Chapter 44: Born Again
The vision crystallized in Paul's mind like ice forming on glass—Floki's wild eyes reflecting firelight, bloodied axe dripping crimson onto sacred earth, Athelstan's shelter torn open like a wound in the fabric of sanctuary itself. Paul ran through the Viking camp with legs pumping against time that had already expired, boots slipping on mud that smelled of smoke and impending betrayal.
"Thirty seconds too late. Always thirty seconds when it matters most."
His Premonition Sense had erupted without warning during pre-dawn hours, fragmenting sleep with images of blood on Christian crosses and madness wearing the face of genius. The fragmented vision carried the particular intensity of events already set in motion—not foresight but confirmation of tragedies unfolding beyond his ability to prevent.
Paul stumbled through darkness toward Athelstan's dwelling, knowing with mathematical certainty that he was racing against time that had already run out. The monk's shelter sat apart from the main camp—deliberate isolation that spoke to his divided nature, caught between Norse gods and Christian salvation like a soul suspended over an abyss with no solid ground in sight.
The entrance hung in tatters, fabric torn by violence that had found its target with surgical precision. Paul found Athelstan lying in a spreading pool of his own blood, Floki's axe having found the space between ribs where faith met flesh in the most vulnerable of intersections.
"Load-bearing events. Some fates cut too fast to redirect, no matter how much supernatural power you throw at them."
Athelstan's eyes remained open, staring toward a wooden cross that hung crooked on the shelter's far wall—symbol of a faith that had brought him nothing but internal conflict and external death. His breathing emerged as barely more than whispers, each exhalation accompanied by bubbles of blood that spoke to damage beyond any medicine's ability to repair.
"Why save me?" Athelstan's voice carried the peculiar clarity of someone who'd already accepted death's approach. "I'm divided. Neither Norse nor Christian. Neither alive nor dead."
Paul dropped to his knees beside the dying monk, producing a Major Health Potion from his system store—four hundred system points worth of supernatural healing that glowed with soft blue light inappropriate for the ninth century.
"Because Ragnar needs you," Paul replied, tilting the monk's head back to force liquid salvation between lips that already carried the pallor of approaching finality. "Because wisdom shouldn't die with the wise."
The potion worked its supernatural chemistry through damaged tissue, slowing bleeding and knitting torn flesh with efficiency that belonged to different centuries. For precious moments, color returned to features that had been sliding toward gray inevitability. Hope flickered in Paul's chest like candle flame in wind—maybe this time, maybe once, he could prevent death from claiming someone who didn't deserve the darkness.
But internal bleeding resumed despite supernatural intervention, and Paul watched life leave eyes that had seen too much of both worlds and found peace in neither.
"The gods take what they will," Athelstan whispered, his final words carrying resignation earned through suffering. "Tell Ragnar... division ends in death. Only in death."
Paul held the monk's body as warmth fled and stillness settled like snow over features that would never again struggle between competing faiths. Four hundred system points spent on healing that couldn't repair a soul torn between incompatible truths—medicine that couldn't cure the fundamental human condition of being caught between worlds.
Footsteps approached through pre-dawn darkness—Ragnar's familiar gait mixed with others who'd heard commotion and come to investigate. Paul remained kneeling beside Athelstan's corpse, still holding the empty crystal vial that had promised salvation and delivered only expensive failure.
Ragnar entered the shelter with controlled movements of someone who'd learned to approach scenes of violence with tactical assessment rather than emotional reaction. When he saw Athelstan's body in Paul's arms, something fundamental shifted in his expression—grief and rage combining into something harder and more dangerous than either emotion alone.
"Did you see this?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you stop it?"
Paul met Ragnar's eyes with honesty that felt like confession before judges who couldn't grant absolution.
"I tried. Thirty seconds too late. Some threads cut faster than I can run."
The Viking king stared at his dead friend's face, processing loss that transcended tactical setback or strategic disappointment. Athelstan had represented something precious in Ragnar's world—intellectual companionship, philosophical challenge, proof that enemies could become brothers through understanding rather than conquest.
"Where is Floki?"
"Gone. Fled into darkness like guilt given legs." Paul's voice carried exhaustion that went deeper than physical fatigue. "You'll want his blood. That's natural. But killing Floki breaks you in ways that matter."
Ragnar's hand found his axe handle with unconscious precision, fingers wrapping around wood worn smooth by years of violence. The weapon seemed to pulse with its own hunger for justice that tasted like revenge.
"He murdered my friend."
"He murdered his own tortured conscience," Paul corrected, knowing this distinction mattered more than Ragnar could understand yet. "Floki couldn't reconcile your love for a Christian with his devotion to the old gods. This was suicide disguised as murder."
"Justice demands—"
"Justice served in rage serves no one," Lagertha interrupted, entering the shelter with warrior's instincts that read scenes of violence through tactical rather than emotional lenses. "You need Floki for what's coming."
"What's coming?" Ragnar's voice carried dangerous quiet that preceded either breakthrough or breakdown.
Paul caught himself before revealing knowledge about Rollo's impending betrayal, swallowing words about Frankish banners and love that would turn brother against enemy. "When it comes, you'll know. And when it does, you'll need every loyal friend you can find."
"Floki isn't loyal. He just proved that."
"Floki is broken. There's a difference." Paul stood slowly, muscles protesting from kneeling beside death too long. "Broken things can be repaired if you're willing to accept the scars. Dead things stay dead forever."
The device in Paul's system inventory pulsed with updates that painted a picture of timeline stress approaching critical thresholds. Athelstan's death registered as an unchanged event—load-bearing structure that remained intact despite Paul's expensive intervention. But other data points showed destabilization accelerating across multiple regions.
[CONVERGENCE COUNTDOWN: 47 DAYS]
[TIMELINE STABILITY: 69% - APPROACHING CRITICAL THRESHOLD]
[WARNING: REALITY STRESS FROM MULTIPLE USER INTERVENTIONS]
Paul stared at numbers that quantified catastrophe in clinical terms while Vikings processed grief that couldn't be measured or categorized. Some fates were written in destiny's ink, and interference only made the bleeding worse.
That afternoon, warriors brought Floki back in chains. The boat-builder's eyes held the particular madness of someone who'd acted on convictions that made perfect sense until they collided with consequences. Ragnar stood before his oldest friend with expression that cycled between fury and heartbreak.
"Give me one reason why you shouldn't die."
"Because Athelstan was poison," Floki replied, his voice carrying certainty that belonged to religious fanaticism. "Sweet poison that made you forget our gods, our ways, our people. I cut out the infection before it killed you."
Paul watched Ragnar's face process words that struck at the core of everything that made him who he was—explorer of ideas, collector of wisdom, someone who believed understanding could transcend the boundaries that kept peoples apart.
"Killing him won't bring Athelstan back," Paul said quietly, his words aimed at Ragnar rather than Floki. "But it will kill the part of you that made Athelstan's friendship possible in the first place."
Ragnar stared at his bound friend for long moments, wrestling with decisions that would define not just justice but the fundamental nature of who he chose to be going forward.
"You live," Ragnar said finally. "But you build. Only build. No weapons, no war craft. Just ships for exploration and trade. And if you ever raise a hand in violence again, I'll kill you myself."
Floki nodded acceptance, understanding that mercy came with prices that might prove harder to bear than death.
As warriors led the boat-builder away, Paul felt the weight of another crisis navigated through compromise rather than perfect solution. Floki lived to build ships that would carry Vikings to new discoveries. Ragnar retained his capacity for forgiveness despite betrayal. And somewhere in the balance between justice and mercy, Paul found space for hope that wisdom could survive even when wise men didn't.
The convergence countdown continued its relentless mathematics, but for now, at least, the timeline held together through choices that honored both the dead and the living.
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