22- The Thing.

MORNING

Bjorn was still working on his table and the chairs, while close to him, Gyda and Athelstan sat learning the Bjornic Alphabet, on stools and benches, outside the longhouse.

He was carving the final chair for the set he'd been making, his brow furrowed in concentration as he smoothed the curve of a leg. Close to him, on low stools, his sister Gyda and the Northumbrian monk, Athelstan, were hunched over a slate tablet.

Athelstan pointed a slender finger at a symbol. "And this one makes the 'guh' sound. Like in your name, Gyda."

Gyda squinted, her small hand gripping a charcoal stylus. "I still don't understand," she said, her voice frustrated . "Why make marks for what we already say? I can just tell you the story of the one-eyed god and the great wolf."

Athelstan's face was patient, his voice soft.

"Yes, you can," he agreed. "And it's a wonderful story. But what if you travel to the lands of the Svear? And what about your children's children, long after you have gone to feast with the gods? Who will tell them the story exactly as you know it?"

He leaned in, his tone becoming more earnest. "With these marks, your voice can cross any distance. It can even travel through time. A person who will not be born for a hundred years could listen to you."

Gyda's eyes widened. "So this... this is talking with your hands?" She tried again to copy the letter Athelstan had shown her. Her first attempt was a clumsy, wavering line, more worm than symbol. She glanced at Athelstan for reassurance, then at the bold, clear letters Bjorn had carved into the back of one of the chairs. They were a declaration.

She squinted at one particular symbol, a sharp, angled character with a strong vertical line. A grin slowly spread across her face. "This one looks like a fish with no tail. Did you make it, Bjorn?"

Bjorn didn't look up from his work, the shavings of wood curling at his feet. He gave a single, affirmative nod. "Made all of them."

Gyda was quiet for a moment, processing this. The runes she knew were ancient, gifted by Odin. They held magic and mystery. But these were Bjorn's. They were new. A different kind of magic, perhaps. Her voice, when she spoke again, was softer, touched with awe. "Does that mean you made your own way to speak? That's so nice!"

That's when Ragnar and Lagertha appeared from the forest, as they just came back from Kategatt. They paused on the threshold, their eyes adjusting to the familiar shapes of their children and their world taking form.

Ragnar's gaze settled on Bjorn A slow, knowing smile touched one side of his mouth, though his eyes remained assessing. "So," his voice rumbled, cutting through the focused silence, "this is what you've been up to."

Lagertha moved past him, her shieldmaiden's stride softening as she approached the children. She nodded, a genuine curiosity warming her features as she looked over Gyda's shoulder at the strange marks on the slate. "You are teaching the girl something new." It was a statement of fact, layered with approval.

Bjorn glanced up from his carving, his hands momentarily stilling. He offered only a slight nod in acknowledgment, his expression guarded, letting his parents draw their own conclusions.

"She's learning well," Lagertha said softly, her voice a gentle counterpoint to Ragnar's gruffness.

At her mother's praise, Gyda looked up, her face breaking into a proud, bright smile. "It's hard," she admitted, "but I like it."

Ragnar walked over to where Bjorn sat, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. He gestured with his chin toward the half-finished chair. "Looks like you could use another hand. A man can't build a kingdom and all its furniture alone."

Bjorn nodded once. "Thank you. Is there any new news with our Earl?"

The air in the room seemed to cool, the brief moment of peace dissolving into tense anticipation. Ragnar's expression hardened. "The Law-Speaker made an announcement in the square," he said, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. "A Thing is to be held in three days. 'All free men must attend. Those who do not come will answer for it.' That's what he said."

Bjorn set his knife down, the soft click of steel on wood unnaturally loud. "Strange timing. What is to be spoken of?"

"He was not specific," Ragnar answered, his gaze distant, already playing out scenarios in his mind. "My guess is it will be about you."

Bjorn's brows drew together in a hard line. "So Haraldson finally makes his move against us."

"He is bound by the law," Lagertha interjected, her voice firm. "He cannot spill your blood without cause, or he will lose the support of the very men he needs to hold his power. He knows this."

"That's the problem," Bjorn countered. "I would really prefer a fight right now. And if they attack us, we simply have the justification to defend ourselves. There is nothing more annoying than shadow plays when you have no information of the other side about how they will do it."

Ragnar let out a long, weary sigh. He looked at his son, his expression a mixture of concern. "I have already sent word to the men who sailed with us to the west. The ones who saw the Gods presence. If it comes to it, they will be ready."

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Over the next two days, the Earl's will spread. Hrafn led riders to the outlying farms that didn't receive the news. At each small homestead, nestled in the green hills, the message was the same, delivered without pleasantry.

"You are ordered to attend the Thing. It will be held in three days. The Earl will speak. Do not miss it."

Farmers and their families, faces weathered by wind and work, simply nodded. They answered with short words. "Yes." "We will be there."

On the final evening, as the sun bled orange and purple across the horizon, the true call went out. A long, deep note from a horn sounded from the watchtower of Haraldson's hall.

It was answered a moment later by another horn from a nearby hill, then another, a chain of sound echoing through the valleys. On the high ground, bonfires were lit, their flames licking at the deepening twilight, a stark message for even the most distant farm: The Thing is coming. Everyone must see. Everyone must know.

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The night air was cold. High above, it was a full moon , and the stars were bright. Earl Haraldson stood by himself in front of his great hall. He stared up at the sky, looking for something he couldn't name, and let out a long, tired sigh.

A hand touched his shoulder. He turned and saw his wife, Siggy. She gave him a small, concerned smile and then hugged him from the side, resting her head against his arm. They stood like that for a moment before he turned his eyes back to the sky.

"You should come to bed," Siggy said softly. "You need to get some sleep. You'll need your rest for tomorrow."

"I will," he answered, his voice low and rough. "There's always time to sleep later." He paused. "I was thinking about our boys. I was picturing what they'd look like now… how tall they would be. Wondering what kind of men they would have grown into. And then I thought of Ragnar. And his boy." He let out a short, harsh laugh that had no humor in it.

"They go out on the sea, they find new places, they bring back gold and stories… and what do I do? I sit here counting coins, sending out guards and putting on feasts for men who forget my name the next morning."

"That isn't true," she said quietly.

"Isn't it?" He looked at her, his eyes sharp but visibly tired. "I envy them. Both the father and the son. And what makes it worse is that I respect them, too."

Siggy looked surprised. "Respect? You respect Ragnar Lothbrok?"

"Why shouldn't I?" Haraldson countered. "He's everything I used to be. He's restless, he's ambitious. And he was right about going west. I knew it, too. Deep down, I knew it. I just didn't do anything about it." He sighed and looked away again. "But this is where we are now. Maybe he has opened up those western lands for me, and for that, I'll have to kill them both."

"It doesn't have to end like that," Siggy said, her voice tight.

"When it comes to holding power, it always does, Siggy."

They were quiet for a long moment. Siggy stepped closer, trying to find another way, realising how dangerous it could be. "We could offer Thyri to them."

Haraldson looked at her, listening.

"As a bride," she continued. "For Bjorn. It would join our families. He would be one of us."

Haraldson scoffed, almost laughing. "Now? You think that would work now?"

"It's not too late."

"It feels like it is," he said. He rubbed his face with both hands, looking completely exhausted. "I've seen the way people look at his son now. The way they talk about him since he came back with that mark." He gestured toward the town. "They're saying the gods chose him. If they believe that, they'll follow him. They'll start to think Thor guides his axe, Odin whispers in his dreams." Then his voices raises, "Then It will be Freyja, who blesses him with beauty and luck, then Njord calms the seas for his ship. Tyr gives him victory. One god at a time, until he's untouchable. Until questioning him feels like blasphemy."

He looked down at the ground. "They'll follow him because they want to believe in something like that. It's easier than just waiting for things to happen." He was quiet for a second. "But to stand there in front of everyone and claim the gods are on your side, that was a mistake."

"Why was it a mistake?" Siggy asked.

He finally met her eyes, and the tired look was replaced by a sharp, calculating one.

"Because how do you really prove it?" he said. "With a mark on your shoulder?" He snorted. "It doesn't prove anything. Not really."

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GATHERING FIELD – DAY

A cold wind whipped across the gathering field, rattling the woven banners that marked the assembly area. The free men and women of Kattegat stood in a vast, murmuring crowd. A ring of shields had been formed, a space for law and judgment.

The tension was a physical thing. Haraldson's men, forty of them, all with superior weapons and shields, bearing the Earl's insignia, were not clustered around him. Instead, they moved strategically through the crowd, their presence a constant reminder of where the power lay. They stood in small groups, their hands never far from their swords, their eyes scanning the faces of the assembled people.

Ragnar and his followers stood together, a small island in the sea of people. Lagertha was at his side, her hand resting on Bjorn's shoulder. Rollo, Floki, Thorstein, Arne....all were there, their expressions grim, their stances ready. They were outnumbered, and they knew it.

At the center of the shield-ring stood a low stone altar. The crowd fell silent as Earl Haraldson approached. He wore his finest wool cloak, trimmed with black fur, and heavy silver rings adorned his arms. Beside him walked Torvald, his sneering second-in-command, and the Lawspeaker, holding his ceremonial staff of office.

Haraldson raised a hand. His voice, when he spoke, was calm and resonant.

"Freemen and women of Kattegat! We gather today because of a danger that threatens us all." He let his gaze sweep across the faces before him. "Throughout our history, men have claimed the favor of the gods to justify their own ambition. They proclaim that the gods guide their swords, and they use that claim to become tyrants."

He gestured to the Lawspeaker, who unrolled a scroll, though Haraldson did not look at it. He knew the words by heart.

"Remember Hrólf the Skald," he continued. "He swore Freyja blessed his raids, and then he bled his own people dry with taxes to fund his pointless wars. Remember Erling Blood-shield, who claimed Odin's favor and then murdered his own brother to seize power."

A nervous shifting passed through the crowd. These were old stories, cautionary tales told to children. Some of the elders nodded slowly in recognition.

"And Egil Skallagrímsson," Haraldson's voice grew louder, "Who boasted that Thor's strength flowed in his veins. He was a great poet, but he went mad with bloodlust and slaughtered innocent families, even children."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. Lagertha's grip on Bjorn's shoulder tightened.

"Today," Haraldson declared, his voice ringing with authority, "we create a new law. A law to protect our people from any man who would use the gods' names for his own gain, without proof!" He turned, his eyes finding his target in the crowd. His voice dropped, becoming personal and venomous. "Bjorn Ragnarsson!"

A collective gasp went through the crowd.

"You stand accused of claiming such favor!" Haraldson pointed a finger directly at the boy. "Your followers say you have spoken with Thor himself. They claim thunder bends to your will!"

At his signal, a dozen of his forty guards moved, not with aggression, but with deliberate purpose. They formed a loose but undeniable semi-circle, cutting Ragnar's group off, their hands now resting openly on the hilts of their swords.

Haraldson's eyes were locked on Bjorn. "How do you answer this charge? And more importantly—how do you propose we protect our people from false prophets and god-touched madmen in the future? After all, you say the gods chose you." The crowd murmured, looking back and forth from the powerful Earl to the young man. Some looked afraid, others intensely curious.

"So I ask you, Bjorn Ragnarsson," Haraldson's voice boomed across the clearing. "Prove your divine favor! Or face the worst punishment for lying to your people. Blood eagle."

A hush fell. Even the bravest turned pale at the word.