his gut.

Fuck my fucking life.

He collected himself, carefully, then turned over his shoulder, the picture of unperturbed confidence.

“Because I did,” he said, shrugging, as lightly as he could, and watched as Finan’s eyebrows nearly left his face.

“That’s insane!” he cried. “Seriously, Uhtred! What is happening?”

Uhtred laughed, because it was either that or cry.

It really is.

It’s insane.

Outwardly he shook his head, then turned away again, too tired to keep up the facade. Sighing, he started up the road.

“Calm down, Finan,” he said, carefully watching his steps. “It’s fine. I tell Beocca what he wants to know, repeat a few words he tells me to say and go on living my life. It’s not a big deal.”

“It seems like a big deal,” Finan replied earnestly behind him, not calmed in the slightest. “It’s confession! I mean... do I need to be worried?”

Uhtred was surprised by the question.

“Worried about what?” he asked, and Finan spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

“I don’t even know,” he complained, as if he had only now realized it himself, “I'm just worried about you. I swear, I’m so confused.”

They had turned the corner, entered a smaller street that was less busy, and Uhtred rolled his eyes, but he finally came to a stop. He felt touched by Finan’s concern. A little guilty, if he was being honest.

“Everything is fine,” he tried to reassure his friend when Finan had caught up with him. But Finan looked unconvinced. Grimacing, he crossed his arms before his chest, then mustered Uhtred with the air of a disappointed father.

“Are you a Christian now?” he asked skeptically, scrunching up his nose, and Uhtred snorted for effect, though he didn’t really feel like it.

“Of course not,” he denied.

Because I’m not – am I?

“Then why go to confession?”

“Because-” Uhtred shrugged.

Because I lose myself when he looks at me.

Because he smiles and I fear that he’ll wake up one day and-

Uhtred hit himself. Internally.

“Yes?” Finan asked.

It was time to get it together; so Uhtred thought for a moment, nervous as Finan stepped closer, watching him attentively. He sighed and tried again.

“You know how Alfred is,” he started, because saying parts of the truth was easier than lying, and certainly more convincing, “He is grateful for what I have done, truly... but when it comes to his faith, it’s the same it’s always been.”

For the first time, Finan looked as if Uhtred had said something sensible. He nodded.

“He hates that you’re a pagan,” he said knowingly, scowling, and Uhtred shrugged.

“It’s not like he’s the only one that has a problem with it, Finan. The people here are weary of me... I can’t afford too many enemies.”

“So what? You pretend to be Christian?”

Yes, Uhtred thought, I pretend.

He shrugged again.

“If it helps me fit in.”

Finan paused, considering it, but then his face changed to a look of consternation and he shook his head.

“No!” he cried, “No, this isn’t like you at all, Uhtred. You aren’t usually this–” Searching for a word to describe it, he gesticulated through the air.

“Cunning?” Uhtred suggested.

“Flexible.”

Uhtred laughed nervously, then ran a hand over his beard, smoothing it.

“I’ve changed,” he said, which was also true. “Besides, what choice do I have? It’s not like disobeying Alfred is an option for me anymore. He’s given me everything I have. Without him, I’d be nothing… And if I want to stay in Winchester, I’ll have to play to the wishes of his court. At least a little.”

Finan blinked, clearly surprised by what was coming out of Uhtred’s mouth.

“We are staying in Winchester then?” he asked, as if attempting, and failing, to solve a riddle. “We are not going to Wilton?”

Right.

Fuck.

Shrugging again, Uhtred tried to act as if choosing their current abode over Wilton wasn’t insane… which was difficult, of course, because Winchester was a hive of traitorous pricks, covered in horseshit, and Wiltonshire a lush paradise of rolling hills and glittering water, waiting to be claimed.

But then he remembered something, just in time to make his reaction sound casual.

“Of course we are going to Wilton,” he said, “In time. But for the moment I have duties here, and who knows how long it will be until Alfred releases me from them.”

“Has he not sai-”

“And besides," Uhtred interrupted, because he'd found another, better excuse, "my children need Hild, now more than ever, and you know how she's decided to stay here.”

Finan thought about that and clucked his tongue.

“Right,” he said, conceding the point. “So it’s all bollocks? The whole confession thing. It’s just a ploy?”

Uhtred frowned. He didn’t like the sound of that, of ploy. It sounded as if he was playing a trick, as if he was betraying someone, and that idea he couldn't tolerate.

“It’s a compromise,” he corrected.

“And what about your so-called duties?”

“What about them?”

Finan let out a frustrated groan, and suddenly his eyes were hard again, the ease of their conversation gone like melted snow.

“Stop it,” he complained, as if Uhtred was acting dumb, “They are not normal, you know that. None of this is normal.” He ran a hand through his hair, rattled by his own words. “I mean, he has you follow him around like a guard, Uhtred. But you are not. You are not a guard! Most of the time, you aren't even carrying a weapon!”

“Alright!”

Uhtred put up his hands, motioning at his friend to calm himself. He was beginning to feel anxious. Finan’s voice had gotten louder, a little too much so, and now a young woman gave them a curious look as she passed. Uhtred watched her walk away, waited until he was sure she couldn't hear them.

“I don’t know what purpose I serve, Finan,” he admitted then, reluctantly, “But when have I ever truly known what was going on in Alfred’s head? I just do what he tells me.” He sighed. “Nothing has changed. We are men of Wessex. We serve the king. None of this is any different from the thousand times we’ve done it before. Why are you being so strange about it all of a sudden?”

Annoyed, Finan threw up his hands.

“Because you say things like ‘I just do what he tells me’,” he replied, "When have you ever done that?” He shook his head, pressed his hands into his armpits as if to restrain himself. “I’m not saying this to pressure you, Uhtred. I'm not saying it to give you a hard time. But the truth is that you are the one who's been acting strange! You’ve acted strange since you rose from the dead, and so has he, and everyone sees it. Somehow, we have all decided to pretend it’s normal, but we all know better, Uhtred, and we are all worri-”

“Who is all?” Uhtred interrupted him harshly, because the implication of a silent audience to his and Alfred’s struggle made his neck prickle with embarrassment and something else. “Who is everyone?”

Finan looked at him as if he was a dimwit.

“Your family, stupid! You have friends, remember? Sihtric, Osferth, me, Beocca?” Finan raised his brows. “Even Steapa is freaking out!”

“Steapa?” Uhtred asked, incredulous.

Finan nodded.

“Of course! I mean, put yourself in his position. The king almost died, and it’s his job to make sure that doesn’t happen again. Yet, every evening, he is send away. And then Alfred is alone with a warrior who's known for defying orders, no guards in sight, when he sleeps.” Finan laughed, apparently finding it hysterical. “And today you pointed a dagger at him! Seriously, Uhtred, I think Steapa is losing his mind.”

Uhtred stared at him. For the first time, he realized how closely the king was being watched. How closely they were being watched.

Everyone knows everything around here.

It felt like a punch to the gut.

“Steapa said that to you?” he asked, overwhelmed.

“He did,” Finan confirmed, “And it’s true, isn’t it? The whole thing. That Alfred let’s you be alone with him? When he sleeps?”

Asked so directly, Uhtred was struck silent. He swallowed, hard, his tongue turning to dust in his mouth. Time slowed to a crawl while he searched for words that could save him, Finan’s attention not wavering, sharpening even.

Uhtred cleared his throat.

“Alfred-” he started, but stopped, because he didn’t know what to say. “You don’t understand, he-”

He paused again.

It was wrong. It was all wrong. What did he even want to say?

Uhtred, he heard Alfred say, warning him.

What was safe?

Watching the people that passed them, he shifted, growing even more anxious. He shouldn’t have allowed this conversation to take place here, he realized. Not in a space that was so public. So full of ears.

All over Winchester, Æthelwold said.

Uhtred, Alfred snapped.

On the streets, in taverns.

Uhtred!

The crown of scars around Uhtred’s head began to itch, to burn, and he raised his hand to scratch at it, but lowered it when he remembered that Pietro had told him not to. To his right, he saw two men who were waving their hands, arguing in the doorway of a house.

But were they really?

Or were they listening?

Oh God-

I'm going insane.

Rubbing at his itching temple, he sighed. He felt lost, and he wanted to flee, to say something that would end this conversation.

“Dunwhich was… it was hard on him,” he tried.

At once, Finan nodded, full of earnestness.

“Yes, it must have been," he agreed, though there was something more in his voice, something unspoken. Apparently, he had sensed Uhtred's mood, because before he spoke again, he looked around, made sure that no one was listening, and for some reason that made Uhtred’s stomach clench even further, claws grasping, ripping. “Dunwhich must have been hell,” Finan repeated, emphasizing the severity of it, “Because say what you want, Uhtred, but this? This new bond between you and him? It’s not normal, it’s something else... It’s like he can barely stand to let you out of his sight.”

Uhtred!

All over Winchester-

Oh God-

“Because he knows I’m loyal, Finan,” Uhtred pressed quickly, nervously watching the arguing men. “Because he knows that he's safe-”

“Sure, but that’s not all it is,” Finan interrupted impatiently, and Uhtred stopped, helpless. He frowned, tried to act as if Finan was being silly, as if this whole topic was something that wasn’t noteworthy at all, that was confusing him… but it was obvious how uncomfortable he was, how tense, and Finan didn’t let up.

“That’s not what I’m saying, Uhtred, is it?” he pressed.

Not here.

Not now, you f-

“What are you saying?” Uhtred asked, because he couldn’t not ask. Because Finan’s words were dangerous, but they were binding him, like runes. Because they were a chisel in his chest, beating away at his soul, laying him bare, revealing his hopes, his dreams.

Finan gave him a meaningful look.

“Uhtred,” he said, and Uhtred thanked the Gods that he didn’t speak the words out loud, because he saw them, clearly, in his eyes, and they were dangerous, and terrifying, and insane, and exhilarating and-

Impossible.

“What? No!” Uhtred shook his head. Again, again, again. “No, that’s not- he’s not- No.”

But Finan took a step towards him now, drawing closer, so close that Uhtred could smell the leather of his armor, could hear his breath, see the pattern of his pupils. He had grown careful too, paranoid, knowing that they had chosen the wrong place for what they were discussing.

“He held your hand today, Uhtred,” he whispered, so quietly that it made Uhtred doubt that this life, this moment was real. “In a courtyard full of people.”

It’s a dream.

It must be.

“He was holding my dagger,” Uhtred corrected, automatically, suddenly so out of breath, so thrumming with heartbeats. He hoped that it wasn’t too obvious, too revealing; though he shouldn’t have worried about it, because Finan ignored him entirely.

“And it’s not only today,” he continued quietly, muttering it like a spell, a confession, as if Uhtred hadn’t spoken at all, “He held your hand all the time in Dunwhich. And on the road, then in Winchester. Everyone noticed. Steapa noticed... The monks noticed...” Now, his eyes darkened. “Beocca told him - but I think he couldn’t help himself.”

Uhtred stared. Almost without comprehension. He forgot to breathe.

Beocca told him, he thought.

Uhtred-

But he couldn’t help himself.

His heart plummeted, soared, like an abyss, like an eagle.

Uhtred, please-

“What are you saying?” he asked, so quietly that he could barely hear himself, voice trembling.

Finan's eyes were unwavering.

Please-

“You know what I am saying, Uhtred.”

Uhtred, please- Please, I couldn’t stand it.

Shocked, Uhtred shook his head. He knew what Finan was implying, knew the look he was giving him, but it couldn’t be true. It wasn’t true. Because-

“No, it’s not like that.”

“What’s it like then?”

“It’s-” Again, Uhtred stumbled. His heart stumbled. He knew what Alfred was to him, what he meant. He knew that he was lost, done, consumed, utterly, utterly consumed, but Alfred himself, Alfred wasn’t- he wasn't-

Uhtred.

He was Alfred.

Uhtred, please-

He had a wife.

Please, promise me.

He prayed, daily.

Promise me-

Ate gruel for twelve days.

It’s not too late-

Sentenced sodomites to two years of fasting.

I’m not soft-hearted.

“Uhtred,” Finan frowned, seeing him slip, seeing him disintegrate, and Uhtred blinked, his skin burning and sore, noticing too late that he was clawing at his temples, at his scars. Wincing, he pulled his hands away and shook his head. Again, again, again.

“It’s complicated, Finan.”

“Explain it to me.”

Please, Uhtred-

He shook his head. The world was spinning, crawling, muddy. Too loud. Too unsafe.

I prayed for your soul today-

“Uhtred,” Finan said.

Was this what you wanted?

Uhtred swallowed, audibly. His mouth was too dry. Painfully dry.

Promise that you won’t leave me

“I-” he tried.

“What- Uhtred, you look like a ghost.”

Turn to me

"Finan just-"

“Jesus, Uhtred-”

Turn to your Lord

“Leave it, alright! I don’t know-“

“Jesus Christ!” Finan hissed, finally stepping away, turning, suddenly agitated. He had pressed his hands against the back of his head, as if he had just watched a tragedy, a man dying. He circled, anxiously, in the bleak mud, in the godforsaken street that stunk of piss, and then he turned around again, with wide, glassy eyes, looking right into the space he had just occupied, not seeing a thing.

“You told me about Cumberland,” he said, paler than he’d been only seconds before, “About Gisela, how you ended up on the ship... but this?” It was he who shook his head this time, aghast that they could find themselves in such a situation. “This is worse, Uhtred. This is stupid worse... I swear, this will cost us our fucking lives!”

Uhtred didn’t say anything, was too shocked to reply.

He couldn’t believe what had just happened. He didn’t understand it. The street had quieted around them, had emptied after the midday rush, and they stood together there, in the mud, Finan staring and Uhtred staring back; overwhelmed, dissected, transformed. There was something brutal in a moment of truth, Uhtred thought, something violent and bare.

How could this-

But I didn't even say a thing- I didn't-

“Fuck,” Finan cursed again, interrupting his thoughts. He pressed his hands against his eyes, then took them away again. “I mean, seriously! Where did this even come from? You’ve never…right? I’ve never seen you with a…”

Still overwhelmed, Uhtred shrugged.

“I don’t know", he mumbled. He tried to smile, to find the irony in it, but all he could muster was a grimace. He felt pallid and heavy, joyless, and a dark thought emerged from the mud, a terrible fear, smacking upwards, cold and black and grasping, like a monster.

“Do you think less of me?” he asked Finan, the viscous words sticking to his tongue, taking his all to spit out in the open. “Because it's- because he’s...”

His answer came without a second of hesitation.

“What? No!” Finan scowled at him. “I mean, God knows I would really have preferred someone else but not-” He shook his hand into the air, once again deprived of words, “...well, not because of that."

For once, Uhtred felt some relief. It was a nice change, though it didn’t last long, didn’t truly penetrate his sorrow, his fear. He probed the lingering mud, the darkness in his chest, and realized that part of him didn’t believe it. His friend’s reassurance, his immediate, easy acceptance - it felt too good to be true...

“Oh God, this is a disaster,” Finan murmured in front of him, his face once more buried into his hands, imagining scenarios of doom. “What are we going to do?”

Watching him fret, Uhtred straightened. He still knew how to lead, and it was easier to pull himself together for his men than for himself.

“We will do nothing,” he replied, with certainty. “Nothing is going to happen, Finan. I’m not doing anything, so nothing will change.You’re wrong in thinking that Alfred is- that he's-” Uhtred couldn't bring himself to say it. All words he could think of felt too dirty to be anywhere near Alfred's name.

”He's not a man like that," he finished lamely. "He's the king... and he's pious, and married-"

“Yeah, right." Finan huffed, darkly amused by Uhtred's reasoning. "As if that's ever stopped anyone.”

Tonight, Uhtred's mind whispered in agreement. Find me in my- 

Angry, Uhtred slapped it away. He didn't have the time to dream, to fantasize. He was busy enough with what was actually real.

“Nothing is going to change,” he repeated, going back to what he knew. "I won't do anything."

Finan looked skeptical.

“Self-denial, huh?” he asked sarcastically. “Love from a distance? That’s your thing now, is it?“ He nodded to himself. “Yeah, that’ll work out great.”

“What will work out great?” Osferth asked, right, right fucking beside them, and they both flinched and jerked to the side.

“Fuck!” Finan cried, and Uhtred gasped, heart racing, gaping at Osferth as if he was a ghost.

How long has he been-

“All the fucking time!” Finan complained loudly, “All the fucking time, baby monk! How often do I have to tell you: Make some fucking noise!”

“Sorry,” Osferth answered sheepishly, though a part of him was visibly proud of himself. “Raised by monks. Noise isn’t their favorite.”

Unwittingly, Uhtred thought of the courtyard, of how Alfred had suddenly appeared so close behind him, and everything made sense.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed by now?” Osferth asked, surprised, having turned to him, and Uhtred gaped at him some more.

“What?”

Only now hearing what he'd said, Osferth’s eyes widened a bit.

“I- I just meant... because you got to be at the palace earlier tonight, right? For your lessons?”

Instead of growing less irritated, Uhtred’s frown deepened.

“How do you know about my lessons?” he asked.

The young man shrugged.

“Beocca told me,” he said innocently, “At prayer.”

Giving up, Uhtred threw up his hands.

“Amazing,” he growled. “Everyone knows everything! That’s just great.”

Shamefaced, Osferth bobbed on his heels and decided not to make another noise.

Chapter Text

On their way back home, Finan and Osferth left him alone, and Uhtred didn’t speak.

The three of them walked silently at first, side by side, in that habitual trot which steered one along well-known paths, that knowledge which required not a single thought – and therein laid the danger. Because, devoid of anything to do, Uhtred’s mind was focused on itself, was watching itself, miserably, in the manner of a man who feared to vomit. With every step he took, his mind noticed itself wandering, felt the urge to examine, to consider...

What a foul and inconvenient reflex that was — thinking. So similar to gagging.

Uhtred barred himself against it with everything he had.

Wh—

No, he thought, trudging through the mud.

Bu—

No! to avoid the vomit, the mess; the misery that would inevitably follow.

No. No. No. N—

Fortunately, Osferth’s silence didn’t last for long.

He had been raised by monks, after all, and while noise wasn’t their favorite, gossip sure came close.

Thus, after he had done his penance and stayed silent for a minute, Osferth soon babbled on about what he had heard at midday prayer, and Uhtred allowed it, because it distracted him from the void that yawned, that loomed like Ragnarök, final and terrible.

From that one, mighty, all-ending question.

What if—

“No, is that what he said?!” Finan asked, saint-like in his love for gossip, and Osferth nodded.

“Not one penny!” he confirmed. “Not even on Christes Mæsse!”

Uhtred seized those words, tried to claw his thoughts into Osferth’s voice, to cast his anchor into drivel and hold on for dear life.

“Who told you that?” he asked, tightening his mind around the topic—even though it was difficult to listen, to actually hear and understand, because Uhtred wasn’t interested at all, because his mind kept pulling at its leash, struggling to break free, to get at what it hungered for and sink its teeth into—

“A visiting priest,” Osferth told him enthusiastically, “from Ledecestre! He also told me—”

Nonsense.

He’d told him nonsense.

But it distracted the beast, filled the seconds, those dangerous, crawling, siren-like seconds ... and so Uhtred paid attention to it, greedily, rapaciously, like he’d never listened to anything before.

The priest from Ledecestre, it turned out, had told Osferth about a man who had pilgramaged to the embalmed corpse of Saint Æthelburg or Æthelsige or Æthelwhatever, only to arrive and kiss his feet, displaying an enthusiasm that all witnesses agreed was decidedly unusual for worship. And in Winchester a monk called Alduin, who was scarred for life, had taken the confession of a baker’s wife – which one tragically remained unclear – who’d salted a large quantity of dough, stripped naked, sat on it and baked it, and then sent it to the man she fancied.

“And he ate it!” Osferth cried, utterly scandalized. “The whole thing! Even though it was salted dough!”

Delighted, Finan laughed.

“Not gonna lie, I’d have had a bite of that myself,” he said, grinning as they entered the house, and Osferth shook his head at him with a mixture of shock and amusement.

“No, but that’s why she went to confession!” he protested, “because he got sick and he die—”

Sadly, he didn’t finish his sentence.

Because at that moment, he reached the corner of the entry hall, his eyes towards the main room, and he froze there, coming to a sudden halt. When he turned around, he was pale and wide-eyed, and he held up a finger, like a beacon.

“Now don’t get mad!” he pleaded anxiously, and Uhtred, in the middle of stripping off his jacket, stilled, his beastly mind finally halting its struggle.

“Why?” he demanded.

“He wasn’t supposed to be here,“ Osferth replied, full of that innocent honesty which seized him whenever he was unprepared. “Not when you’re not sleeping.”

“Who’s— what?”

Frowning, Uhtred discarded his jacket and dropped his belt onto the table beside the door, metal thumping heavy against wood. He crossed his arms, too confused yet to feel anger but sensing it approaching.

Next to him, Finan scrunched up his face. “Ah, fuck,” he cursed, apparently getting Osferth’s meaning, and Uhtred turned to him, frustrated at being left out of the loop.

“What?” he asked again, and watched as his friend grimaced.

“We meant well, you know,” he declared instead of answering, habitually cheerful in the face of disaster. “Remember that, maybe, and listen to—”

Impatiently, Uhtred shoved Osferth aside and rounded the corner.

There, at the table, sat Modthryth. She seemed a little smaller than usual, looking back at him with big brown eyes, guilty and tense, and above her stood Hild, stern and straight, who showed neither emotion.

They weren’t alone, though.

Because sitting beside Modthryth, with a jug of ale and a plate full of apples and ham, was a man Uhtred recognized too well.

“No!” he cried, outraged, his eyes automatically drawn to the plate of food. “Absolutely not!”

“Oh, come on!” Hild protested.

“I was just about to leave,” said the apprentice.

“Why are you even—” Uhtred began, but then his tongue stumbled and he fell silent, because he’d looked up from the plate and this close, this close, that man, he looked—

He looked soft.

Soft, like freshly fallen snow, white clouds in a blue sky, daisies that had just begun to bloom. Like the fur of a bumblebee, a green meadow in the wind, unfurling petals in the palm of Alfred’s —

The image was gone.

This wasn’t Alfred; this was the apprentice.

And he was flawless.

His hair was brighter than polished metal, a line of braided light, fair as straw and pure as water from a spring, and the boy’s features were singing with youth, delicate yet cutting. They possessed the sharpness of a man, cheekbones like a newly-fashioned blade, and yet they had been gifted all the sweetness of a woman, too; with emerald eyes and long lashes, rosy lips and skin that was perversely perfect, that birthed the eerie feeling of something not quite right…

In short, Uhtred had never seen someone so beautiful.

He stared openly, and when he finally caught himself and looked away, unsettled, it felt as if he’d fallen out of time. As if he and that boy had been all that had existed, only he and that boy, close enough to grasp and—

What the hell am I thinking?

Confused, Uhtred shook his head.

He resummoned his anger and looked to Hild.

“What is he doing in my house?” he asked, trying his best to sound irate.

“He is eating,” Hild replied, utterly unimpressed by his tone, and immediately, Uhtred shook his head.

“He can’t be!” he shot back. “He has to go! Now! You can’t just—”

“My name is Ælfwin,” the apprentice interrupted him, all quiet and melodious, and Uhtred’s eyes shot back to his — to brilliant, blinding green… swaying, meadow green – before, again, he caught himself and looked away.

“I do not care for your name, boy,” he rebuked him gruffly, keeping his startled eyes on ham and ale. “You will leave my house.”

Obediently, and to Uhtred’s surprise, the man stood up, but Hild stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Sit down, Ælfwin,” she said calmly, with a strictness in her voice that wasn’t meant for him. “Lord Uhtred doesn’t mean it.”

“Oh, I mean it!” Uhtred growled, and to lend his words authority he send his fist into the table, apples flying, ale spilling; then he immediately felt remorse, because his knuckles shifted and his tendons tremored, birthing a sensation like a creaking door, a fleeting torture that flesh wasn’t supposed to feel. Quickly, to hide his hand and lessen the sting, he crossed his arms before his chest again, flashing hot with pain and threatening humiliation. But it was useless; Hild had already seen him wince, and if the look on her face was any indication, she didn’t exactly feel compassionate.

Or maybe she did.

Because she ignored his outburst entirely.

“You are being unjust, Uhtred,” she chided him instead, before she pushed the boy into his seat. “Ælfwin has done nothing to deserve your disfavour!”

Still fighting to keep the pain from his face, Uhtred looked to Modthryth, determined to get his way.

“How long has this been going on?” he asked, expecting her to be the weaker link. Unfortunately, the girl was resilient, and witnessing Hild’s boldness had restored most of her own courage. Now, sensing that the tide was turning against him, she shrugged with steady eyes.

“Doesn’t really matter, does it?” she answered him coolly. “The question is, will you allow it to keep going?”

He gaped at her, not believing his ears.

“You talk to me with a lot of guts, girl!” he accused, and Modthryth had the decency to look a little guilty, but then she straightened in her seat.

“I talk to you as someone I trust, lord,” she corrected.

Uhtred scoffed.

“I’m not sure I can say the same anymore!” he told her, unwilling to be flattered into compliance, and out of all the things he’d said, this seemed to achieve something, at last – because he heard the grating sound of wood on stone as Ælfwin rose a second time.

“I do not wish to be the reason for unrest between you,” he said nobly, beautifully. “Excuse my intrusion, I—”

But Hild was behind him once again, a mother hen with ruffled feathers.

“Sit down, Ælfwin,” she repeated, more sternly than before, though this time, the apprentice didn’t listen to her.

Nor did he leave.

Instead, he hovered at the table, looking trapped. He was an innocent pawn in a battle of wills, his perfect face slowly turning pink... blushing, virgin pink… parting, trembling pin—

Uhtred looked away.

“I will send for soldiers,“ he told Hild.

“So you can pay a fine, lord?” she replied sarcastically. “And explain this to Alfred?” She arched her brows, looked at him the way she had a hundred times before, when he had been gruff with her to scare her off. “I don’t think you will,” she said.

Uhtred stared at her, momentarily struck speechless. When he remembered his voice, he stretched his arms out to his sides in a gesture of helpless indignation.

“What is happening?” he asked incredulously. “You are an abbess! How is this a risk you are willing to take? It wasn’t only Alfred who convicted him, Hild, it was the Church! Bishop Erkenwald advised the sentence, I was there, I saw it!”

Winded, Uhtred took a breath, satisfied at the change in Hild’s face. It had morphed into a grimace, something uncomfortable, as if he had reminded her of a truth she didn’t want to hear. Clearly torn, she shifted, simple robes moving with her, and her hand came up to hold onto the cross around her chest.

“There is... complexity, Uhtred,” she said quietly, “debate…it— it isn’t so easy.”

That was unexpected.

Uhtred paused, surprised.

This was the first time he’d ever heard of it, of this complexity, and yet something unfurled in him, something that had crouched before, small and tense, seeking refuge deep beneath his ribs.

Without thinking, his head turned to Osferth. Maybe he waited for the monk to disagree, or maybe he expected him to explain the assertion, as he explained so many Christian things... but Osferth did neither. He just stared at the floor, silently, swaying a little with his hands behind his back. In essence, he was doing his best to turn invisible — to be forgotten.

It was bizarre and utterly unhelpful, and so Uhtred’s eyes returned to Hild, because despite his confusion, he was too hopeful to ignore her revelation.

“If his punishment can be changed, then have Beocca talk to the king,” he told her earnestly, “Alfred will listen, he—”

But now Osferth made a sound — a spontaneous, involuntary thing somewhere between a croak and a hum, and when Uhtred looked back at him he was gnawing on his thumb, anxious eyes staring at nothing.

“Let’s not involve Beocca,” he mumbled, and Uhtred frowned, even more confused than he had been before.

Until his mind caught up.

“Oh, I see!“ he cried bitingly, lashing out at Hild, furious at what he saw as another attempt to deceive him. “So there isn’t any actual debate!”

“There is! There is an argument to be made!”

Uhtred huffed.

“But not one you’ll be taking to Beocca?” he asked, mocking her.

Hild glared at him, but she didn’t reply, nor did Osferth, and when the silence became smothering, Uhtred's grimness grew triumphant.

“Right then!” he declared impatiently. “He’ll leave my house now! I have enough problems as it is!”

“He will not leave,” Hild denied, from the other side of the table, “or at least he won’t leave alone! Because if you throw him to the wolves, Uhtred Ragnarsson, then I swear by God, I will leave as well!” Her voice was even louder than before, firmer, beating Uhtred back. "You’ll have to decide what is more important to you, lord,” she announced, “having me by your side or following the Church’s doctrine to the letter!” Now she speared him with a look of grim disapproval, lifting her brows. “A devotion, by the way, that I can’t help but notice is both rather strong and rather new!”

Uhtred flushed red.

Instantly, he felt the bite that lay hidden in those words. It clamped its teeth around his heart with vicious accuracy.

Hild may have been surprised by his newfound love for the law, but she knew Uhtred well enough to understand that his devotion didn’t pertain to the Church at all – and he understood her well enough to know that he’d been caught.

Everyone, he thought desperately.

How does everyone know?

Cheeks burning, he looked to the floor, wondering how he had sunk so low.

Gods, I’m such a fool.

A hound on a leash.

The shame was unbearable. The floor not enough. Longing to disappear, Uhtred pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, the abused one throbbing against the bone beneath.

Does he really have this much power over me?

To make me choose his laws over my own convictions?

Over Hild?

Mortified, Uhtred shook his head. Then he took his hands from his eyes, seeing things a little clearer.

While he would have liked to believe that Hild was bluffing, it was obvious that she was deadly serious. Somehow, Ælfwin, this stranger, had weaseled himself into her heart, and now, as with everything Hild decided to fight for, she was in it till the bitter end.

Deep down, Uhtred knew he’d lost.

But his pride was rearing, his fear rising, and so it took another moment of staring, of two warriors clashing, until he folded.

He groaned, at the end of his rope.

“Why does no one respect me in this house?” he asked out loud, his voice dark with fatigue, and when he turned to look back at Finan, hoping for support, he was sorely disappointed there as well. His friend was leaning against one of the house’s main pillars, watching him with quiet amusement, and instead of coming to Uhtred’s aid, he shrugged, head lolling back against the wood.

“I know it seems impossible to sympathize with what the boy has done,” he said pleasantly, with an edge to his voice that made Uhtred want to strangle him, “but he’s really just a kid, you know? And that sentence is murder, Uhtred, it really is... it’s insane.”

It’s for the good of his soul, Uhtred thought blindly. And then he slapped himself, because enough was enough.

Irritated, he turned back to the table, addressing the problem directly.

“I gather they have been feeding you since the moot?” he asked Ælfwin.

“Yes, lord,” Ælfwin answered obediently. “They’ve been kind.”

Kind.

Uhtred sighed. He was so very tired.

“And this is the only place you get food?” he asked curtly, overwhelmed and hoping, somehow, to escape his impossible predicament.

Unfortunately, the boy looked downtrodden.

“I can only buy bread, lord,” he confirmed. “But I have to pay for that and since the moot, I cannot find work...” He paused, the implication of his words left hanging in the air, and for a fraction of a second, his eyes glittered with something vengeful, something violent. Then, just like that, it was gone again, and Uhtred would have thought that he’d imagined it, had it not been so intense.

Murder, his mind echoed, for his soul.

“So you are running out of money,” he acknowledged.

The boy nodded.

“This will soon be the only place I get food at all,” he murmured gloomily, and Uhtred grunted, wholly unwilling to accept that prediction.

In the pause that followed, Ælfwin glanced back down at his plate, hunger written all over his lovely face. His stomach was screaming at him to eat, that much was apparent, but the boy was smart enough to control himself, well aware that this was not the time to give himself permission. Silent and tense, he waited for Uhtred to pass judgement.

Oh, come on.

Let him ea—

“You could always leave Winchester,” Uhtred tried to argue, to distract himself from his compassion, and in response, the boy huffed with far more bitterness than his age should’ve allowed him to possess.

“Is that what I should do, lord?” he asked, careful not to sound too disrespectful. “Live as an outlaw? People know my face, they love to talk about cases like mine... If it was up to them I'd hang from a tree before I reached the next shire.” A shadow passed his face. “Or worse...”

Worse, Uhtred’s mind decided with brutal certainty.

Disgusted, he swatted it away.

“So your plan for the next two years was to steal food from my table?” he asked, increasingly desperate to delay the inevitable conclusion of this tragedy, but instead of the boy, it was Modthryth who answered him now, incapable of holding her tongue in the face of injustice.

“I buy his food with my own money!” she protested, all proud, all naive, and Uhtred’s love-born guilt overwhelmed his self-control.

“To feed him at my table!” he thundered back at her, his inner turmoil breaking free. “In my house! Betraying the very man who gave you that money in the first place!”

Undaunted and most definitely unwilling to be bought, Modthryth squared her shoulders, but before she even opened her mouth, Uhtred heard Ælfwin mutter something under his breath, and though he couldn't hear what it was, he sure knew who it was about.

Instinctively, he rounded on him, tall and violent.

“What was that, boy? Speak up if you’d like to say something, I want to hear it!” Ready for a fight, Uhtred glimmered down, but to his surprise, Ælfwin flinched backwards, suddenly, shockingly cowed.

“Forgive me,” he muttered, quickly lowering his eyes to the floor, and it was then that Uhtred suddenly noticed the purple bruises that circled Ælfwin's wrists, his attention drawn there by trembling hands.

His mouth snapped shut.

Immediately, he stepped back, full of remorse, yet the damage was already done; before him, Ælfwin’s eyes were even brighter than before, wet and large in his almond-shaped face, and they flickered to Uhtred’s fists in a way that reminded him of starved and beaten dogs, of children he’d found in pillaged villages, huddled into corners.

He’s broken, Uhtred thought, and for the first time, he understood that this wasn’t the man he had admired, not the man he had seen at the moot, bold with adrenaline and showing his courage...

...because they broke him.

Somehow, somewhere between then and now, that man had been lost. All that was left now was a— a starved boy, truly, who looked scared, and the contrast was so striking that Uhtred felt his anger wane against his will.

They broke him, his mind repeated, on a loop.

They broke him.

Alfred broke him.

Suddenly, there was a lump in Uhtred’s throat, a horrible thing, smooth and hard like a stone from the riverbank, and a spell of dizziness seized him, washed over him in an onslaught of nausea.

But it’s too cruel, it’s—

He saw that Hild was watching him, and he swallowed, his jaw so tight that his teeth ground against each other.

Why would he—

No.

No. No— no—

Eager to stop thinking, to settle the matter and find peace, Uhtred cleared his throat.

“Before the trial, did you stay at the smith’s?” he asked Ælfwin, out of nowhere, so that the boy startled, but behind him, Uhtred sensed Finan lose some of his tension. His friend knew what had been decided, was too adept at reading Uhtred’s voice.

“I did, lord,” Ælfwin said, still too pale and even more hesitant than before.

“And where do you sleep now?” Uhtred asked, taking care to keep his voice low and unthreatening. Ælfwin shrugged.

“Wherever I can, lord,” he answered, a little confused by the question. Briefly, he met Uhtred’s gaze, but then looked away again. “Sometimes the owner of the Boar’s Head lets me use his bed... if his wife is gone.”

Uhtred’s eyes flickered to Hild, but she looked as uncertain as he felt, and so he shifted, awkwardly.

“That is kind of him,” he tried, desperately hoping so, but immediately, Ælfwin shook his head.

“It isn't,” he corrected quietly, his eyes still firmly on the table.

Full of rage, Uhtred clenched his throbbing fists.

Fucking—

Piece of shit!

His mind made up, he turned to Hild for one last time, but before he could tell her what he had decided, the front door flew open, hit the wall with a thundering crack, and they all whirled around, thinking the worst.

“Hild! Come and see wh—”

“Stiorra!” Finan cried, a shaking hand to his heart. “Jesus Christ! Worst timing!”

Quick as a whirlwind, Stiorra was already midway to the table when she froze, her half-swallowed laugh dangling in the air, and behind her, her older brother crept into the doorway, a constant shadow to her lead.

Sensing that something was off, young Uhtred examined Finan with large, questioning eyes, and it took him less than half a breath to understand that whatever he had stumbled upon was not for him to see – of course, that only increased his curiosity. Excited, he hurried into the house and looked towards the table, eager to find the reason for their strange behavior.

The first thing he saw was Hild, pointing straight at him.

“Back outside,” she ordered, unusually curt, but it was already too late.

Uhtred's son beamed.

“Ælfwin!” he cried, happier than Uhtred had seen him in a while. “Will you tell us a story?”

“Yes!” Stiorra agreed, her little face lighting up. “One with battles and Danes!”

Like a pendulum, Uhtred’s head swung back to Hild.

“Why do my children know his name?” he blurted, appalled that they were involved in any way, and at the table, Modthryth pulled a face.

“What, are they supposed to call him the sodomite or something?” she retorted sarcastically.

Stiorra perked up.

“What’s a sodomite?” she asked, still all excited, all innocent, and Osferth groaned and muttered a curse, sensing that his lord was nearing a breakdown.

“Go back outside,” Finan told her, hurrying to intervene “and don’t ask anyone that, or we’ll be suspected.”

“Suspected of what?” young Uhtred questioned, just as fascinated as his sister.

“Outside!” Hild demanded. “Both of you!”

They grumbled, unwilling, but Uhtred’s son was old enough to know when to do as he was told, and this once, his sister followed him.

Watching his children go, Uhtred had a sudden thought that threatened to make him dizzy again.

“Don’t tell me he’s been coming here through the front door,” he begged, pointing at Ælfwin, and Hild rolled her eyes even though her face had become softer already. She, too, was much too adept at reading him.

“We’re not idiots,” she replied. “He comes and leaves through the cellar door. Mostly when it's dark outside.”

Uhtred exhaled, relieved that he didn’t have to worry about his neighbours at least. Still tense but resigned to his fate, he turned back to Ælfwin – young, scared, beautiful Ælfwin – and fixed him with a stare that had left far greater men quailing in their boots.

“Then from now on, you will only eat breakfast and supper,” he ordered, rattling off his rules,“if you want to eat during the day, you’ll take bread with you! Because you are a ghost, do you hear me? You are not here. You’ll enter and leave this house only when it is dark and you’ll never, under any circumstances, speak to any of my servants. Is that understood?”

Ælfwin nodded quickly, as if nervous that the offer could be rescinded, and Uhtred’s shoulders slumped, heavy with the weight of his choice.

His new secret.

His betrayal.

“I will have to bribe them a fortune,” he complained moodily, distracting himself with the logistics of his situation. He looked at Finan, who straightened in response. “Do that as soon as possible. And put a cot in the cellar for him so he has somewhere to sleep. Make sure it’s not too obvious.”

Finan nodded while Ælfwin stared.

“You are allowing me to sleep here?” he asked in astonishment, wide-eyed, and in any other circumstances Uhtred would have found that reaction endearing.

“Did I stutter?” he snapped instead, and Ælfwin hurriedly shook his head.

“No, lord! Thank you, lord!”

He looked relieved, painfully so, and when Uhtred felt Finan’s quiet joy behind him, saw Osferth’s half-hidden smirk and Hild’s gentle smile, it was too much happiness for him to bear.

“Oh, don’t be too grateful,” he grumbled, angry at them for rewarding him so. “It’s damp and it stinks of mould.”

“But we’ll think of something to make it comfortable,” Hild interjected, smiling before she saw the look on Uhtred’s face. “Without attracting attention,” she added quickly.

Uhtred sighed.

“Do what you will, but you will do it without me!” he half announced, half commanded. “I need my bed.” He turned to Modthryth one last time. “If someone catches you, I do not know of any of it. And you will pay that fine with your own money, too!”

Modthryth grinned at him, bright as the sun and just as proud.

“The king’s money, lord,” she corrected cheerfully, and then, before he could scold her, she turned towards the cloth-draped window, because there was a voice there suddenly and it startled them all how close it was.

“Beocca!” Osferth gasped in alarm, arms falling to his sides as he aimlessly spun around on his axis, seized by nervous energy.

Hild was much cooler under pressure.

“Come with me!” she urged Ælfwin, pulling at his arm while he, still starved, grabbed for his plate with the other, and the room erupted into sudden activity, Modthryth jumping up and stumbling after them, no doubt running for the cellar door.

No sooner had they rounded the corner to the kitchen did the door to the house open, and when he entered, Beocca was met by a lone jug of ale on the table, a slice of ham at his feet, and three wide-eyed men, frozen in the middle of the room.

Much like Stiorra, he stopped inside the hallway, in the hollow echo of boots on wooden stairs.

“What?” he asked, staring back.

When neither Uhtred nor Finan said something, Osferth coughed.

“Nothin’, just...” He paused, searching his mind for something to say. “You just... walked in, haven’t you? No knock, no nothin’...”

Beocca frowned at him.

“So I have,” he agreed, in a tone that suggested exactly how dumb he thought that statement was. A little insulted, his eyes switched to Uhtred. “You’ve never objected to that before?”

“I don’t,” Uhtred said quickly.

“... Right.”

There was another pause then because neither Uhtred nor his men knew how to proceed, their shoulders stiffer than a convent of nuns, and Beocca squinted at them, half-expecting them to burst into flames.

“Why are you all acting so strange?” he asked, specifically looking at Osferth, who he knew to be the weakest point of their defense.

Osferth fidgeted, eyes flickering to nowhere in particular.

“Not acting strange,” he mumbled, anxiously scratching his neck, “… bit rude that.”

Beocca’s frown deepened. He waited for a few seconds longer, hoping that Osferth would break under pressure, but to his surprise the boy stood firm, and after a fleeting moment of disappointment, Beocca seemed to get distracted himself, because his face suddenly changed into one of recollection. With an expression that reminded Uhtred of traumatized soldiers, he turned in the direction of the street, instinctively pointing at the wall that separated it from them.

“Stiorra just asked me if I was a sodomite,” he announced, staring at Uhtred. “She is seven… why would she ask me that?”

Uhtred’s head was empty. He shrugged, eyebrows at his hairline, and inwardly cursed his daughter’s curiosity. What was he supposed to say to that?

Fortunately, Finan chose that moment to find his tongue. He slapped his hand against his forehead, as if he’d just remembered something.

“Oh, that’s probably just because you look a bit like Hild,” he told Beocca matter-of-factly, calmly pointing at his habit. “We call her a sodomite a lot.”

Beocca’s mouth fell open.

“What?” he gaped. “Why would you call the abbess a sodomite?”

Finan grinned, truly thankful for the question. Quickly, he pointed at himself, then to the others at his sides. “Because the three of us are arseholes, father,” he said, “and Hild has a go at us all the time.”

“That is—” Beocca began, but whatever he intended to say was drowned out, because Uhtred and Osferth started to roar with laughter, their tension turning to uncontrolled hysteria in the blink of an eye.

“I mean, by God, she tears us a new one,” Finan added drily. “Really hammers it in.”

“That is not funny!” Beocca hissed, amidst the noise.

“It’s pretty funny,” Osferth wheezed, honest as ever, and Uhtred chortled through tears as he watched Beocca fluster.

“Stop it!” the monk commanded, red-faced now. “This is unworthy of you, I—”

Uhtred didn’t hear the rest. He was doubled over, fighting for breath, and in the end Beocca was left with no choice but to wait for their hysterics to pass.

When they finally stopped laughing, utterly drained and struggling for air, he had long given up. Watching their antics with silent disapproval, he scowled, his arms crossed before his chest, drab brown robes draping over his elbows to form giant wings.

Like a disappointed bird, Uhtred thought, and that amused him until the bird delivered its message.

“You are needed at the palace, Uhtred,“ Beocca said sourly, when their giggling allowed it, ignoring everything that had come before, “by the king.“

Just like that, Uhtred‘s joy was gone.

“For what reason?“ he asked, worried more for Alfred than himself. “I was just about to rest.“

But instead of giving him an answer, Beocca‘s face darkened and he shook his head. Kneading his hands, he let his eyes travel to Uhtred’s men, then back to him.

“It would be better if you heard it from him yourself,” he declared soberly. “You alone.”

The sun was already low in the sky when they made their way back to the palace, and Winchester’s afternoon streets were busier than they’d normally be. The prospect of a proper execution and a drunken feast had drawn a flood of visitors into the city. Most of them were peasants from surrounding villages, hungry for a spectacle, though the deadly consequences of Alfred’s displeasure had also caused the arrival of many lords, seeing themselves forced to travel great distances to showcase their devotion to the crown. Some of them had come with nothing but a bag of coins, others with overburdened carriages of crying children and complaining wives, and they were all arriving now, all at once, swarming the stinking streets and shoving into seedy inns.

Uhtred was annoyed by the crowd, but he didn’t pay it much attention.

Feeling guilty about his previous disrespect, he tried to make friendly conversation with Beocca as they walked, though his efforts remained fruitless. Though Beocca wasn't necessarily upset with him, he barely said a word, seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts, and his mood was infectious. Soon, Uhtred’s thoughts and limbs grew heavy. It had been a long day, and even had he gone to bed that very moment, barely five hours of sleep would have remained.

Except he wasn’t going to bed.

He was going to see Alfred, who had summoned him to the palace after only two hours ago sending him to rest, and worried, Uhtred wondered what had caused him to do so. Was he in danger? Had he summoned Uhtred to his side because he feared for his safety?

That was possible, wasn’t it?

After all, at this very moment, Winchester was full of lords who’d been hesitant to take Alfred’s side, full of clerics who begrudged his Christlike martyrdom and resented him for outshining them. And all of these people took exception to the heathen at his shoulder. The same heathen he’d walked with today, in the courtyard. Who he had laughed with... for everyone to see.

Yes, it was possible.

And so, with every step, Uhtred’s unease grew, and when they neared the palace guards and Beocca absentmindedly asked him if he was carrying a weapon, Uhtred's stomach dropped as he realized that he had forgotten his belt at the house, dagger and all.

Then again, it hardly mattered, did it? Because apparently, Beocca would have taken it from him.

For a rushing, coiling second, Uhtred bristled with resentment.

Do you think me a threat to the king? he thought sorely. Have you seen the toothpicks I can carry?

Bitter, he opened his mouth to say as much, but then, thinking different, he closed it again. He was too tired from the day that lay behind him, too anxious about the day that was to follow, and deep down, he suspected that Beocca didn’t deserve his ire, for the monk himself looked tired, and it was likely that his question stemmed not from suspicion so much as from thoughtless routine. Anyway, hadn't Uhtred told Alfred that he should be searched for weapons? That everyone should be? So what was he angry about?

In the end, Uhtred merely shook his head, and then he followed, just as mute as his old friend led the way, shepherded him past the guards and across the empty courtyard, right into the well-known hallways of a palace that by now felt almost like somewhere Uhtred belonged.

Almost.

Because something was off.

While at noon, these walls had sheltered him in their courtly arms, playful ivy rustling around him, the atmosphere around him had changed significantly. The palace was dark and silent now, defensive, as if it had suddenly become suspicious of him, and as soon as Uhtred stepped into its corridors, hurrying after Beocca, it wrapped him in disorienting patterns of shadows and light, irritated him with torches that smoked much too intensely, his eyes and nostrils stinging with the bitter heat of soot. Squinting through the smoke, Uhtred noticed soldiers lining looming walls, armed with sharpened spears and ready swords. They looked almost incorporeal in the gloom, ghostly underneath their helmets, demonic cones of silver that hovered in the air like gleaming fangs, and their hostile stares followed Uhtred as he passed, born from eyes that could be felt rather than seen... 

A shiver ran down Uhtred's spine.

Had he been there, Ravn would have called all this a sign, and for a foolish, childish moment, Uhtred considered turning on his heels and making an excuse to leave... but he was a man, a grown man, and so he told himself to act like it. He squared his shoulders and kept on following Beocca, and when at last old oak creaked open to reveal the king’s hall, full of robes and eyes and crosses, Uhtred didn’t hesitate to stride into the swarm of whispers that rose into the air around him.

And there he was.

And the sight of him, unharmed, settled some of Uhtred’s nerves.

Amidst the noise, beyond the vast expanse of tiles and faces, Uhtred’s king towered on his throne, flames dancing in his darkly gleaming crown. His face was serious and thin, his back straighter than a brandished blade, and yet when Uhtred met him in a secret, fleeting glance, a hidden second long enough to see his heart, he felt an ally, not a threat.

There was a warning in the line of Alfred’s jaw, a private message in the color of his eyes; they shone a careful grey, a fortress, chain-mail grey that Uhtred had last seen through the dusty gusts of Dunwhich’s square, and he knew right then that this display of Alfred’s hellish might, with its demonic teeth and burning crown, was not aimed at him at all.

It was a beacon to the men around them, a weapon against those who Alfred had summoned.

And indeed, though beside him sat his wife and son, no doubt kept closer now than they did realize, the king’s shoulders crawled with shadows and with men. They were a moving mass, a feeding canker of whispers and skin, and while many of these men, Uhtred hadn’t seen before, others he had wished to never see again. Among that second group was Æthelwold, for one, and Erkenwald, who just now whispered something into Alfred’s ear, and behind them was another man whose sour face curdled Uhtred’s blood.

Asser, he thought grimly, as Beocca reached the throne. The man who almost caused my death.

Tearing his eyes away from the Welsh turd, Uhtred watched Beocca bow, then take his place beside Prince Edward, and that must have been a sign; for all other men now hurried to their seats as well, and when Uhtred was so close that Alfred’s eyes changed color, a king taking his place, the hall fell silent and the theater began.

Uhtred took a bow.

“Lord,” he said,.

“Uhtred." Alfred nodded back, but his eyes were dull, nothing of him left inside them. If at all possible, he straightened even further. "I regret calling you back so soon. I hope you found rest.”

What?

It has barely been two hours.

“I—”

Uhtred paused just seconds before making a mistake. 

All this was nothing but a prelude, for which the truth was neither wanted nor required, but as insane as it sounded, Uhtred had nearly spoken it. He had been about to answer a formality, to correct the king, and he realized that it had become so normal for him to speak plainly in Alfred’s presence, to tell him of his thoughts, that he had forgotten the ways of the court. 

Annoyed with this new habit, Uhtred reminded himself to be on his guard.

“I did, lord,” he responded, clasping his hands behind his back, and Alfred nodded graciously.

“I am glad.”

Prelude thus over, there was a pause, but it lasted longer than usual, and in it, the king’s mask wavered. He seemed to fight himself, as if he dreaded what he knew would come, but then, blinking too rapidly, he unclasped his hands and grasped the arms of his chair, control reestablished.

“On to the matter at hand,” he declared, his voice suddenly louder and much too even, too devoid of any feeling. “Uhtred, I hear you haven’t named your son.”

Uhtred stilled.

What?

His heart began to hammer in his chest.

No.

You cannot be serious…

In the following murmur, the appalled shuffle of robes and clutching of crosses, Uhtred fought what would have been his instinctive reaction. He tensed, wet his lips and grit his teeth. This was a joke. When he’d been summoned, he’d thought that Alfred had been threatened, or that there had been news of an intrigue, of raids, some word of the Dane they called Toke, something…

But this was personal, and of no importance to the crown.

This wasn't anyone's business. Especially not Alfred’s. The king had no right to summon him here, to his hall, in front of all these strangers, and scold him for something so private, something that involved Uhtred’s family and was his to worry about. 

It's my business.

Mine.

Behind him, Uhtred heard Asser utter a word that sounded like ‘barbarian’, and he instinctively shifted his weight, ready to fight. Driven by a dark suspicion, he glanced at Ælswith, who smirked at him with blatant glee.

You bitch.

You fucking bitch.

He wanted to jump her, to rip her to pieces… but in the weeks he’d spend at court, he’d begun to learn. The court was a tactician’s game, a place for men who bade their time, who buried their pride beneath false smiles and engraved their grudges deep inside their memory. So in the seconds that ticked by while he waited for the hall to quiet down, Uhtred vowed revenge and wrestled his temper into submission. Quickly, he searched for an acceptable reaction, something innocuous that would allow him to save face and put the matter to rest.

“I haven’t had time, lord,” he finally forced out, irritation prickling his skin.

It wasn’t the right answer.

Uhtred watched the king’s face darken, dullness hardening to glass.

Don’t, he thought.

“You haven’t had time?” Alfred repeated, pronouncing every syllable with grave deliberation, and though he had already worn the mask of king, Uhtred felt its presence more bitterly now than he had only moments before; he saw its fog, a demon wrapping around Alfred’s shoulders, a black coldness which swallowed all that was natural between them. It smothered the glow that had been there only hours before, golden with gentle smiles and teasing, and Uhtred wanted to reach out and keep it from fading, to keep Alfred from withdrawing and hold him by his side, but when he studied Alfred’s face, there was nothing there he could hold onto.

Don’t, he thought again.

Don’t you fucking dare.

Alfred raised a brow.

“Well?” he asked impatiently.

“No."

"No, what?"

"No, lord, I haven’t had time."

The line of Uhtred's neck had grown dangerously stiff. Backed into a corner, everything about him was a silent warning, but there was no escape, no mercy to be had for either of them...

Alfred was as caged as he was.

“It has been a year,” he accused, cold and disapproving, and Uhtred’s stomach clenched as the mumbling in the hall increased, his rushing blood making it hard to think.

A year, he thought.

A year.

Condemnation filled the air, thick and loud, yet by now he barely heard it. There was a storm brewing inside him, of rage and shame and something worse. Because everyone was looking at him except Beocca, and grief reached for his soul with greedy fingers, until the world around him turned to fog — the king, his hall, and all his men.

Time stood still.

A year without her.

Instinctively, Uhtred clawed his nails into his palms, unwilling to be overrun, but his hands were weak and grief’s were strong, and before his helpless eyes the Norns spun their threads of death.

Gisela, he thought, and lost his grip.

There it was; that feeling so similar to falling.

He fell and fell and fell, and felt the heat of crackling flames and the heavy silence of a corpse, a weight of crumbling earth and dirty linen, a foreign thing that held no semblance to his wife… Gisela, he thought, tasting the sound on his tongue... Gisela, whose carefree laugh had turned to hollow echoes, to nights of tearful agony, curled up in empty furs... to muffled screams, sharp and wet around his fist… his mind an endless, cruel replay of her hand slipping from his, of her figure in the doorway, of her gentle, playful smile…

And of their kiss.

That final, unsuspecting kiss.

That love he hadn’t known he’d lose.

That kindred soul he missed with every breath.

And finally, when all those memories receded, pulling at his heart like waves at sand, there stood his son. That nameless boy with hazel eyes who just the day before had stumbled, step by step, towards him. And he remembered how those wobbly legs had crumbled, and the relief he’d felt… the shame… because he didn’t want to touch him.

Truly, thinking was unbearable.

And now, in front of enemies and strangers, Uhtred feared to vomit; Uhtred feared to cry. And it was Alfred’s doing.

Uhtred wanted none of it.

Not the grief, not the pain, not the guilt that churned his stomach or the tears that threatened spilling.

“I will need an answer,” Alfred’s voice cut from above, prodding cruelly at burning wounds. “A year is long enough. What reason would a man have not to name his child after a full year?”

What reason.

What reason not to name a child.

Uhtred saw her then, Gisela, in that fog of memories and dust of dreams. She watched him through the swirling mist, her smile falling, broken, from her lips... He couldn’t stand it. So he ran, fought it, ripped it all away, and mindlessly, cowardly, decided that tacticians could get fucked. Fueled by quickly fashioned rage and ever-present scars, he raised his head to face the man he loved and hated.

After all, the king needed an answer.

And an answer he would get.

“You are right, lord, that it has been a year,” Uhtred began, steeled by quiet rage and dripping with defiance, “and normally, I would agree that a year is long enough to name a child… but by the Gods, I swear to you that this time it flew by!”

Hearing Uhtred’s tone, Beocca shot a nervous glance towards the king.

“Uhtred,” he warned, gravelled with worried premonition.

Uhtred ignored him, focused entirely on Alfred.

“Because at first I mourned my wife, you see,” he spat at him, head flushing red, “and that took me a while—”

“Uhtred!” Beocca snapped, incredulous that this was happening again.

“—and for a few months after that, I was busy driving Bloodhair out of Cent for you!”

“Uhtred, stop!”

“And when that was done, you called me to a hunt! Which truly, lord, took longer than expected—”

“You forget your place, boy!" Beocca interrupted, desperate to stop him, and Uhtred turned on him with all the fierceness of a wounded beast.

“NO, I'M NOT FORGETTING MY PLACE! I KNOW MY PLACE!” he roared, primitive and raw, spittle flying from his mouth. He beat his chest, the golden Wyvern of Wessex, roaring the contents of his heart, and Beocca threw up his hands in a gesture of capitulation, deciding that he couldn't help him. Thus unleashed, Uhtred swiveled on his axis, and gripped by fury, he stared down that crowd of flinching faces, those cowards who whispered into Alfred’s ear but didn’t care to fight for him.

“DO YOU HEAR ME?!” he thundered at them, before pointing straight at Alfred, “I KNOW MY PLACE! IT’S BY HIS SIDE! NONE OF YOUR WHISPERING WILL CHANGE IT!”

Dark spots in his vision, Uhtred paused to catch his breath. He had gotten louder with every word, faster with every passing second, and now his chest was heaving. With eyes that felt too wet, he turned to glare daggers at his king, a man who was much paler than when Uhtred had begun to speak.

“I was the only one that stayed,” he reminded him, breathlessly, in the stunned silence. “I stayed for every minute of it, lord, every bloody second!”

Up on his throne, like a statue of himself, Alfred didn’t move. In fact he was frozen in a way that should have told Uhtred to stop, but then stupid was his nature, and so he shook his head and looked at the floor to Alfred’s feet, unwilling to face the mask which loomed above him. It reminded him of Gisela’s shroud and it had nothing to do with the man he hoped to reach.

“After that, I lay dying for a month,” he continued, speaking to Alfred directly, not shouting any longer but loud enough for everyone to hear. “And that month flew by, I barely noticed it… but the next was painful and felt endless. For my dear Beocca here,” blindly, Uhtred gestured to his side, “can attest that eating took an awkwardly long time for me to get the hang of… as did standing, by the way, though I have improved that skill so much that now, I do it day and night — still by your side, no less, and as long as you’ll let me!”

With that last blow, Uhtred exhaled, his body shaking with injustice.

Looking back, days later, his miserable mind would paint its gaps with belated knowledge and he’d be able to see the whole room, to pick apart his audience and decipher each reaction: Æthelwold and Asser, circling vultures both; Beocca with his head bowed and his hand before his eyes; Steapa, deceptively composed but for the brows that reached his hairline.

Edward, half-stunned, all slack-jawed. Ælswith, quiet and seething.

But that was days later.

In the now, Uhtred was staring at the floor, numb, exhausted by the courage it had taken him to speak. He was left with nothing but the bitter truth.

“So in my defense, lord,” he declared, rather subdued now and heavy with sincerity, “I want to say that serving you has been the greatest honor of my life. But it has taken all of me, and for a while I could think of nothing else; not of myself, not of my friends, and not of names to call my son.” Uhtred’s mouth twisted. What he said next spilled out of him almost against his will, pressed forth by sadness and self-loathing. “Though I guess I’ll call him Uhtred, too, as he has barely mastered walking and could never hold a sword.”

Now he was empty.

Now there was silence.

Nothing.

Not a whisper.

All throughout the hall, men held their breaths.

Monks, bishops, lords… what Uhtred had done was unthinkable to them. They stared at him, with malice and disgust, with traces of pity and plenty of fear. Some stared at Alfred, too, anxiously switching between them, but beside the movement of their eyes they were frozen, scared of what would happen if they were to make a sound.

Well, most of them.

From the corner of his eye, Uhtred saw Æthelwold fidget in his seat. Hiding the beginnings of a smile, Alfred’s nephew leaned on his armrest and raised a hand to cover his mouth. “Amazing,” he whispered, unabashedly excited, before he turned his head to look at Alfred, waiting for the spectacle that everyone expected.

Except… it didn’t come.

Because during Uhtred’s speech, the king had turned his head, chin dipped and eyes averted, and when he turned back now his royal mask lay shattered on the floor.

Only Alfred had been left.

Alfred.

Haunted, unprotected Alfred, who looked so guilty and distressed and bare, that Uhtred’s numbness immediately turned to terrible regret.

No, he thought, suddenly horrified by what he’d done, by the ever-stretching moment in which everyone could see what he’d promised to keep hidden. No, I didn’t mean to!

But Alfred’s expression didn’t change. He seemed frozen in the grasp of Uhtred’s gaze, immeasurably fragile as he was caught inside their memories — nightmares that relived themselves in dark blue, wounded eyes — and seeing him like this, Uhtred’s heart fell and fell and fell, accelerated by his terror.

Protect yourself, he pleaded in the shocking silence, without a word but clear as day, before Ælswith shot up from her seat, charging with a soldier’s fury.

“Who do you think you are?!” she cried, shrill as whistling arrows, tearing boldly through the dangerous silence. She looked half-wild, protecting Alfred — her lips curled with revulsion, her dark eyes burning into Uhtred’s skin. “The arrogance you possess! To speak as if you are calling in a debt! As if my husband owes you anything!”

Her outburst seemed to break the spell that had fallen over the room, and as an army after a rallying cry, it now exploded into a cacophony of vengeance; a storm of cries and threats, a shaking of fists and scraping of chairs that, for a pulsing second, had Uhtred think he’d be attacked.

And still he felt relief.

Say they haven’t noticed, he pleaded with his Gods. Say they haven’t seen.

“The king owes you nothing!” Ælswith screeched above him, “Wessex owes you nothing!”

That wasn’t true, of course, but Uhtred nodded anyway, eyes darting to the men around him, to those ants that crawled closer, and then again to Alfred, whose mind was still in turmoil, dark eyes fixed on him and only him. Surrounded by a screaming mob, they were as joined as they had been in Dunwhich.

“Forgive me—” Uhtred begged, but was drowned out by the clamor around him, and either way, he wouldn’t have known how to continue.

“The rewards that have been bestowed on you!” Ælswith snarled, “The privileges!”

“Lord, forgive me—“

“And to hear you flatter yourself, boasting and lamenting, imagining yourself a martyr!”

“Please, I—“

“You savage! You greedy, insatiable—“

“Enough!”

Alfred’s voice sliced through the noise, loud, all heads turning to him, bending to his will as heated steel beneath the hammer. And that he was, the hammer, the tool that beat all else into submission, for he had straightened in his seat, chin rising high, and he looked as much king as ever.

Yet though his mask was well restored, Uhtred saw a change inside him.

He was the king, yes, commanding, ruling, looming, dark and pale, with a crown of licking fire… but he was changed as well. There was something else now in that gaze, stirring in the depth of him; a sort of ruthlessness that Uhtred hadn’t seen but once, leading up to Odda’s death.

If you publicly undermine my authority—

He had known it, of course.

Uhtred hadn’t said the things he’d said because he deemed himself special. He hadn’t said them out of some false sense of safety. He’d spoken the truth, and it had spilled from him as blood from a wound; hot, damaging, unstoppable. He’d been furious, and at the time, he’d thought it worth the consequences.

He knew that he’d be punished now. He had to be.

And still, he couldn't help but shudder.

Around him, the hall had settled down, all men eager for his head to roll… yet when Alfred spoke, with ruthless eyes, he lacked all the sharpness needed for beheading.

“How’s the child?” he asked, much too gentle in his manner, and unsettled, Uhtred shook his head.

I— what?

He didn’t understand.

He was a dog, waiting to be hit.

“Lord, I— I apologize,” he choked, shame surging, confusion spinning, but Alfred held up his hand, silencing him.

“Is the child well?” he asked, patiently, and Uhtred wasn’t sure who looked more confused; he, Ælswith, or any of the men around them.

What are you talking about? he thought.

“Lord, I don’t understand—”

But again, Alfred motioned him to silence. The king frowned now, almost as if worried.

“Your son, Uhtred,” he said, careful to give every word its proper weight. “Is he well?”

Uhtred swallowed, unable to wet his parched throat. Behind him, whispers began to rise like the tide.

A dark, discontented tide.

He didn’t understand.

“He’s fine, lord,” he half-whispered, still waiting for the cruel twist, for the trap in Alfred’s question, the reason for his unfitting demeanor.

But the king only nodded.

Nothing made sense.

“I am glad to hear it,” Alfred said, and then paused, dark eyes turning absent once again, turning inward.

His back was ramrod straight, his hands tense on the arms of his chair; he was so perfectly posed, so practiced, that simply watching him made Uhtred feel strained. No man naturally sat like this, he thought, no human body felt comfortable in this broken line of right angles, and yet somehow Alfred had succeeded in making it look majestic. Line for line, muscle for muscle, he had sculpted himself into a statue, a picture of power and stone, unmoved, unyielding…

As a man putting on armor, Alfred had sacrificed his comfort to force himself into a daunting symbol of violent strength. And yet that wasn’t what he sounded like at all.

No, Uhtred knew the melodies of Alfred’s voice. The rhythms of it.

He knew the staccato of his irritated lectures, the soft and silky lull of his reflections, the weary sharpness of Alfred’s worry and the dry bite of his humour. And so, from decades of experience, he recognized this tone as well: he’d heard it used to comfort Æthelflæd, to speak to Edward, to calm his wife.

“Abbess Hild cares for him? For the child?” Alfred asked now, in that exact manner, and Uhtred almost made a sound he’d have regretted.

“Yes, lord…” he managed, wondering how Alfred knew.

“Good,” the king affirmed, still inside himself, still in that same tone, “Lady Gisela would want him to be loved.”

And just like that, Uhtred’s aching heart stuttered to a halt.

He was speechless.

A hard knot constricted his throat, making it impossible to form an answer. He stood, wordlessly, eyes prickling, heart seizing in his chest, and besides Alfred’s rigid form Ælswith stared at her husband as if he’d grown a second head.

Was Alfred—

Was he—

“She was a good woman.” Alfred added, emerging from his dark blue pool, all of his gaze suddenly Uhtred’s to possess.

And what a possession it was.

It was a physical force, that bond between them, strong as iron shackles, binding and frightening… and freeing nonetheless. Because Uhtred knew right then and there that no punishment was coming.

He’s comforting me, he realized, flooded by a wave of warmth. He’s protecting me.

As in the courtyard hours before, time stood still and people blurred, and for a blissful moment in time there was only love, there was only them.

And then the whispers in the room rushed in, fear following the swell, a coldness washing over him.

A tide turning.

What is he thinking? Uhtred thought. What is he doi—

“Lord, he has insulted the crown!” Ælswith spoke up before Uhtred had a chance to finish thinking. Fury-pale, she stared at her husband, and at once the water stilled around them, the hall quieting in anticipation.

But Alfred didn’t even look at her.

“Uhtred is tired,” he said tonelessly, everything about him signalling that there was no room for discussion. “This once, I’ll excuse his behavior.”

Ælswith’s face pinched, her mouth like the eye of a needle.

“He said he is well-rested,” she seethed.

“A polite lie, my dear.”

“But he said—”

This time, Alfred turned to her, his movements sharp as steel.

“How would he be rested when he’s barely left me,” he hissed, ruthlessness on full display, and Ælswith froze in response, blinking at him. Much like Uhtred, she couldn’t believe what was happening.

Nor could anyone else.

Next to Edward’s gaping form, Beocca looked conflicted, his expression caught somewhere between panic and delight, and when Uhtred’s eyes wandered around the hall, taking in the angry faces around him, the angry disappointment of clerics and lords who’d only moments before hoped for his head, he finally understood what Alfred had known for minutes already — that they had reached a point of no return.

Uhtred didn’t know what he should feel.

His soul felt warm but tight inside the prison of his ribs, for this was all he’d ever dreamed of, and it was a disaster.

Ælswith agreed.

She was paler than Uhtred had ever seen her, wide eyes scattering as scared birds, criss-crossing around the room. Quietly, lips pressed together, she took in the dangerous silence, the clerics who stared at her husband in bitter disbelief… and when her fear reached a breaking point, when Alfred didn’t recover from what, surely, was nothing less than a bout of insanity, she decided to take over.

Courageously, she turned towards the heathen, straightening to lead a last, desperate charge.

“You were summoned here,“ she spat at Uhtred, nose flaring hatefully, “because you desecrated holy ground!”

Her accusation caused a rising murmur, a sound that stirred the hair on Uhtred’s neck before it crashed along the walls, a roaring wave that had been building all along beneath the surface, and beside her, Alfred sighed as his jaw tightened, tired eyes flickering towards his wife. Grey and grim, he watched Uhtred shift on the cold floor beneath him, thrown to and fro by courtly currents, and he wrapped his armor around himself more tightly, readying himself to fight.

Meanwhile, Uhtred remained clueless.

He didn’t understand Ælswith's accusation, had believed his nameless son to be the reason for his summons, and the idea that his troubles might just be beginning scared him more than he liked to admit. Turning aimlessly in search of a clue, he tried to find his footing, before at last, Beocca caught his eye.

“Gisela,” the monk explained, almost regretfully, “the graveyard, Uhtred… it was blessed. Holy ground.”

What?!

Incredulous that this was still about his wife, Uhtred looked at Alfred, utterly annoyed. This could not possibly be what all the fuss was about.

“Lord, I had no idea—” he began, and already Alfred nodded and opened his mouth, ready to come to his help, but before the king could say a word Ælswith’s whiny voice once again assaulted their ears.

“It does not matter what you knew!” she objected, eager to emphasize the gravity of Uhtred’s sin before her husband could intervene. “What matters is that you did not have the right nor authority to break this ground! You were seen willfully disturbing the peace of the dead!”

Oh, fuck off!

As the clerics yowled with her, hands striking thighs and wood, Ælswith gave him a triumphant, dirty look, and Uhtred fought to keep himself from rolling his eyes.

“I disturbed no one but my wife,” he challenged her amidst the yowling, but then he saw Alfred’s worried frown above him, the tight press of his lips, and he immediately cursed his tongue and vowed to stop arguing. He had caused enough trouble today. There would be no more.

So, for Alfred’s sake, he donned the meekest look he could muster and nodded at Ælswith with forced contrition.

“But if what I have done is wrong, lady, I apologize,” he muttered, even though it left a bitter taste in his mouth and he doubted it would achieve anything.

He was right, too.

No sooner had he finished his apology did he hear Asser scoff beside him, and at once Lady Ælswith’s eyes flickered to that Christian worm, her lips pulling into a smirk, betraying her malignant joy.

In truth, her concern pertained to the peace of the dead as much as Uhtred’s remorse pertained to her. There was no doubt that for her, this whole thing had been nothing but a pretext to damage him as much as possible, and Uhtred couldn’t stand the dishonesty of it all, the injustice of it.

“It is very wrong,” she assured him now, making perfectly clear that the fundamental depravity of his character couldn’t be lessened by a mere apology, and Uhtred’s guts clenched with rage.

I did put the earth back into the hole, lady, he thought bitingly, but that was all he did — think it — because Alfred was still wrapped in anxious armor, was still mute and tense, and the Gods knew that Uhtred had done enough damage.

Pressing himself against his rage, pushing it down, he confined his reaction to a deadly stare and his own thoughts. After all, there was some satisfaction in that, too; Ælswith was eager for a chance to tear him to pieces, and from the look of it, she hated his new-found restraint.

Taking in his silence, her mouth twisted sourly.

“It was a desecration!” she screeched again, hoping to break through his self-control, but this time Uhtred knew better than to bite back. If Ælswith wanted to cause him trouble, he had no intention of helping her. Not anymore.

Instead, he hung his head.

“I apologize, lady,” he muttered, all grave and repentant, gloating inside, “from the bottom of my heart…” Then, doing his best to look contrite, he let the silence stretch.

Above him, Alfred's hands unclenched around the edges of his seat.

“You clearly didn’t know any better, Uhtred,” he proclaimed, his voice firm and assertive, using his wife’s momentary helplessness to take control of the situation. “I find myself reluctant to punish it at all. You have—”

“But it must be punished!” Ælswith interrupted, fuming as she understood which side her husband was taking.

Alfred’s gaze turned rigid.

“The king decides what must be punished!” he corrected her sharply, wielding his title like a weapon. “And as such, I say that an apology will be enough!”

Ælswith turned to him, shocked by his betrayal, and the hall watched with bated breaths, equal parts fascinated and embarrassed, surprised that they’d be allowed to witness this blatant conflict. For a moment, Alfred glowered at his wife, warning her to know her place, and then he exhaled, careful to regain his composure. When the ocean of his eyes had settled, he turned towards the hall, finding Bishop Erkenwald somewhere at Uhtred’s right shoulder.

“And a small payment to the church, perhaps,” he said, nodding curtly as if nothing had ever been amiss, and Erkenwald nodded back at once, happy to fill his pockets.

“God is merciful…” Beocca murmured, eager to solidify the course of events.

And his servants greedy, Uhtred thought.

And that would have been it, except, unfortunately for all of them, Ælswith had no intention of knowing her place.

“Lord, what he did is not forgivable,” she said, pleading now, asking her husband to see reason, and Uhtred hurried to do the same.

“Lord, I swear, I meant no insult!”

Calmly, Alfred waved them both to silence, no doubt still planning to absolve Uhtred of his guilt, but just as soon as his hand had settled against the arm of his chair Æthelwold was rising out of his.

“May I say, lord king,” he began, only to continue without waiting for permission, “that while I would never doubt your wisdom, I share your wife's worry at this turn of events.” He paused to lick his lips, proud of himself for exploiting their disunion, and then he turned a little to look at the other lords around him, at the priests and bishops, ensuring that he had their attention.

Alfred’s eyes narrowed.

“I understand Lord Uhtred is… dear... to the crown,” Æthelwold mocked shamelessly, “but until now I thought so was the church!” As if at a loss, he spread his arms, and all throughout the hall, just as he had wanted, clerics began to whisper, Bishop Erkenwald’s bribed contentment vanishing into thin air.

While the bishop frowned, looking at his king, Ælswith paled.

For the first time, she realized just what exactly she’d invited. Æthelwold was using her thoughtless protests, her martial subversion, for his own benefit. He had perverted her intentions to question nothing less than Alfred’s loyalty to Christendom, and from the looks of it he enjoyed it a great deal, his mouth twitching at the trouble he was causing.

“Does your wife not have a point?” he asked his uncle with feigned concern. “Does this indulgence of pagan disinterest not set a dangerous example? After all, lord king, it raises the question whether ignorance should protect against punishment!” Here, rank as ever, Æthelwold smirked, closing in for the kill. “Surely, the law is the law, even for the ignorant... or is it only Uhtred of both Bebbanburg and Wiltonshire who stands above the law? Will we lesser, Christian men be judged differently?”

Inquisitively, Æthelwold tilted his head, eyes shining.

Uhtred wanted to throttle him.

“You honorless—” he began, but Alfred held up a hand and so he stilled, at once regretting that he’d opened his mouth. What was he doing? Why was it so difficult to control his impulses? After all, he knew that he was accomplishing nothing by speaking up. Not after he’d so publicly been declared the king’s favorite, the very evidence for Alfred’s corruption.

Uhtred clenched his fists.

No, all he was doing was making it worse when it was bad enough already; the challenge in Æthelwold’s words was loud and clear, his insinuations obvious enough for anyone to understand.

But Alfred wasn't anyone.

He glared at his nephew with unconcealed contempt, lips pressed thin, nostrils flaring, and it took him a second to answer, to grapple with the truth of what he’d heard - but when he did his reaction was as quick as it was merciless, without a trace of hesitation.

“Considering the extent of your ignorance, Æthelwold, I understand how you would think this a dangerous precedent. Though it will calm you to know that your lack of awareness is exceptional, and if you’re worried for public safety, I can always have you watched.”

Prince Edward barked an inadvertent laugh, then promptly swallowed the rest of his amusement when his mother shot him a forbidding glare. He held his tongue, but there was already more laughter spreading through the hall, most men’s nerves lying blank, the reestablished order providing some relief, and Alfred had to pause before he spoke again.

He waited until Æthelwold stopped blustering, until he was giving him his full attention, and then his face darkened.

“Even more fortunate for you, however,” he told him, much too calmly, “is the fact that I, by right, do indeed judge some men differently than others.” High upon his throne, Alfred leaned forward now, a living threat. “For be assured, Æthelwold, were you not my nephew, this little speech would’ve cost you your head.”

In the following silence, Uhtred could have heard a pin drop.

Clearly, Alfred’s bark wasn’t toothless. He had spoken to the whispering clerics as much as he had spoken to his nephew, had reminded them all of the rotting heads on Winchester’s walls, of the fresh ones that would join them tomorrow, and now, clutching their crosses, they cowered from him, their petty indignation suddenly forgotten, their scheming abandoned.

You can choose the carrot, the king had told them, bribing bishop Erkenwald, or you can choose the stick… and lo and behold, their mouths were full of carrot.

Careful to hide his satisfaction, Uhtred looked to the floor.

Alfred had won.

They had won.

From the corner of his eyes, he saw how Æthelwold slowly sat down. By now, he had lost all of his superficial cheer. Between his dirty fringe and pockmarked chin, his face was as dark as Alfred’s own, filled with nothing but thinly concealed hatred.

“Have I made myself clear?” Alfred asked him.

“Yes, lord,” Æthelwold answered, but Uhtred heard the defiance that still lurked beneath the cover of surrender.

Idiot, he thought contemptuously, shaking his head. A man needs to know when he has lost, but then he caught a movement of Æthelwold’s elbow, a twist of his forearm, of the hand held behind his back, and before Uhtred could figure out what it had been another voice sounded through the hall.

“If I may speak, lord,” someone cawed, and when Uhtred’s eyes followed the unpleasant sound he recognized the speaker as Godwin, the cripple. He was squatting in his usual contraption, hiding in the shadows at the edge of the hall, a direct line behind Æthelwold, and his eyes were even blacker than Ælswith’s, wet like those of crows that picked at corpses.

Surprised, Uhtred turned back to where those eyes were looking at, to Alfred, and watched him nod reluctantly.

“Thank you, lord!” Godwin heaved, and Uhtred winced because the words sounded too wet, and yet Godwin's voice scratched the air, a noise like stone against stone. “I want to say that your judgement is just and wise. In fact, I would call it God-given! Concerning the Lord Uhtred, I do not think that even an apology is necessary.”

Surprised, thinking he'd misheard, Uhtred turned his head back in Godwin's direction. He got lost on the way, his eyes caught again on Æthelwold's unnaturally distorted arm, and instead of explaining himself, Godwin stilled, hesitating, as if undecided about whether he wanted to go on. For a while, everyone waited for him to continue, but his pause took too long.

Assuming that he had finished speaking, Alfred frowned, confused about the purpose of this contribution. “Thank you, Brother Godw—“

But now Uhtred saw Æthelwold move a second time, saw that twist of his arm, and Godwin suddenly cried out, interrupting Alfred’s attempt to take over.

“The woman Gisela was a pagan,” he half-groaned, releasing air that had been under pressure, “and as such did not belong in holy ground!”

Hearing his wife’s name, Uhtred’s head snapped up, Æthelwold forgotten.

“By removing her,” Godwin grunted, “I would say the Lord Uhtred was undoing what should never have been done. Her continued presence would have further poisoned the soil. In my opinion the dead are well rid of her.”

Cold fingers wrapped themselves around Uhtred’s throat.

“Rid of her?” he echoed, the words shards of ice on his tongue, and at his elbow Æthelwold cleared his throat.

“Brother Godwin speaks in your favour, Uhtred,” he mumbled, barely daring to open his mouth, yet somehow too eager.

“I speak the truth,” Godwin pressed on, even while Uhtred tried to concentrate on what Æthelwold’s eagerness could mean, “Gisela was a pagan and a whore—”

Any concentration vanished. Beocca’s jaw dropped as far as Uhtred’s heart sank, and then that same heart began to pound and pound and pound, and instinctively, in that one last second before his rushing blood carried him away, Uhtred looked to Alfred, hoping for something to hold onto.

“Brother Godwin!” Alfred bristled, far too moderate to tame Uhtred’s blood. It was useless either way, for Godwin ignored him.

“—still married to Ælfric of Bebbanburg!” he cawed, raising his voice, and already, Uhtred heard nothing but him and his own pulse.

“You’ll say no more priest!” he commanded, turning to face him.

“In the eyes of God, she was a whore!”

“You will say no more!”

“And her children bastards!”

“Enough, Godwin,” Bishop Erkenwald hissed in a rare fit of decency. He turned to discipline his wayward monk, unwilling to risk Alfred’s disfavor after what had already transpired, but it was too late. Godwin had talked himself into a frenzy, and now he pressed his meaty hands against the armrests of his moving chair, grunting like a hog as he struggled upwards, then swayed, dangerously, before he gripped a long walking stick that had been leaning nearby.

“I would have the poor wretches taken and baptized—” he spat, wood banging on the palace's tiles as he threw his deformed weight forward, stumbling more than he was walking. “—but I fear heaven would spit them out!”

Uhtred’s shoulders took on a predatory bow, his muscles clenching with the force of his restraint. Asser was watching him, half smiling as Godwin came closer and closer.

“Lord, I will listen to this nonsense no more,” Uhtred growled over the maelstrom of blood, and Alfred nodded, hearing the warning.

“Yes,” he agreed quickly, weary of the insanity that was unfolding around him, but Godwin droned on.

“The souls in heaven are rejoicing—“

“Godwin!” Beocca was showing his teeth now, and beside him Uhtred’s sight began to blur, grief howling in his chest, his ears ringing, his body filled with so much rage that he started to shake.

“—for the heathen Gisela has been taken from the earth and burned!”

“Brother Godwin!” Alfred’s tongue was sharp now, his reproach loud, but it was unheard by Uhtred’s ears. While the king motioned for Steapa to do something, to stop what was happening, it seemed as though Steapa moved with exaggerated slowness, as though time itself was holding him back, and meanwhile Godwin had reached Uhtred already. Apparently, he had no sense of self-preservation, because now he reached out, jabbing his thick finger into Uhtred’s chest with every word he spoke.

“Your wife was the devil’s whore, a whore hated by God, and you are the devil’s instrument, you whore-husband, heathen, sinner!”

“Oh, stop it,” Æthelwold murmured, grinning and without much urgency. The hall around them had become louder, Steapa closing in on them, yet Uhtred was aware of none of it, only of that jabbing finger, of the red fury that flared and filled him with howling agony.

“God killed her because she was filth!” Godwin snarled, stabbing right into that pain in Uhtred’s chest, “because she was of no greater worth than the whore whom you have brought—“

Uhtred snapped.

“NO MORE!” he roared, wrath crashing through the air, a boom of thunder, and then Godwin fell like a tree struck by lightning—a man struck dead. He hit the palace tiles without a cry, without a moan or a whimper or any reflex of protection, and Uhtred would have noticed that had he not been blind with rage.

For the second time that day, there was an uproar, the hall erupting into noise and motion.

“Uhtred!”

“Good Lord, he has struck him!”

“I am not blind.”

Uhtred heard none of it.

“Now it is your turn to apologize, priest!” he cried, his mind still flooded with adrenaline and anger. He saw only the crumbled body on the tiles before him, and he struggled as Beocca shoved him backwards, his blood rushing, mind screaming for another hit, “Insulting women?! Hiding behind your affliction and your cross?!”

“Get away from him!” Beocca begged, shoving with both hands. “Now! Uhtred, please!”

Instinctively responding to Beocca’s voice, Uhtred fell back, a pacing lion, but he turned on his heel as soon as Beocca’s hand fell from his shoulder.

“He did himself no favor,” he declared loudly, walking forward again, “you all heard him!”

“Uhtred!” Beocca warned, reaching out to push him back once more.

By now, Steapa and Erkenwald were crouching next to Godwin’s body, Steapa slapping his cheek, and when Godwin remained lifeless, Erkenwald gasped and pressed a shaking hand to his mouth. Pale as a ghost, he turned towards the throne.

“Lord,” he breathed, shocked, “I fear he is dead.”

No...

Uhtred’s head snapped to Alfred, who was watching Steapa’s attempts with intense concentration, motionless, his eyes dark and brows furrowed.

“He cannot be dead,” Uhtred scoffed, willing it to be true. “It was a slap, lord, no more than that!” But his temper had cooled, and despite his protest, he couldn’t ignore the unnatural angle of Godwin’s body when he looked back at him, the twist in his neck.

No.

Still crouching on the floor, Steapa turned to Alfred, grimacing.

“He is dead,” he confirmed, somewhat of an expert on the matter.

No! No, but—

Without thinking, nothing more than a boy for a moment, Uhtred gripped Beocca’s arm, pulling at the coarse linen there, fingers digging into warmth. Then he let go, adrenaline bursting through his veins as he recoiled in horror.

No—

He felt sick.

Panic gripped him, all at once.

A wave of acid welled up his throat.

No, no, no—

This was a nightmare. This couldn’t be.

“It was a slap, lord,” he croaked, his voice breaking with the horror of his situation. “You saw it for yourself.”

But Alfred didn’t answer him, and next to him, Ælswith’s face twisted into an atrocity.

“Guards, take hold of him!” she demanded, but no one listened to her. All eyes were on Alfred, who was slowly rising, bleak beneath his crown, a hand pressed to his stomach.

No, please...

“Lord, it was a slap!” Uhtred repeated, begging now, his fear rising. Feeling trapped, he clawed at the back of his neck, his right hand fumbling against tense muscle, numb and swollen, his heart stumbling over its own rhythm. Horrified, panic spiking, he watched the guards at his sides inch closer. The muscles in his legs stiffened, ready to run.

He took a step backwards. Took a secon—

“Stay, Uhtred!” Alfred’s voice rose as a phoenix from the ashes of the hall, burning through everything else—the fear, the confusion, the instinct. He pointed at Uhtred, fiery blue boring into him, willing him to listen. “Do not move!”

And though his instinct screamed at him to run, though dizziness spun the edges of his vision, Uhtred froze.

Here, in this moment, Alfred was both threat and safety, simultaneously his hangman and protector, and that contradiction was too much for Uhtred’s already strained mind. Struggling to understand, undecided whether to fight or flee, he did as he was told.

Alfred didn’t move either. His eyes were an invisible vice clamped around Uhtred’s soul. After what felt like an eternity, he addressed the man who stood between them.

“Steapa,” he commanded, unblinking. “Escort Lord Uhtred into the hallway. He’ll wait there until I get him.”

Ælswith turned her head, staring at her husband as if he’d lost his mind.“Lord, he will run!” she protested, pitched high with hysteria.

“He will wait!” Alfred repeated sharply, momentarily ungluing his eyes from Uhtred’s to slice them at his wife. “In the hall. Until I get him.” Quickly, he turned back. “Swear it, Uhtred.”

Uhtred felt sick. Desperate for some kind of reassurance, he searched the depth of Alfred’s eyes for comfort, but there was none to be found. Instead of Alfred, Uhtred saw his king, unreadable, mask firmly back in place, and that unsettled him, but then… what choice did he have? What was he supposed to do? Where would he run to? Home? Away?

To save himself and forsake Alfred? When it was he who’d made him vulnerable?

No.

There was no choice.

Slowly, trying to control his breathing, Uhtred exhaled and took his hands from his neck.

“I swear it,” he said.

Chapter Text

It took more than an hour until Alfred entered the narrow corridor that ran alongside the king’s hall, and when he did, Uhtred was sitting back against one of its walls, his arms on his knees.

After he’d been escorted from the hall by half of Wessex’ infantry — an insult or a compliment, he was too tired to decide — Steapa had initially stayed close to him, gifting him a meaningful look and a shake of his head. Soon afterwards, however, he had turned away, sensing that Uhtred wasn’t in the mood to discuss his mistakes, nor the tragedy that had sprung from them, and mercifully, Steapa’s men followed his lead. They had formed a semicircle, trapping Uhtred between themselves and the wall, but at least they’d given him an arm-length of distance.

And thus, left alone among a group of strangers, Uhtred had sunk down to the ground, unbothered by the boots and swords around him. Gradually, his racing heart had slowed, and once the rush of strife had ebbed off entirely, he had been left with nothing but whizzing thoughts and bone-deep exhaustion. While the former had kept him awake, the latter had forced him to close his eyes.

Impossible as it was to attain, Uhtred longed for sleep.

He wanted to shut out the world, to hide in nothingness and idle dreams, but after sleepless hours and hour-long stresses, his mind was a scattered place, a torture chamber rather than a refuge. Ruled by trembling instability, thoughts and time both raced and crawled along the inside of his skull, round and round a hall of bone that felt as if it trembled. All of that was hard to bear, and so Uhtred leaned away from it, from himself and his scattered mind and his trembling skull, holding on to stretching seconds with his back against the wall...

He was the fly, waiting for the spider, and yet when finally, finally, creaking wood and jangling mail woke him from this horrid, half-conscious stupor, he was almost glad that it had come.

Outside of his skull’s warped vibrations, there was the rattling sound of straightening spears and squaring shoulders; there were greys and blues and motion, soldiers parting like the sea, and Uhtred, sitting among men that were standing at attention, let his head fall back against the wall to watch his king approach.

He didn’t bother to get up.

Alfred didn’t scold him for it, either.

Instead, he walked right up to Uhtred’s feet, and wordlessly, Uhtred’s heavy eyes travelled the length of him; from the tips of his boots to his blue-clad legs, then higher, skipping along the metal trail of ornate clasps that bridged the gap in his cassock. When he reached Alfred’s throat, Uhtred’s eyes darted to the golden line of his crown, then quickly back to the straight edge of his collar, where they stayed, shame preventing them from meeting the king’s gaze.

Alfred’s chest was barely moving. With his breath as regular as ever, he seemed forebodingly composed, and though Uhtred had resigned himself to fate, the fly in him began to squirm.

“So?” he asked, to end the moment.

Alfred turned to Steapa.

“Leave us,” he ordered, and when Steapa hesitated for a moment, understandably not fond of the idea, all of Alfred's careful coolness shattered into shards of ice. “Now, Steapa.”

Steapa bowed, calmly.

Too hardened to be rattled, and much too familiar with Alfred’s moods to be surprised, his face remained unchanged as he motioned at his men, and they, much less unfazed themselves, quickly bowed as well, clumsy and unsynchronized. There was a commotion, a temporary chaos of shuffling boots and banging wood, soldiers bumping shields as they hurried to form a line. They were buffoons, all of them, but when they'd finally managed a semblance of order, they marched down the corridor, followed Steapa like ducks in a row, and after one more crawling while, listening to fainting footsteps, Uhtred and Alfred were alone.

Alone but for the ghosts of their past conflicts... hollow echoes of Uhtred’s roaring pride and Alfred’s biting fear.

Bracing himself for a repeat performance, Uhtred forced himself to look up at his king, but his king didn’t look back. Motionless for all but his ever restless fingers, Alfred had turned towards the empty corridor, unseeing. He was twisting the royal signet ring on his right hand, absentmindedly tracing its edges and patterns, and Uhtred sat and watched him do it, much too aware that this was the calm before the storm…

They stayed like that for a while, in perfect silence, until distantly, somewhere in the palace, another door fell shut. It was a final sound, a cut through time, and dutifully, Alfred faced the moment.

“Do you understand what you have done?” he asked soberly, turning, watching Uhtred on the floor as he joined his hands behind his back, and for a moment, Uhtred closed his eyes.

How is this worse than anything he could have yelled?

Craving to deny it, he shook his head.

“I didn’t do anything,” he muttered. “It was a slap, nothing more.” He hated the weakness in his voice, wasn’t brave enough to look at his accuser, and so instead, he lowered his head and stared at the tiles beneath his feet. They were Roman tiles, once the epitome of skill and power, and yet they had long grown undefinable in color. Gone were the days of their painted glory, and now, after years and years of service, they were worn out, much like he himself... They were a disappointment to men who’d expected more of them.

Uhtred curled his swollen hand where it throbbed against his knee.

“I know it was a slap,” Alfred admitted, high above him. “but Godwin was frail. No man in his right mind would have slapped him.”

“I didn’t think—“

“No, clearly not.”

Alfred’s tone had gotten sharper now, straining for control, an when Uhtred looked up at him, he was pinching the bridge of his nose, had closed his eyes as though he couldn’t bare to see Uhtred’s face.

“You never do…” he muttered, and that stung, was a dull pain in Uhtred's chest, all-permeating. He tried to shake it off, push it away, but it couldn’t be moved.

“How was I to know that it would kill him?” he asked Alfred, miserable with the unfairness of it all, sounding like a child. “No man has ever died from a slap.”

Swiftly, Alfred took his hand from his face and opened his eyes.

“And yet Brother Godwin is dead,” he countered bitingly, no patience for Uhtred’s self-pity, “and Bishop Erkenwald is livid. You’ve destroyed his connection to God, his donum ex deus.”

Uhtred said nothing. He didn’t even know what that was, a donum ex deus, but he wasn’t going to ask either, and clearly, Alfred wasn’t in the mood to translate. The king was staring down the corridor again, visibly frustrated, his eyes narrow with bitterness.

“Of all the men to kill,” he muttered cynically, more to himself than to anyone else. “A gifted monk...”

Despite his guilt, Uhtred rolled his eyes.

It was done now, was it not? Why couldn’t Alfred just tell him what he had decided? These lamentations did nothing but prolong his suffering.

“So what’s my punishment?” he asked, petulant now, eager for it all to end, and Alfred fixed him with a disapproving glare, very much aware of his change in tone.

“There will be a wergild,” he said. “It—”

“I’ll pay it.”

“You will let me finish!” Fed up with Uhtred’s impulsiveness, Alfred glowered down at him. He stilled, towering, a show of force, and seeing that he was on the edge of breaking, Uhtred bit his tongue and forced himself to wait. Logically, he knew it was in his best interest, that further disobedience would only lead to further punishment, yet somehow, that was the very reason he found it hard not to speak. Humiliation burned in his chest as the seconds ticked by, each one longer than the one before...

Then, finally, Alfred was satisfied with his compliance, and he began anew.

“You’ll pay twenty pounds of silver within a fortnight,” he declared strictly, as if that wasn’t outrageous, the highest amount anyone had ever paid for a dead monk. “And before that, you will ask the witan for clemency. You will prostrate yourself before Bishop Erkenwald.”

“Prostrate?” Uhtred asked, having never heard of it before, and for some reason, that was what caused Alfred to avert his eyes. He clenched his jaw, a slight flare to his nostrils.

“It means you’ll sink to your knees,” he explained, tonelessly, “and then you’ll lie on the ground with your face against the tiles and beg him to forgive you.”

Uhtred’s thoughts came to a screeching halt, exhaustion forgotten.

“What?” he blurted, “No, I will not!”

“Yes, you will.” The king’s face was dark and hard, the one that tolerated no objections, and icy dread pooled in Uhtred’s stomach.

“No, I won’t,” he repeated, though he was pleading now, and they both knew it. “Not in front of the witan. Not in front of everyone.”

Alfred scoffed at his objection.

“If you are truly so shy, Uhtred, I suggest that next time you murder a man, you do it in privacy. In an alleyway, for instance, or a house, a tavern even, just somewhere that is not the witan.” He raised his chin. “I warned you, I did, but you don’t listen… I will tell you once more; you killed him publicly, so I must punish you—“

“Publicly! Alright! Enough!” Uhtred's cry filled the air, hit the walls around them. It crashed into silence, horrible, stifling silence, and hearing it, Uhtred swallowed a curse and looked away, a lump forming in his throat.

Again, he hated how unfair this was.

Because he had listened.

There is things I cannot allow, Alfred had said. Uhtred remembered it. Just as he remembered the rough wood against his back, the dark room with its circle of light, the sound of rain against the glass above… His hand in Alfred’s own, fingers covering scarred skin, a silent promise of comfort and protection.

I am Wessex, Uhtred.

A promise that meant nothing.

I cannot afford to be a friend.

That had never been spoken aloud.

Duty must come first.

So why did he feel so betrayed? Why did this hurt so much?

Brushing the feeling away, Uhtred squared his shoulders against the wall behind him. He wouldn’t take this lying down. What did it matter that Alfred wasn’t willing to stand by him? Uhtred had never had his support in the past. He would fight on his own. As always.

Meeting Alfred’s gaze, he glowered at him.

“I won’t do it,” he said, as pain turned to anger, brimming in him and hardening his eyes. “Punish me all you want. Imprison me, flog me if you must—“

“Flog you, oh for heaven’s sake!”

“—but I won’t get on my knees! Never! I won’t beg some old weasel—“

“He is my bishop, Uhtred!” Alfred thundered, finally losing his temper. “For once in your life, contain yourself!” His order echoed down the hall, a cruel whip thrown back at them by righteousness and stone.

Uhtred’s mouth snapped shut.

Nursing their respective wounds, he and Alfred both glared at each other, helplessly frozen in time. They had come to where they’d been a million times before, and thus disillusioned, the air around them was fraught with anger and frustration, heavy with the disappointment of finding each other unchanged.

But Alfred wouldn’t have it.

“No,” he bristled, cutting the tension. “You have no right to look at me like that. If you think I’m being cruel, then you are delusional. I have done everything to spare you. What more would you have me do? I can’t just—” Emphatically shaking his head, he broke off and threw up his hands, half-turning, and he looked so anxious, in that moment, so rattled, that suddenly, Uhtred struggled to hold onto his anger.

“I won’t beg,” he repeated, ignoring the first pangs of his conscience.

Still turned away, Alfred scoffed.

“Then your commitment to the crown is weaker than I thought.”

Bastard!

You fucking bastard!

Uhtred stiffened in reaction to the blow. Alfred had to know that this particular accusation was almost unbearably unfair. It felt like an axe to the heart, draining the heat from his blood.

“This has nothing to do with my commitment,” he denied, defending himself, but Alfred didn’t let up.

“Oh, I can assure you, it has everything to do with it,” he spat, turning back to face Uhtred on the floor, fuming. “You do not seem to fathom the consequences of this stunt — the clergy is livid, Ælswith is calling for your execution!”

Uhtred laughed.

“Of course she is,” he said, unimpressed, but Alfred didn’t share his amusement.

“Ridicule her all you want,” he warned, tight and grim, “but she is not alone in it. It took a while, in fact, to disperse the notion.”

Now, Uhtred’s mouth fell open.

“What, to kill me for a slap?” he asked, incredulous.

“For the murder of an unarmed priest,” Alfred snarled back, flushed with rage. “In the king’s hall, no less.” He turned again, his back to Uhtred, gripped by nervous energy, and after a pause he huffed, let out a sound that was joyless and black. “And by now allegedly with his approval, no doubt…”

At that, Uhtred tensed.

Allegedly with his approval, his mind repeated, and creeping from the fog, Æthelwold appeared like a shark from the deep, his eyes gleaming black, his smile too wide and teeth too sharp.

A heathen, he whispered, licking his lips. So dear to the crown.

Uhtred’s stomach churned. He recalled the tide of discontented murmurs, rising behind him, and fear spread through his veins. For the first time since he had started to argue, he remembered that Alfred wasn’t his greatest worry, not by far…

He wasn’t Alfred’s, either...

Suddenly, Uhtred noticed how white Alfred’s fingers were, how they dug into the skin of his wrist as if they were holding on for dear life, and when Alfred turned around again, still restless, Uhtred noticed that he looked grey and tense. Worry had aged him, his cheekbones painfully pronounced, his skin pulled taut across his skull, and when he closed his eyes, visibly sickened, Uhtred’s anger fell to dust.

I’m sorry, he thought.

Fuck, I’m so sorry.

Blind to his change of heart, Alfred broke the silence.

“This might all seem amusing to you, Uhtred,” he said wearily, unable to muster the energy for a stronger reprove, “but you do not understand how much it will cost me. How many concessions… for months to come.”

Standing above him, Alfred looked exhausted by the mere thought of what lay ahead, dark rings beneath his eyes, and Uhtred had no urge to argue with him, to speak at all, too wrapped up in his flaring guilt.

As much as he would have liked to close his ears to Alfred’s complaints, to tell himself that he was a helpless castaway, tossed about by fate, he knew that wasn’t entirely true. After all, Ravn had warned him, in that corridor. Watching over him, the old man had given him a sign, and Uhtred should have listened, should have turned on his heel and fled, damn the consequences. Instead, the norns had spun a treacherous web, and he, rash and blinded by emotion, had walked right into it, tangling in its threads.

Now, watching Alfred suffer, he knew his feelings of betrayal weren’t fair.

Despite his inner turmoil, despite the horror he felt at the prospect of cowering on the floor, he knew that Alfred hadn’t betrayed him at all.

If anything, it was the opposite.

For Uhtred had promised to hold his tongue, hadn’t he, and then he’d broken that promise, and now they were reaping the consequences of his lacking self-control. After countless reminders to keep it in check, Uhtred’s reckless temper had put them in a world of trouble, and yet, instead of abandoning him, Alfred was still standing by his side.

Yes, for all of Uhtred’s daring words, all his posturing and false bravado, it was Alfred, in the end, his lord, who protected him… not the other way around. The world had twisted into a farce of itself, and now the king was protecting his warrior, throwing himself into harm’s way to keep him alive.

But that’s wrong.

That’s not how it’s supposed to be.

It was pathetic. Uhtred hated everything about it.

Most of all himself.

As so often during these last months, he felt utterly useless, and suddenly he remembered how years and years ago, he’d stood feet away from where he was now sitting, a young man talking to Beocca, blissfully unaware of listening walls. He’d still been unbroken then. Strong and stupid, with the arrogance to match. Uhtred remembered what he’d said, almost verbatim. He’d told Beocca that while Alfred might have a use for him, he would certainly have a use for Alfred, too. Yes, here on these same tiles, he had declared that Alfred needed to prove himself, that he would have to beg for Uhtred’s sword...

How ridiculous that sounded now.

How fate had punished him for it.

Because since Dunwhich, their use to each other had clearly stopped being mutual, hadn’t it? The scales had tipped to one side, and not to Uhtred’s favour.

What did Alfred need him for? He had other warriors. Countless advisors. Meanwhile, Uhtred would be nothing without Alfred’s support, his kingship. He wouldn’t be a lord at all, neither rich nor influential. Just another broken soldier, decorated with past glory…

And that was what it was, wasn’t it?

Past glory.

For secretly, deep inside his heart, Uhtred was convinced that Dunwhich had been his last battle. No matter how much he trained, no matter how well he learned to wield a dagger, a child’s tool for eating, he’d never be as good as he had been before. He would never again break a shield wall or kill a man like Ubba. No, to those who knew him, to Alfred, he’d forever be a shadow of the warrior he’d once been, and in his swollen hand, Uhtred’s heartbeat pulsed a song of grief.

You’re an aged hound, his mind whispered. Kept only for sentiment’s sake.

“Uhtred?”

Alarmed, Alfred’s voice called him back to the world beyond his skull, but when Uhtred looked up to find out what had disturbed him, he realized that he could barely see. Ashamed, he looked back down.

“What is it?”

Idiot. You idiot.

He didn’t dare to blink.

“Nothing,” he answered, though it rang hollow even to himself, and feeling wetness threatening to spill, he used his hand to hide his eyes.

“It’s not nothing. You are upset...”

It was pointless to deny it, but Uhtred shook his head nonetheless.

“I’m fine,” he lied, unsteadier than he had intended. “I just need a moment.” His nose pressed painfully against his swollen palm, his hand crawling with ants, stinging from the pricks of a hundred needles. And yet all that discomfort was nothing compared to his wounded pride.

Fucking idiot.

He hated every falling tear.

What was wrong with him, that he would act like this a second time? Was he a child? Was he going to make this a habit? Surely, this was the height of his humiliation. How much further could he possibly fall? How much more of his dignity was there left to lose?

“Sorry,” he murmured.

Alfred didn’t answer, and with shame lashing, hoping to compose himself, Uhtred rubbed his damaged hand against his eyes, spread wetness between swollen fingers... Now that, that made Alfred speak.

“Stop, you are hurting yourself.” The king’s voice was coming closer, and then there was that damned scent of wool and warmth, Alfred’s fingers wrapping around Uhtred’s left wrist, prying at him.

No.

Tensing, Uhtred resisted. His hands were the last refuge of his pride, and knowing that his eyes would be a red-rimmed mess when he emerged, he wasn’t ready to give it up, not yet. So he pressed more firmly, struggled against Alfred’s efforts, and an endless moment later, the king finally gave up.

Safe for the moment, Uhtred took a shaking breath.

For a while, all he could hear was the blood in his ears, the inconsistent shudder of his own breath, and he focused on that, carefully steered himself towards calm and control. Beyond his hands, Alfred remained silent, and when the wetness on Uhtred’s skin had dried enough to leave the safety of his hands, Uhtred let them fall, limply, into his lap. Though he turned his head away as he did, for Alfred was kneeling not an arm-length away, and Uhtred’s humiliation was bad enough. He didn’t need to see it reflected in those eyes.

“Sorry,” he repeated, hollow, not knowing what else to say, but then Alfred suddenly laid his hand on Uhtred’s knee, and that burned, burned, heat seeping through cloth and skin, right into bone. It spread up along his thigh, along his belly and into his chest, and there it seared on, until Uhtred didn’t know what he was feeling anymore, nor if he wanted it to stop or last forever.

It was brutal, he thought numbly, how one touch could rule him with such ease.

“What is it?” Alfred asked again, calm but insistent, and Uhtred shrugged, reluctant to speak. Shame was a draining emotion, and he’d been exhausted to begin with.

“I’m tired of being a problem…” he mumbled, to the empty space before him.

Unbeknownst to him, Alfred’s features softened.

“You are not a problem, Uhtred,” he said, his voice terribly gentle, “You have caused a problem, yes, but I am solving it this very moment.”

Inwardly, Uhtred winced.

I’m solving it.

There it was, that twisted world.

“Did you injure yourself?” Alfred asked, concerned, “Slapping him?” and that was funny, wasn’t it, just a little. In any other moment, Uhtred would have laughed.

Instead, he shrugged again.

“It’s fine.”

“It doesn’t look fine.”

The hand that wasn’t burning Uhtred’s knee brushed against the bloated back of Uhtred’s knuckles, and instinctively, Uhtred pulled his hand away. It was too much.

“Does that hurt?” Alfred asked, frowning.

No. Not the way you think.

Uhtred shook his head, still watching nothing. The heat of Alfred’s touch and the worry in his voice were hard to bear, his careful affection engulfing Uhtred in a suffocating cloud.

“It must hurt, Uhtred,” he insisted now, “It’s terribly swollen.”

“It’s fine.”

“You should have said something earlier.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It’s already worse than it needed to be. Wait here—“

“Lord—“

“I’ll send for Pietro —“

“Don't.”

“— if he hurries we will—”

“I SAID IT DOESN’T MATTER!” Uhtred screamed, a dog backed into a corner, unable to suffer for a second longer, and taken by surprise, Alfred rocked back on his heels, his hands pulling away. Uhtred shot him a withering glare, though he quickly looked away again, his temper immediately cooled by blue eyes and regret.

In front of him, the king’s body was tense, yet though Uhtred expected to be punished, nothing happened. Instead, there was a pause, and it stretched and stretched, heavy and thick. After a while of this torture, Uhtred glanced up to meet Alfred’s eyes, searching for something to say, but he saw pity in them, and that stole all of his words, felt worse than a rebuke.

Everything was wrong.

Alfred’s strange kindness, his suddenly so lenient manner, it was overwhelming, unwelcome even. Uhtred didn’t know what he was supposed to feel. What was Alfred, in this moment? Was he his friend or his king? Protector or foe? Uhtred couldn’t figure it out. Again, it was too much. He wanted it to be over.

Just punish me, he thought, bile rising. I can’t stand whatever this is. 

In front of him, Alfred cleared his throat. His face had become carefully blank, eyes studying the wall next to Uhtred’s head.

“This isn’t easy for you,” he said, still much too softly for Uhtred’s liking. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t take longer than necessary.” With that he nodded, as if they had agreed on something, and then he stood up, his bloody robes straightening around him.

Uhtred stayed where he was. He was unwilling to contribute to any aspect of his doom. Yet soon, he felt Alfred’s eyes on him.

“Get up.”

Uhtred sighed. No longer able to stall the inevitable, he pushed away from the stone behind him, used it to steady his less than graceful ascent. He’d been crouching for a while, and his limbs were stiff now, his knees weak beneath him. It took him an embarrassingly long time to step away from the wall entirely, and Alfred waited for him, unusually patient, but once he was sure that Uhtred wouldn’t keel over like a newborn calf, he wasted no time before he voiced his next order.

“After this is over,” he announced, “you’ll confess and repent. In private, to Beocca.”

Oh, fuck off.

Uhtred pulled a face.

“Why?” he complained, his mood worsening further. “Why repeat to Beocca what he and everyone else has already heard? That’s stupid. I won’t do it. Tell him to write it down or something.”

Alfred’s jaw clenched, and there was a tensing of his shoulders, a dark cloud settling over his features. For a split-second, he looked as though he was about to snap, but then, still dizzy, Uhtred lost his balance, and Alfred’s expression changed to something entirely different. Seeing Uhtred sway, he stretched out a hand, not quite touching but ready to intervene.

“Careful,” he warned, worried, his voice so soft that it was almost a whisper, and on bare Roman tiles, in the cold light of the day, he wore the same expression he’d worn when they had knelt beside each other in the doorway of his chambers, hidden by shadows and rain.

There it is, Finan swore.

Christ almighty, there it fucking is.

Shaken, Uhtred stepped away, and something in Alfred’s face drew away too, shuttered down.

“You will confess,” he declared, stern once more, picking up where they’d left off.

“Why?”

Suddenly, Alfred’s eyes wavered with soft shadows.

“To save your soul, you fool,” he said quietly, his face a haunting contrast to the softness in his eyes, and Uhtred’s breath hitched in his chest.

There it is, Finan’s ghost whispered again, but Uhtred quickly brushed him away, dispersed him to wafting clouds.

“No one goes to hell for killing men like Godwin,” he said, hoping it would divert attention from his breathlessness, but deaf to his objections, and thankfully blind to his delusions, Alfred gave him the look of an exasperated teacher.

“You will confess,” he repeated. “And you will repent.” His voice sounded clear in the hall, echoed like a truth, and knowing that there was no use in arguing when Alfred spoke this way, Uhtred gave in.

“I’ll do it next time I meet with Beocca,” he agreed, but even now Alfred shook his head.

“No, Uhtred, you’ll do it today. You killed a gifted monk. I can think of no better way to earn a place in hell.”

“That’s why it has to be today?” Uhtred asked, darkly amused, raising his brows. “I guess execution is still on the table then?”

Displeased, Alfred glared at him.

“Of course not!” he denied, and Uhtred shrugged in turn.

“Alright. Then I won’t die today and there is no need to confess,” he concluded.

“You don’t know that,” Alfred replied, strangely agitated all of a sudden. “No one ever does, Uhtred.”

“Please, like I’m going to be stabbed in my slee—”

“You could die in all manner of ways,” Alfred interrupted him, his hand sweeping through air to stress the point. “You could fall, or be struck by sudden illness, or choke on your food, or be poisoned or—”

Uhtred laughed. It was a true sound, unplanned, and startled by it, Alfred stopped his venting. His eyes shot to Uhtred’s, bare of understanding, and almost as surprised as he, Uhtred raised his hands.

“Sorry,” he said, though remnants of joy still glittered in his voice and eyes. “It’s just—” Helplessly, his lips twitched again. “I know you’ve wished me dead before, I just didn’t think you had a list.” Saying it out loud made it worse, so Uhtred broke into a smile again, yet from the look of him, Alfred wasn’t amused at all.

“This isn’t a joke, Uhtred,” he snapped, so frustrated that it instantly sobered Uhtred’s joy. “The fate of your soul is not a matter to be mocked!”

Right… forgot who I was talking to…

Exhaling a long-suffering breath, Uhtred folded his ruined hands over his chest.

This makes no sense.

He can’t possibly be serious.

Even to Christians, Alfred’s worries had to be comically irrational, and Uhtred had to admit that he was surprised. For all their differences, he had always considered Alfred a rational man, a man he disagreed with on what to think, not how to think, and yet when it came to the king’s faith, that clearly wasn’t the case. Here, he was a fanatic, and he lost himself in irrational frenzies, fears that were nothing but the figments of his imagination… yet just when Uhtred was about to say as much, he was startled into silence, because strong fingers wrapped around his skin, burrowed into the space between his forearm and chest.

Suddenly, Alfred was too close, too focused on him, and Uhtred froze beneath his grip.

“Please,” the king murmured, pleaded, his breath dancing in the narrow space between them, his blue eyes stabbing Uhtred’s soul. “I’ll find no sleep.”

Gods.

Mortified, Uhtred turned his head away. He felt naked and bare, unprotected, as if at any moment Alfred would see the truth of him, would hear it in the sudden racing of his heart, and he nodded, cowardly, unthinkingly, hoping to avert the danger. Yet to his horror, when he tried to pull away, Alfred refused to let him go.

“Yes?” he pursued, unsatisfied, mercilessly focused on Uhtred’s every reaction, and desperate to escape, Uhtred nodded again, would have nodded a thousand times more.

“Yes, I— yes.”

“Good.”

Rewarding him for his submission, Alfred let him go.

He took a step backwards, giving Uhtred space to breathe, to question what the hell had just happened, but before Uhtred could even attempt to find an answer, the king’s face was already changing, his royal mask eclipsing whatever clues remained. Suddenly, as if they hadn’t just been breaths apart, as if Alfred hadn’t just begged, there was a certain blankness to his features, a grim determination as merciless as steel. Uhtred recognized it from the countless times they’d been together, just before battle, up on horseback or standing on a hill.

When Alfred’s eyes turned grey, Uhtred knew he was inside the hall already.

“Then we will end this miserable matter,” Alfred declared. Icy honesty had drained all warmth from his voice, his eyes liquid steel, hard and empty, flickering over Uhtred’s features with barely any recognition before he turned to double doors of metal-fitted wood. “Remember that appearances must be kept.”

Appearan— what ?

Alfred's extreme change in tone made Uhtred uncomfortable, sudden dread pooling in his stomach. He opened his mouth to ask what was going on, but it was too late, because without another glance in his direction, the king had already begun to stride towards the hall.

He expected to be followed…

And unfortunately, Uhtred did.

Chapter Text

And unfortunate it was…

‘Miserable’ was not what Uhtred would have chosen to describe the experience that followed. Indeed, he doubted that he could have found a word for it at all, certainly not one that came close to how he felt, for by the time the sun vanished below the horizon, black fury oozed out of Uhtred’s every pore, the tentative acceptance he had felt back in the hallway long gone. Vanished. Together with his guilt. 

And any warm feelings he’d ever had for Alfred.

Ever.

What the king had done to him compared to Uhtred’s crimes as the violent sea to a bucket of water, and sitting across from him now, the air between them was brimming with tension. For once, Alfred’s chambers were flooded with light, a fire bathing everything in cozy reds and golden yellows, blanketing them from the night that pressed its icy blue against the glass above, and yet Uhtred didn’t feel at home at all. He felt very much the opposite, in fact, and he would have preferred to shiver in the snow outside if he’d had a choice. He knew now that Alfred summoned warmth like servants, that the king was just as treacherous and false as the palace he ruled over, and so the disingenuous flames inside the hearth weren’t nearly bright enough to counter Uhtred’s thoughts.

He couldn’t believe that he’d been such a fool.

I hate him.

How had he ever thought himself in love? Who could love a man like that?

I hate him.

How easy it would be to leap across the table — 

I fucking hate him.

— and to fucking strangle him.

Maybe, just maybe, Uhtred knew he had no right to hate Alfred the way he did. Maybe, somewhere in the dark and deep, buried underneath his pain, he knew that things were complicated. But that didn’t stop him for a second. No, his screaming heart and mangled pride had long overwhelmed reason, memories of what Alfred had done to him crowding out everything else, and right now, Uhtred did not care one bit for what was rational or true. All he cared about was to satisfy his desire for revenge. 

Fuck him.

He wanted to cause Alfred pain. 

He thinks he owns me.

To punish him any way he could.

He’s thinks I’m his dog.

In an act of vengeful self-destruction, clenching his teeth against the pain, Uhtred tightened his unbandaged hand around the hilt of his knife, praying that Alfred would see how his fingers turned white.

Unfortunately, he did not.

Instead, he calmly ate his dinner — or rather held a gruel-covered spoon, while he, as always, studied a piece of parchment. His brows were drawn in concentration, and to all outside appearances, he looked deeply immersed in his work. Practiced as he was in deception and diplomacy, the act was quite convincing, too...

Or at least, it would’ve been for most.

But Uhtred wasn’t most, and he knew how Alfred looked when he was bluffing, how his face became just that little bit too blank. Right at this moment, the king’s eyes were much too still for reading, and anyway, even had they not been, how long could it take Alfred — pale, ink-stained, monk-like fucking Alfred — to read a single page?

No, Uhtred wasn’t falling for it.

He saw Alfred’s motives, clear as day, and they were bloodcurdlingly selfish.

For first of all, Alfred had barely said a word since Uhtred had joined him. No commands, no briefs, no questions. Far from talkative, the king had spoken less than thirty words in thirty minutes, none of which had been important, and so while Uhtred knew that his presence did not lack a reason, Alfred lacked the decency to find a pretext for it. 

Because Alfred didn’t care. 

He’d never cared, or else he could not have done what he’d done today. The emotions the king had shown in the past, his seemingly so sentimental confessions, all of that had been an act, a script he had decided on to make Uhtred do his bidding. To manage him. To make him heel.

Like a dog.

But unfortunately for him, Alfred had been forced to show his colors, and now Uhtred wanted nothing more than to go home, to sleep, to never look at him again. And yet here they were and here they stayed, because Alfred held him hostage, chained to his table...

Like a dog, a dog, a—

But this time, Uhtred saw through his games. He knew that the reason for his summons was Alfred’s need to display his power, to remind him of who was in charge. The king was a man of ice, after all, a master of manipulation, and he knew well enough that after what had happened, Uhtred needed to be reigned back in; that the Dane in him was snarling, thinking about stepping out of line — about pulling free and biting back.

Like a dog.

Fortunately for the king, Uhtred wasn’t an oath-breaker. But oh, if he had been! 

I’d be gone. He’d never see me again.

If not for his oath, his honor, Uhtred would have left Winchester the moment his punishment had ended. And why not? Why should he show loyalty to a man who threw him to the wolves at the first sign of trouble? To a man who couldn’t grasp the concept of comitatus, who spurned all the unspoken laws between a retainer and his lord. 

I hate him.

Because Alfred had admitted as much, hadn’t he? He had admitted that he didn’t respect Uhtred as a man, a thegn. Just hours ago, in the courtyard, he’d called Uhtred ‘needy’, had called him ‘a stray mutt at his door’, and yet Uhtred hadn’t listened, because he hadn’t wanted to know, hadn't wanted to believe that Alfred could actually mean it. 

But he did. 

He thinks he’s my fucking keeper.

To him, Uhtred was was a dog and nothing more. A beast he’d kicked and would now soothe with scraps and treats. 

Needy.

A useful pet. 

Fuck him.

Unloved.

I’m not his dog.

Unfeared.

Fuck—

Uhtred’s grip failed him. Against his will, his swollen fingers turned from white to pink, loosening around his knife, his strength exhausted for the moment. He rearranged them on the hilt, their tendons burning, mind darkening further as he was reminded of why he was no longer feared.

Fuck— 

I want to fucking— 

But no, it didn’t matter. For all his supposed cleverness, this time Alfred had miscalculated, and toothless or not, Uhtred had decided that he'd be a hound from hell, would no longer play the obedient pet. He couldn’t break his oath, no, but he could break pretty much everything else, and if fate had decided that he was a burden, then who was he to question her? From now on, he would be a fucking burden, a nuisance, more trouble than he was worth, until the king was miserable enough to send him away.

Until I’m rid of him.

Consoled by his plan, Uhtred gave the spectacle around his plate another hateful glance.

To think I can be bought with this.

To think I'm that easy.

Before him, covering almost all of the table's surface, was enough food to feed a middle-sized army, more than one man could ever eat, plates and bowls practically piling on top of each other. The sight of it was so strange that Uhtred was reminded of his dying vision — the mead-hall of the Gods, its tables groaning underneath an otherworldly feast — and to list every item would have taken him minutes, but among them were smoked fish and marinaded meats, warm bread and dried fruits, hearty stews and plates of honey-sweetened vegetables. In short, this was another one of Alfred’s manipulations; not a meal but a culinary bribe, a treat for him to wag his tail, and the most telltale sign of that was heaped on Uhtred’s plate.

Scrambled eggs with pepper. 

Yes, that was right…

Pepper.

That almost fantastical spice even most nobles had only ever heard of but never seen, let alone tasted. That thing Uhtred would not have had any way to recognize, had Alfred not made sure to point it out to him. To Uhtred’s knowledge, pepper was so rare that it was almost impossible to find, and even if one managed that, none but the most powerful could afford to actually buy it; it looked like dust, and yet it was one of the most valuable things a man could own, worth a hundred times its weight in gold...

The Pope had bequeathed it on his deathbed.

Kings secretly gifted it to their mistresses.

And Uhtred didn’t give a fuck about it.

For all he cared, Alfred could have served him rotting meat and maggots. The food before him held about the same appeal. Even without what had transpired, Uhtred’s need for sleep would have dwarfed his need for food, but after this evening’s events, his appetite was ruined for good. How was he to swallow a single bite when he was still so full of rage? When he was chewing on his degradation, remembering every detail of his agony.

Uhtred remembered the initial sting of kneeling.

He remembered the twisting pain of Alfred telling him to lie before a dozen men, their eyes on him as he obeyed. He remembered the lasting burn of icy tiles against his forehead, no match for the heat of his blood, a whip lashing his veins...

He remembered quiet snickers. Trying not to look at anyone...

Then the lashing waves of shame as he was forced to beg.

He remembered the world falling away, unreal and blurred, his pride writhing on the floor, caught up in its throes of death. And Erkenwald, too close, calling him son and telling him to straighten, to kneel. Uhtred remembered the smell of him, the feeling of his papery fingers and taste of his ring... The roiling sickness in his own stomach and the weight of Erkenwald’s hand on top of his head, heavy, demeaning, crawling through his hair as if he was a boy…  

Yes, Uhtred remembered. He would always remember. 

He would never forgive.

Least of all the man who’d made him beg; who’d forced him to perform a humiliating mixture of plea and self-abasement, prayer and confession, dictating it word for word. Every syllable had brought bile with it, bitter and acidic, and now, still tasting that betrayal, Uhtred’s heart tightened in his chest. Alfred had humiliated him so casually, so effortlessly, as if it didn’t mean a thing. 

Because it didn’t, you fool. Not to him.

To him you are nothing.

If he cared even the slightest bit, he would have apologized. 

But he hasn't...

No, when the hall had emptied of men, the king had said nothing. And not only had he not apologized, but he had refused to give Uhtred even a minute of reprieve. Lordly and distant, he had ordered Beocca to take Uhtred’s confession, and then he’d left, quickly, without another word. To Uhtred, that had been the fatal wound, all of his unspoken hope, all of his dreams bleeding out of him as he realized that what he thought they were did not exist, that even their friendship -

Stop. Stop it.

You hate him.

It didn’t matter. At least now he knew the truth. 

And mercifully, Beocca had felt for him. He hadn’t said a thing, but Uhtred had seen it in his eyes, his restless hands and feet. Visibly uncomfortable with what he had been ordered, Beocca had waited until they were alone, and when they had finally begun, even Uhtred’s limited experience had been enough to know that Beocca had cut corners, compassion hurrying his tongue. Thus accelerated, confession had taken only a fraction of the time it usually did, and that was well and good, because Uhtred wouldn’t have stayed a second longer. He had begun to question why he had promised this to Alfred in the first place. Why would he ever do something like this voluntarily? What had he been thinking? This would be his last confession. In the future, he’d have nothing to do with all this Christian nonsense.

So, with Beocca’s ‘soþlice’ still hanging in the air, he had raced towards the doors, yearning to find a tavern and drink himself into a stupor, to start a fight and beat someone to death, but the doors had opened before he had a chance to touch them, and with both arms pressed against the wood, Pietro had pushed into the hall, half buried in his sail-like clothing. Out of breath, he’d blocked the doorway, and after he’d cheerfully greeted them, he’d announced that Uhtred’s drunkenness would have to wait, for Pietro had been sent to treat his injuries, and afterwards, Uhtred was to join the king for dinner. 

Replying that the king was to go fuck himself, Uhtred had tried to push past him, but Pietro had kicked him in the shin surprisingly hard, and that had stopped him long enough for Beocca to intervene.

Now, half an hour later, Uhtred’s leg was bruised where the Roman had made impact, and his sword hand bandaged so thickly that it wasn't recognizable. Forming a single white club, it was bound into a rigid fist, useful for nothing except maybe a doorstop, and Uhtred was frustrated at being one-handed. He was glad that Pietro had left his second hand alone, at least. It didn’t really hurt much less than the first, was swollen too, from the outburst at his house, and normally, Pietro would have bandaged it as well, usually straying on the side of caution. Except, this wasn’t only about Uhtred’s health, because Uhtred needed his hand unbound to join Alfred for dinner, and Pietro was chief healer now, a position that came with many perks and comforts… all of which he could lose by falling out of Alfred’s favor. So, according to his own confession, Pietro had added a line to his Hippocratic oath.

First do no harm, he said it went now, and second whatever the king says.

Beocca had found that quite amusing, but he’d stopped laughing when he’d noticed that Uhtred was nearing his second murder of the day.

Dogs, Uhtred thought now, scowling, The bunch of us. 

Imagining Alfred’s eyeball, he speared another piece of long cold egg. He had no intention of eating it, was driven purely by the urge to stab something, and when his knife hit the bottom of his plate, shock sent pain into his hand, but he barely felt it. Not allowing himself to feel anything but hate, Uhtred continued to hack away at the yellow mess below, stabbed it to the rhythm of his rather simple thoughts.

I hate him.

I fucking hate him.

I hate him, I hate him, I HATE HIM.

His elbow pressed into the table as he stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, listened to the clink, clink, clink of metal hitting pottery, satisfyingly loud in the otherwise so silent room. 

This was what he’d do to the insides of the men who’d smirked at him, he thought. Erkenwald and Asser, Æthelwold and Eadmund — someday, he would gore them all. He would gore them as his brother had gored Kjartan. He would puree their insides until there was nothing left to hang from the trees, and then he’d feed their whispering tongues to the ugliest pigs he could find, and those pigs he’d—

“Stop that. You’ll break your plate.”

Alfred didn’t even look up from his reading, sounded calm, as though Uhtred’s fury was nothing but the temporary tantrum of a child, and looking up to glare at him, Uhtred theatrically splayed his fingers, hit by a renewed wave of hatred. His knife hit the edge of his plate, metal clattering loudly against clay, and finally lowering his stupid spoon, Alfred’s eyes rose from his work. They flickered to the source of the noise, then up at Uhtred, meeting his glare in the most neutral of acknowledgements, and then they returned to Alfred’s work again, unshaken.

“The food is not to your liking?” the king asked, pretending to only just notice that Uhtred wasn’t eating, and by the Gods, how could a face be this punchable?

Still hunched over his plate, Uhtred tensed even further. 

“Oh, it’s delicious,” he replied sarcastically, almost hissing in his fury. “And plenty.” 

They both knew he hadn’t taken a single bite, of course, knew what he was implying, and for just a moment, staring at his parchment, Uhtred saw Alfred’s eyes harden. But then his face changed, as though he remembered something, and when he looked up, his expression was carefully blank again. 

“You seem tense,” he observed, in a tone as empty as his eyes.

Uhtred donned a shocked expression.

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if you say so, lord, I guess I must be.”

Too angry to keep his eyes on Alfred, Uhtred looked down, but there he saw his hand, scarred and swollen, its skin glossy and textureless where he had burned it, and the sight of that did nothing to improve his mood.

For him, Uhtred thought, turning his head further away, You ruined yourself — for him!

Disgusted with himself, he stared to the side, at nothing.

Every part of him was a silent warning, and yet, as always, Alfred didn’t heed it.

“And would you like to tell me why?” he asked, still so quiet, still pretending, and left speechless by the gall of him, Uhtred’s head shot up.

Why don’t you try and guess, he wanted to scream. And then I’ll repeat whatever you come up with! Isn’t that what you like, you fucking bastard!

Uhtred’s blood was boiling. Alfred’s feigned ignorance was driving him insane. It was typical for him, of course, had been his strategy for years, but that only made it worse. Alfred loved to decide what was allowed to exist, ignored whatever he was done with. His illness, his nephew, unwelcome objections or bothersome conflicts, Alfred handled these things the way most people treated beggars; he didn’t acknowledge them, closed his eyes and ears to them and moved on as if they didn’t exist. Now he was doing that exact thing, and though the table before them was covered in the evidence of his knowledge, he had decided that today’s events no longer existed. Uhtred’s pain didn’t matter to the king, was not convenient… and therefore, Uhtred was ordered to move on.

But he was fed up with it. 

He would no longer bow to Alfred’s whims, nor play his games, verbal or otherwise, and so he turned to his immeasurably expensive eggs, earthenware scraping against wood as he pushed the plate away.

Fuck your bribe, he thought, trying his best to control his expression. See if the pigs like it.

“I’m done eating, lord,” he said, ignoring Alfred’s question. “May I be excused?” 

At first, nothing happened. For a few seconds, as though he hadn’t heard Uhtred speak, the king showed no reaction. Then, half-hidden by his bowl, his work slipped from his fingers, abandoned once and for all.

“You may not, no,” he denied, sounding reluctant, still pretending this was not a show of power. “You’ve eaten nothing, Uhtred. I cannot dismiss you until you have.” 

Fuck you!

I’m not your pet.

“I’m not hungry, lord. I need my bed.”

Curtly, Alfred nodded.

“Yes,” he said, as though agreeing. “Eat and you may go.”

“I’ll eat at my house, lord,” Uhtred bargained, fighting for composure.

“You’ll eat at this table, Uhtred,” the king corrected. 

Uhtred wanted him to die. He wanted him to fucking die.
 
“Why?” he challenged, daring him to say it.

Alfred stayed calm.

“Because it’s late,” he replied sternly, as if he himself had ever eaten based on time or regularity, and then his eyes shifted away, avoided Uhtred’s, and when he spoke again, he sounded sober. “And I fear the taverns may look all too inviting in the dark...”

Uhtred’s gut fell away, right through him, through the chair and through the floor. 

Alfred knew. 

He fucking knew, and for the life of him, Uhtred couldn’t figure out why it was him who felt ashamed.

Hatred burned in the air. He wanted to leave, right the fuck now.

“What I do on my way home, lord, is my business alone,” he growled, wrapping himself in his anger, and Alfred inclined his head, his face perfectly noble, perfectly blank.

“That is true.”

“Then let me leave.”

Again, Alfred inclined his head, this time in the direction of Uhtred’s plate.

“Eat and you may,” he said calmly, and Uhtred ground his teeth as fury flared, enraged that he was being treated like a child.

Bastard, he thought, cursing inside, but for a second he felt tempted to give in. His exhausted body was pleading with him to give up, to choke down those fucking eggs so he could finally retreat and get mind-numbingly drunk. Uhtred told it to shut up. He wouldn’t give Alfred the satisfaction. This 'meal' was a tightening of chains, and Uhtred refused to just accept it.

“I won’t eat,” he announced.

“You will.” 

Uhtred scoffed. 

This was laughable. This was the dumbest form of tyranny.

“No,” he said again, unthinkingly, emphasizing that it was his final word. “You can’t make me.”

Alfred opened his mouth, but then stopped and closed it again, deciding to leave Uhtred’s challenge unanswered. He didn’t have to answer it, either. Because his silence spoke for him. His clothes spoke for him. The room around them, the guards outside… the fucking pepper.

Everything.

Uhtred’s pulse quickened in his neck.

“No, I’m not hungry,” he repeated, helplessly, like an idiot, and finally, Alfred tired of their argument. He folded his hands as though he was preparing to explain something complicated, his tongue darting out to wet his lip.

“I know you aren’t, Uhtred,” he said, with forced patience, “I do not require you to be. I’m only asking you to eat.”

“Oh, f—“ Swallowing what he’d been about to say, Uhtred clenched his only remaining hand into a fist, his eyes automatically flickering to the side of the table, and across from him, Alfred raised a brow.

“Yes?” he asked, knowing full well what had just happened.

Fuck you, Uhtred thought, I hate you. 

He gave Alfred a contemptuous smile.

“Nothing, lord.” 

In his mind’s eye, emerging from the mist, the king’s ghostly twin shook his head, dark eyes flashing disapproval. Mind your tongue, he warned, d’s full and t’s sharp, and the effort it took Uhtred to obey was almost superhuman. He wanted to scream, to tell Alfred exactly what he thought of him, but even with the hate he felt, he had learned his lesson. If not for Alfred, then for himself. 

He wasn’t safe in the king’s presence, and there were limits to what he could say, how honest he could be. Uhtred couldn’t let himself lose control. It would only allow Alfred to hurt him.

Especially when they weren’t alone.

For at the narrow end of the table, only a little more than an arm-length away, stood the girl that Æthelwold had mentally undressed at Christess Mæsse, waiting to serve them. She was cradling a large jug in her arms, mute but attentive, and she looked as lovely as ever, with pale skin and fiery red hair. Yet contrary to the last time Uhtred had seen her, she was unnaturally still, had tensed during his and Alfred’s struggle for dominance, and her green eyes were cast towards the floor with the unfocused precision of someone who wished to disappear.

Her instincts served her well, too. 

Because beautiful or not, her presence wasn’t wanted. Not by Uhtred, at least, who despite his injuries felt quite capable of pouring his own water, thank you very much, and who, had he been asked if he wanted to be served, would have preferred the ability to speak his mind. Though of course, there was a reason he hadn’t been asked, for three times before now, he and Alfred had eaten together, in these chambers, and not a single time had they been attended by a servant. Today, that had conveniently changed, and only an idiot would have believed it a coincidence. 

No, far from accidental, the girl’s presence had a purpose; it gave Alfred the upper hand in their conflict, was an invisible muzzle, a line that Uhtred couldn’t cross, and distinctly aware of this, the king chose to play his hand accordingly.

With Uhtred practically gagged, Alfred didn’t bat an eye before he took control.
 
“Your day was difficult, that cannot be denied,” he said, oh so ready for compromise, continuing the theater, “And I understand only too well how worry can dampen a man’s appetite.” Alfred frowned, his eyes lowering to his bowl, and Uhtred noticed that he was intentionally misidentifying his anger, probably hoping to nudge it into that same direction. Compared to rage, worry was more palatable after all, and didn’t target Alfred directly. 

“I’m not worried,” he grunted in defiance, short and stiff, and Alfred suddenly looked up, surprised, maybe because he had dared to disagree. 

But then the king nodded.

“Good,” he said, apparently changing tactics. “You needn’t be, Uhtred. You have done all that was required of you.” He gave Uhtred a small, very much unwelcome smile, and Uhtred would have liked nothing more than to slap it from his face. He didn’t want Alfred’s praise. He didn’t care for his approval, would never care again.

When he showed no favorable reaction to Alfred’s placating gesture, eyes as hard as ever, the king’s expression changed once more.

“You must consider the matter resolved, Uhtred,” he said warningly, an order dressed as concern, his face and voice hardened against potential dissent. “Everything else will only make things worse. Seeking revenge will not serve you, I promise it. It will only lead to further pain.”

Right.

That’s what this is.

A threat.

Bitter, Uhtred shook his head, struggled against his bonds.

“Nothing is resolved,” he growled, and Alfred didn’t counter that immediately but instead sighed, not needing a single word to make himself understood. Once more, he looked down at Uhtred’s plate, pointedly, waited for Uhtred to comply, but Uhtred turned to stone, and when after a while, he still hadn’t moved a muscle, Alfred sighed again. Refusing to continue their discussion, he moved to take up his own spoon, and, as slowly as a man could possibly move, scooped up a portion of white sludge, then carefully tapped it against the side of his bowl before he brought it to his mouth. The food had long since cooled, of course, but Alfred blew on it anyway. He even chewed, for fuck’s sake, on gruel… 

Seething, Uhtred watched him eat.

You thank God for every grain, don’t you? he thought, not the slightest bit inclined to bow to Alfred’s will. Staying motionless, he waited, watched Alfred eat one, two, three more bites — and then the king finally relented. 

He put down his spoon, positioned it perfectly beside his bowl.

“The matter is resolved enough,” he declared, as if he hadn’t meant to end their conversation in the first place, and when Uhtred opened his mouth to object, he immediately held up a hand. “The rest of it I will take care of. You need not trouble yourself.” 

You mean ‘must not’, Uhtred thought, his pulse spiking. But I don’t care if you want me to just take it. You best believe I will ‘trouble myself’.

Unfortunately, Alfred wasn’t done.

“Do you understand what I am saying?” he asked, before Uhtred could reply, and because Uhtred couldn’t well tell him off, not in front of her, he didn’t answer at all. Instead, he tried to wait Alfred out again, stared at a piece of chicken, but the stretching silence pulled and pushed, was all it took to prove that it wasn't him who held the power, and in the end, he averted his eyes and jerked his shoulders.

“Whatever,” he mumbled, clinging to that last bit of rebellion, and though for a moment, Alfred looked to be on the brink of speaking, he eventually nodded and let it be.

Gods, Uhtred wanted to smash something. 

He wanted to overturn the table and send bowls crashing, to throw that damned plate of eggs across the room and hear it shatter into pieces. He wanted to see Alfred’s eyes widen, to see him feel the rage Uhtred had been enduring for at least an hour now… It couldn’t be healthy for a man, that rage. Uhtred was boiling over, he really was. He needed an outlet. It felt as though there was too much blood in his body, especially in his neck, like the pressure of it might actually rupture a vein. 

Might be my only way out of here, he thought cynically, and with that came a wave of exhaustion. 

How could he feel so tired while his heart was galloping? 

Truly, this was going to kill him. 

Overwhelmed for a moment, Uhtred slouched in his chair. He leaned his head back as far as he could and closed his eyes, thankful for the little rest that darkness provided. Throughout the evening, he had barely managed to keep himself upright anyway, and his body was the last tool of rebellion he had left. Even without seeing her, Uhtred knew the girl beside him was probably shocked by his behavior. Surely, she had never seen anyone act like this in the king’s presence, and he was rather happy with that thought, the message that would sent.

The king was not, however.

He clucked his tongue.

“Uhtred, sit upright,” he ordered, his voice penetrating the peaceful darkness, a trace of something new in it, a seed of irritation that could well be nurtured into more. “This display is beneath you.”

Uhtred scoffed.

That was funny, wasn’t it? The idea of Alfred caring for his dignity.

“Forgive me lord, but I don’t think there’s much left beneath me,” he replied sarcastically, but straightened anyway and opened his eyes, knowing he had no other choice. He gave Alfred a bitter smile. “Except the palace floor, of course.”

The king didn’t seem to find that amusing. He looked almost tired now.

“Just eat,” he said, clearly unhappy with Uhtred’s resistance.

“Why?” Uhtred asked again, daring him to at least speak the truth.

“I have said.” 

Alfred sounded serious, and looking back at him, Uhtred sobered as well. 

“Yes, but why really?” he asked, fantasies brewing.

The king frowned.

“Uhtred, I don’t—“

"Is it poisoned?” 

“Pois-“ Alfred’s mouth snapped shut. His lips pressed thin as he flushed with indignation, nostrils flaring around a sharp inhale, and for a chest-rising, wonderful moment, the king’s lungs were full of rage, unborn thunder crackling in the air. Oh, what a thrill to see that thing in his eyes glitter, unleashed and uncontrolled, wild sparks licking at the blue — and then it was suddenly all gone. From one moment to the next, Alfred’s face was pale and empty once again, his mask in place so quickly, so completely, that Uhtred suffered whiplash from it.

Just when he was beginning to question himself, wondering whether he had seen Alfred’s anger at all, he saw the king’s eyes flicker to the girl beside them.

Uhtred smirked.

Regretting the audience now, are we? he thought, with a good amount of schadenfreude, because apparently, the king didn’t want to lose control in front of an audience either, wanted to save face, and witnessing his regret gave Uhtred great pleasure. 

Unfortunately, Alfred soon refocused.

“You have made enemies today, Uhtred,” he said, as though he hadn’t just lost his temper, his face once more stoically blank. “It may calm you, however, to know that I am not one of them.”

Uhtred huffed.

“I didn’t make any enemies today,” he disagreed, ignoring Alfred’s patronising reassurance – and the threat hidden in its premise. “Asser, Æthelwold, your wife — they all hated me before I even entered the hall. They’ve wanted to harm me for years. Today was planned. Intentional.”

Already, Alfred’s eyes flickered to the girl again. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

They had entered politics now. 

Uhtred was making concrete allegations against members of the court — against the king's wife, of all people — in front of a witness, and though Alfred had of course been aware of these conflicts for years, they had so far remained unspoken. Needless to say, he had preferred it that way, but what was aired couldn’t be reburied, and while it was apparent that the king was unhappy with Uhtred’s candor, he looked rather conflicted about how to handle it. Clearly, he yearned to order Uhtred to silence, and yet that was impossible, for it would essentially have conceded Uhtred’s point. In essence, they were playing chess, and to his own surprise Uhtred wasn’t doing bad at all. No, after all these years at Alfred’s side, he’d inevitably picked up a few tricks.

If I kill Æthelwold, he heard Alfred say to him, all these years ago, I am admitting he has legitimate claim to the throne. That is how I think… You think like a heathen.

Oh yeah? No longer. 

Unfortunately for the king, the heathen mutt had learned, and as a result, Alfred’s pause now took a little too long. Deeply gratified by that, Uhtred raised a brow at him, and that seemed to pull Alfred from his cautious silence.

“Maybe it was intentional,” he admitted sharply, lacking better options, his frown cutting a deep furrow into the skin between his brows. “But you are not a child, Uhtred. And any harm you suffered was self-inflicted. Nothing you stood accused of today was of any importance. You could have—”

“Not of importance?” Uhtred interrupted him, flustered. 

“None,” Alfred confirmed, razor-tongued, not having it. “And neither would you have been harmed. Until you let yourself be goaded, that is, into needless action—”

“Needless?” Uhtred interrupted again, no longer listenig, speaking over Alfred’s voice until the king gave up. “Godwin insulted my wife! He called her a whore. A whore! What, was I supposed to ignore that?” Uhtred shook his head, denying the possibility. “I couldn’t have. It would have made me look weak!” 

This caused Alfred’s eyes to shoot towards the ceiling.

“Oh, weak,” he scoffed, mocking the word. “And did killing a monk make you look strong? An unarmed cripple?” 

Frustrated, Uhtred raised his arms, one hand and one club.

“For the hundreds time, it was a slap!” 

“It was thoughtless,” Alfred countered. “A thing of no consideration!” 

Uhtred nodded, unashamed.
 
“Yes!” he cried, all restraint forgotten, his voice resounding through the room. “And without it, everyone would have thought me weak!” 

Sitting in the echo of Uhtred’s pigheadedness, Alfred closed his eyes, his patience utterly exhausted. He was close to breaking, worn down by Uhtred’s ever-repeating outbursts of temper, and to hold on to what remained of his self-control, he turned his head to the side, stared bitterly at the tapestried wall. 

“What utter nonsense,” he complained. “No man would ever be thought weak for keeping his composure.” Shaking his head, he huffed, the exhale releasing some of the pressure in his shoulders. “But you fail to see that, Uhtred, all the time. Men like you are—” Alfred abruptly stopped, kept himself from finishing what he'd wanted to say, but Uhtred had heard the beginning of it, and that was enough to have him tense in his seat.

Men like you, his mind repeated, as next to him, a second body tensed just as he did. 

The poor maid was definitely unwanted in the room now, most of all by herself, and her eyes were those of a doe, wide and unfocused, ready for flight. As close as she stood to him, Uhtred could hear her breathing change, become shallow but quick, and somewhere behind the fog of his rage, he understood that she was terrified of what she was witnessing, but all of his thoughts lead to him, and his mind was too worked up to see the girl’s fear as the warning it was. Humiliation and betrayal were tearing at his insides, dragging him to the edge, and he was yearning to turn his wounds inside out, wanted to take his pain and make it Alfred’s.

I fucking hate him, he thought, gripped by violent visions. 

How fucking dare he speak to me like this? He should fear me. I could kill him in seconds!

The king’s self-importance served him well enough in the comfort of his palace, this land of smoke and mirrors where he was untouchable, but Uhtred yearned to remind him of the reality of violence, to drag him from his high horse and bring him down to earth, where it was men like Uhtred that won his battles and defended his borders, that outlined his power with their guts and blood.

You’d be nowhere without men like me, Uhtred thought disdainfully, glaring at Alfred’s profile.

Fucking ‘keeping composure’!

What was that if not hesitation and inaction? How had it worked out for Alfred when he’d paid the Danes for peace? Trusted them to keep it? Or when he had trusted Hæsten’s change of faith? His loyalty to Wessex? 

Not at all. That was how it had worked out. 

Composureless, Uhtred scoffed, not caring who heard it. 

“You live in a fairy tale,” he spat, all restraint abandoned, and the king immediately turned towards him. Shocked and grim, his eyes turned dark, but before he could reply, Uhtred continued, helplessly caught in his own anger. “You think everything can be solved with words,” he accused, “but this isn’t a story from your books, it’s reality, and some people cannot be reasoned with, you need to deal with them! If you don’t, they come after you because you look weak.”

Vindictively, Uhtred raised his arms, one red and swollen, one unrecognizable. 

“That’s why I have these,” he finished bitingly. “Because you were weak, and Hæsten came after you, and half of Wessex joined him. But you, lord, have failed to see that as long as I’ve known you.” 

There, Uhtred thought triumphantly, and stopped to let his words sink in.

And truly... at first it seemed as though he had struck the mortal blow, for Alfred didn’t answer, sat frozen in his momentary shock, but what came after that was nothing like surrender.

Around them, silence grew into a static roar, and then the fire hissed behind the king, flames flaring upwards as they rushed outside the hearth. Coming alive, they turned to vengeful, snarling dogs, struggling against the wood that bound them, and they reached for Uhtred like the candles that stood guard around the room, their flames lowering and stretching, a hundred burning spears that pointed straight at him.

And that’s when Uhtred felt it.

Alfred’s God came as a terrifying thing, a sudden wind which had no point of entry, not invading from the outside, but defending from within, and bowing to its presence, the king lowered his head, his lashes fluttering down in what could only be described as bashful. In the middle of their strife, that gesture looked incredibly disturbing, so clearly was it out of place, and it unsettled Uhtred nearly as much as the source-less draft that had by now reached Alfred’s side. Fire-warm and loving, it brushed by the king's shoulder, kissed his cheek in a gentle stir of hair against flushed skin…

And then Alfred scoffed, and the living air around him turned to Uhtred. 

Cooled, it gripped his shoulder, a cruel, icy hand causing him to shudder, and trying to catch whatever had him in its grasp, Uhtred’s head whipped around to it, but there was nothing there except a ghostly pressure and a sense of dread. He tried to calm himself, to tell himself that it was nothing more than air, yet the moment he turned back to Alfred, that nothing crawled across his skin and froze his muscles, spun into a noose that choked him, and Uhtred’s fury mixed with dreadful fear.

Fuck off, he cursed, though this once not at Alfred. You can’t do anything to me!

Unwilling to show his fear, he fought the urge to grab his pendant.

You’re just one, and I know many! he cried instead, into the sudden, spreading cold.  And by the Gods, I’m not scared of you! 

But the noose around Uhtred’s neck tightened the moment he’d finished thinking, and with his head still bowed, Alfred smiled a knowing smile.

“Well, it’s certainly insightful to hear your thoughts, Uhtred,” he said calmly, but he sounded all wrong, said Uhtred’s name all wrong, and when he looked up, his eyes weren’t his, were wide and dark. “I have wondered why you aren’t scared of me...” 

Uhtred didn’t move. Alfred didn’t look like himself, had echoed his thoughts verbatim, and suddenly, Uhtred was unsure who he was talking to. He felt unsettled by the presence that was looming all round them, that he recognised from grasping corners and the nightmare of a burning chapel, and though he was still full of anger, he was also full of fear, was really, really cold, Alfred’s silhouette crawling with the flames that fought the hearth behind him.

“Is that why?” the king’s face asked now, his eyes soulless. “Because you think me weak?” 

Shivering, Uhtred paled.