The roar of the battle was a physical force, battering against my eardrums even through the thick, woolly layers of Ragnar's helmet. My hands, Ragnar's hands, were slick with something warm and metallic. Blood. The smell was coppery, cloying, and it clung to the air like a shroud. I'd been so focused on not dying, on the sheer, primal terror of steel meeting flesh, that I hadn't truly registered the aftermath. Now, the fight was ebbing, the frantic screams replaced by a low, guttural moaning and the clang of dropped weapons.
I staggered, my legs feeling like lead. My body, Ragnar's body, was a symphony of aches and strains. A deep throb radiated from my left shoulder, and my ribs protested with every shallow breath. I looked down at my axe. The runic inscription, the one that had glowed so intensely moments ago, was now a dull, etched line on the steel. It felt… cold. But there was a residual hum, a faint echo of the power I'd felt surge through me. It was a power I didn't understand, a power that had allowed me to parry blows that should have cleaved me in two, to strike with a force that felt alien.
"Father?"
The voice was rough, deep, and laced with an unfamiliar authority. I flinched, my head snapping up. Standing a few feet away was a young man, broad-shouldered and imposing, his face streaked with dirt and blood. He had Ragnar's eyes, a piercing blue that held a surprising mix of concern and curiosity. Bjorn. I remembered seeing him in the fragmented visions that had flashed behind my eyes during the fight. Ragnar's son.
I tried to speak, but only a choked sound escaped my throat. My modern tongue felt clumsy, ill-suited to the guttural, ancient sounds that Ragnar's mouth was accustomed to. I swallowed, forcing myself to stand straighter, to project an image of strength. Ragnar wouldn't falter. Ragnar wouldn't look like a terrified history student suddenly thrust into hell.
"Bjorn," I managed, my voice a raspy imitation, hopefully convincing enough. I tried to channel the raw, untamed energy I'd felt earlier, the one that had come with the rune. It was like trying to grasp smoke.
Bjorn's gaze swept over me, lingering on my bloodied axe and the fresh rents in my tunic. His brow furrowed slightly, a subtle shift that I, as Ethan the observer, would have missed. But as Ragnar, inhabiting this body, I felt the scrutiny.
"You fought well, Father," he said, his tone still cautious. "But you were… distant. As if fighting in a dream."
A dream. That was one way to put it. A nightmare, more like. I forced a grimace that I hoped passed for a warrior's smile. "The heat of battle can play tricks on a man's mind, my son. The spirits whisper in the din." I was grasping at straws, at the lore I'd read, at anything that might explain my erratic behavior.
Bjorn nodded slowly, but his eyes remained fixed on mine. He was observing me, dissecting me. I could feel it. He was Ragnar's son, and he knew his father. This was going to be harder than I'd imagined. The thrill of survival, the shock of the battle, was beginning to give way to a gnawing dread. How long could I keep this up?
"Come," Bjorn said, clapping a hand, calloused and strong, on my shoulder. The touch was firm, grounding. "We must see to your wounds. And then, we will feast. Your victory deserves celebration."
Victory. It felt more like a narrow escape. As he led me away from the carnage, I stole a glance back at the battlefield. The scale of it was horrifying. Men lay broken, their lives extinguished in a brutal, efficient dance of violence. My stomach churned. This was not the clean, academic study of history I knew. This was raw, bloody, and utterly real.
We walked towards the encampment, a collection of tents and rough-hewn shelters that had sprung up in the wake of the skirmish. The air here was thicker with the smell of smoke, roasting meat, and unwashed bodies. The surviving warriors, their faces grim but triumphant, were beginning to gather, their voices rough with exhaustion and ale.
Bjorn guided me to a larger tent, clearly his own. Inside, it was surprisingly sparse but functional. A rough-hewn table, a few furs scattered on the floor, and weapons leaning against the canvas walls. He gestured for me to sit on a low stool. As he busied himself with a washbasin and clean cloths, I took a moment to truly look at him. He was a warrior, through and through. His movements were economical, his gaze direct. He exuded a quiet competence that was both reassuring and intimidating.
"The wound on your arm is deep," he said, dabbing at a gash on my forearm with a damp cloth. The sting was sharp, a welcome distraction from the deeper unease that had settled within me. "But it will heal. You have the strength of a god, Father."
I grunted, trying to maintain the facade. "A god's strength needs a sharp mind to wield it, Bjorn. And a warrior's body to sustain it." I was trying to sound wise, like Ragnar. Was it working?
He paused, his eyes meeting mine again. "You speak differently today, Father. Your words are… measured. More than usual."
Here it comes. The interrogation. I braced myself. "A man gains perspective in the crucible of battle, Bjorn. I have seen the cost of our raids, the price of our ambition. It makes a man reflect." I was treading dangerous ground, but I had to try. I had to understand what Ragnar was, what these people expected.
Bjorn studied me for a long moment. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken questions. Then, he surprised me. He picked up a whetstone and began to sharpen a large knife, his movements rhythmic and precise. "Reflection is a luxury few warriors can afford, Father. But perhaps it is a sign of wisdom. Or perhaps you are simply weary."
Weary didn't cover it. I was drowning. But I nodded, grateful for his interpretation. "Weary, yes. And thankful for your presence, my son. You are a strong arm to lean on." It was a clumsy attempt at affection, at kinship, but I hoped it landed.
He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Always, Father."
Over the next few days, Bjorn became my shadow. He didn't press me about my strange behavior, but he was constantly present, guiding me, teaching me. We spent hours in the practice yard, Bjorn patiently demonstrating the proper footwork for a shield wall, the correct way to swing an axe for maximum impact, the art of the feint.
My modern reflexes were a mixed blessing. I was quick, agile, but my movements were too precise, too clean. Ragnar's body remembered instinct, muscle memory, but my mind was still in the lab, analyzing. Bjorn would watch, his brow furrowed, then gently correct me.
"No, Father," he'd say, his voice patient. "You anticipate the blow too much. Feel the rhythm of your opponent. Let their attack guide your defense. And your strike must be a release, not a calculation."
He'd demonstrate, his movements fluid and powerful. He'd move with an effortless grace that belied the sheer brute force behind each swing. It was like watching a master craftsman at work, but the craft was death.
"But if I let them dictate my moves," I'd protest, "won't they gain an advantage?"
Bjorn would pause, his eyes twinkling with a hint of amusement. "The greatest advantage is to be unpredictable. To be the storm that gathers without warning. You are too… rigid, Father. Like a tree that resists the wind and breaks. Be like the reed that bends and springs back, stronger."
He taught me about the importance of the shield. Not just as a defensive tool, but as an extension of the warrior. How to use its weight to unbalance an opponent, how to use its rim to deliver a stunning blow. I'd always thought of shields as simple barriers. Bjorn showed me they were tools of aggression, too.
He also began to immerse me in the culture. Over bowls of thick stew and mugs of ale, he'd speak of the gods, of Odin and Thor, of Freyja and Loki. He'd tell sagas of ancient heroes, of their triumphs and their tragic flaws. He explained the importance of honor, of loyalty to kin and clan. He spoke of the raids, not as acts of barbarism, but as necessary ventures for survival, for wealth, for glory.
"We take what is needed," he'd explain, his voice earnest. "The Saxons, the Franks, they hoard their riches. They grow soft. We are the wolves, Father. We must hunt to live."
I listened, my mind a battlefield of conflicting ideologies. Ethan the student understood the historical context, the economic drivers, the social pressures. Ethan the person, however, recoiled. I saw the faces of the people we would raid, the fear in their eyes, the destruction of their lives.
"But what of those who have nothing?" I asked one evening, the firelight casting dancing shadows on Bjorn's face. "What of the innocent?"
Bjorn took a long drink of ale, his gaze distant. "Innocence is a luxury of the peaceful, Father. We live in a harsh world. A world where strength dictates survival. A man must be strong to protect his own. And sometimes, that strength must be forged in the fires of war."
His conviction was absolute. He believed in this way of life. He believed in Ragnar. And he was trying to make me believe in it too, or at least, to embody it.
One afternoon, Bjorn brought me a new axe. It was smaller than my battle axe, lighter, crafted for speed and precision. The haft was wrapped in well-worn leather, the steel gleamed with a keen edge.
"This was your father's training axe," Bjorn said, his voice softer than usual. "He said it taught him patience. And the value of a well-placed strike."
I took it, feeling the familiar weight, but also a different kind of energy. This one didn't glow with arcane power, but it felt charged with Ragnar's history, with his dedication to his craft. I swung it tentatively, feeling the balance. It felt good in my hands.
"Thank you, Bjorn," I said, my voice thick with an emotion I couldn't quite name. Gratitude? A sense of inherited responsibility?
He watched me, a faint smile on his lips. "You are learning, Father. You are remembering. The warrior spirit is within you. It only needed a reminder."
A reminder. That was it, wasn't it? I was a vessel, being filled with Ragnar's memories, Ragnar's skills, Ragnar's very essence. The rune on my axe had been a catalyst, an amplifier, but the true power, the true Ragnar, was being awakened within this body, with Bjorn's patient guidance.
The revulsion for violence was still there, a constant hum beneath the surface. I still saw the faces of the fallen, heard their cries. But now, there was something else too. A growing respect for the skill, the discipline, the sheer resilience of these people. A grudging understanding of the forces that shaped their lives.
Bjorn pushed me. He didn't coddle me. He demanded perfection, or at least, the relentless pursuit of it. We sparred, him holding back just enough to let me learn, to let me make mistakes. Each blow I parried, each strike I landed, felt like a tiny victory. Not a victory over Bjorn, but a victory over myself, over the terrified student trapped within the warrior's skin.
"Your stance is too low now, Father," he'd say, his voice calm even as he deflected a wild swing. "You are inviting the enemy to strike at your legs. Rise! Show them your strength!"
And I would rise, my muscles burning, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I'd feel the surge of adrenaline, the primal urge to survive, to defend. It was a dangerous cocktail, this blend of modern intellect and ancient warrior instinct.
One evening, sitting by the fire, Bjorn was recounting a battle from Ragnar's youth. He described Ragnar's daring, his ferocity, his uncanny ability to inspire his men. As he spoke, I felt a strange resonance, a flicker of recognition, not as Ethan, but as Ragnar. A memory, sharp and clear, of leading a charge, of the roar of his own voice echoing in his ears, of the exhilaration of turning the tide of battle.
I looked at Bjorn, his face illuminated by the flames, his eyes alight with the pride of a son recounting his father's legend. He saw me, and he smiled.
"You remember, don't you, Father?" he said softly. "You remember who you are."
I didn't know if I remembered who Ragnar was, or if I was simply becoming him. But in that moment, looking at the earnest pride in Bjorn's eyes, I felt a profound sense of belonging, a twisted sort of peace. I was still Ethan, the history student, terrified and out of place. But I was also Ragnar, the warrior, learning to wield the axe, to understand the sagas, to live in this harsh, glorious world. And with Bjorn by my side, I felt, for the first time, that I might just survive. The journey was far from over, and the path ahead was shrouded in uncertainty, but the first steps had been taken.