CHAPTER 1

Four days out to sea after the Paris raid, and the fleet of ships sailing back to Kattegat are feeling the chill of winter. With dawn nearing, King Ragnar wraps his blanket around his head and shoulders and looks around at his shipmates each huddling with a partner to keep warm.

The demands of the coffin siege had exhausted every bit that was left of king's strength. The pain had been too great. No matter how hard he willed himself, he'd not been able to move from a lying position on his boat palette. But it was on this fourth day that he realized that keeping still for this prolonged period had actually stabilized his condition. The bleeding has stopped, and he noticed in the reflection of some of the pillaged silver, he'd finally regained the proper color of his face. Deciding the soreness from lying down was worse than the pain of his injuries, he'd spent the day testing independent mobility; feeling stronger with each attempt to stand. Yet, although the day had been filled with immense physical challenges, it was Ragnar's mind that had been worse for wear.

Ragnar considered himself godly favored to have survived the siege at all, much less aboard the returning boats. He remembered Athelstan speaking of miracles; 'the occurrence of something that one could not explain'. Surely this qualifies, he thought. He wondered what such a recovery could mean. Having earned a prized legacy and having sired the number of sons to uphold it, he figured he could do worse than die in infamy fresh after a victory in Paris. But, as it so often seems with Ragnar, the gods had other plans.

It was easy to bask in the glow of the accomplishment. To say he'd become bound and determined was an understatement. In the weeks leading up to the voyage, Ragnar could feel the idea of conquering the city swell into an obsession. He'd dreamt about it, and he'd prayed about it. And if he were honest, maybe he'd lost a bit of himself along the way. 'Lead with your head, not with your heart' were the words he told his oldest son the night before his 'death'. Despite the ruse, those words had truly been his guiding principle. Bottle the turmoil, bury pain. Shelve any and every distraction that would compromise the mission at hand. Indeed, his ways had become perverse. But it was what he'd committed himself to do and he would stay the course.

Preferring a physical strain to the tireless mental one, Ragnar distracts himself by adjusting to sit upright. As he settles into a sitting position, Bjorn approaches from the back of the boat.

"Winds show no sign of letting up. We're in for it tonight". Bjorn looks off into the distance, bracing himself for what promised to be a bitterly cold night.

Ragnar looks up at his son from his seated position. "What are you worried about Ironside?" Ragnar chides.

Bjorn looks carefully down at his father "You OK?"

Ragnar nods sharply. "I don't need you to cuddle me if that is what you mean" he quips.

"Well take cover, old man." Bjorn looks to the other side of the boat and begins gathering his palette to settle there for the night. The front was always less choppy, but it bore the brunt of the fierce winds. Indeed it would be a hard night as sea, but seeing as though he did not believe he'd see another winter, he felt grateful for the fresh air; bitter as it was.

Ragnar had taken big risks in battle; whether he was wielding his ax in combat, or engaged in a battle of wits, he would never back away from a challenge. The king did not foresee that lying quiet in a coffin for half a day would be the ultimate test.

Despite the isolation and the silence, a wooden coffin's dark confines did not lend itself to relaxing reflection over one's life choices. Most of Ragnar's energy was spent stifling coughs, holding pee, and simply willing himself to stay conscious. In light of his rapid decline he couldn't help but ponder what his demise would mean for Kattegat, and how it would affect his family. The last thing he expected were actual answers to these questions- delivered personally and emotionally from those dearest in his heart.

The king felt both blind-sided and bewildered by their words, yet also the tinge of guilt for his deception, as unintentional as it was. It was this moment when Ragnar decided death might not be so bad. Surviving to feel the backlash of this intrusion would be much harder.

"Can never get this thing to release….who makes these?" Bjorn complains as he impatiently yanks at a knot in his camp strings. Ragnar snaps back into the present with the sounds of his son's muttering. He watches successfully free his palette from the boat floor and crouch to gather his sheepskin.

"Bjorn."

"Father." Bjorn shoots without shifting focus from his palette.

Ragnar hesitates again. He looks into the night sky and gingerly meets his son's questioning glance now that several moments have passed with no response.

Ragnar resigns.

"How is she?"

At this, Bjorn takes his time. The younger man wisely forgoes his primary urge to rebuke his father at the mere mention of her. But, knowing just how deep his father must have dug to find the kernel of humility required to utter those three words- suppressing his instinctual reply of shut the fuck up seemed like the right thing.

"I don't know." Bjorn sighs truthfully. "She is not so happy with me either."

Being held in his father's confidence, as important as it felt, required complicity in violating his mother's trust once more. It was a particularly sore spot for Bjorn who knew more than anyone, the hurt Lagertha had been subjected to by various men; the deepest emotional wounds inflicted by his own father.

Ragnar tilts his head and looks up from his hands, which were neurotically tugging a patch of wool from his sheepskin blanket.

"Why would…. " Ragnar, confounded. "What did you do?"

"She does not understand our need to keep her in the dark. Well, my need, more so." Bjorn's eyes grew distant. Saddened by the thought of his mother's disappointment.

"I don't think you know your mother as well as you believe." Ragnar says through a long exhale. "Indeed. She does not like being left out." He looks up at his son. "But I also know she is proud of a son who is loyal to his father."

Bjorn let that sink in.

"I think she is proud of me. But you don't seem to understand. Lagertha has taken a lot of shit. The last thing I want is to be counted among the number of those who have betrayed her."

The words were already out before he snapped out of the fog that relaxed his word choices.

It stung. Ragnar grits his teeth and looks off into the horizon. "Well. We are in a 60 ft. space and not a word. I don't think she has even looked in this direction." He chuckles "You have to admire her dedication".

Choosing to ignore his father's reliable sarcasm, Bjorn refocuses on gathering his blankets.

"I don't know what to tell you Father. If you want the truth, you know how to find it, hmm?" He begins to walk off. And shouts back "That's what you would tell me, anyway."

Ragnar slowly turns his body to face the other side of the boat.

Tired of thinking about it, he takes a deep breath and slowly gathers to his feet to carefully make his way to the other side.

Author's Note: Jan 3 2016, I edited this chapter. Needed to tweak timing and intro concepts so Chapter 2 could work in the established setting. Worth a re-read since Chapter 2 took so long. Sorry about that guys! -