Author's note: You do not need to have watched all episodes of Vikings to enjoy this fic. It will stand on its on and does not follow the story line. For those of you who are up to date with the show then this story is set when Ragnar is King of Kattegat and Bjorn is still a boy.

Edithe heard the horns blaring before smelling the acrid smoke that was already seeping into the room. Her eyes peeled open, mind and body still half consumed by sleep as her mother barged through the bedroom door, her voice urgent above the din, "Edie, Nessie, you must wake up!"

She prodded her baby sister who, like a newborn pup, was still snuggled against her, her leaden limbs lost in slumber. "Little Nessie, get up! Get up!"

She didn't need her mother to say it was Viking's that had come to their lands, the smoke and the frantic shouts of her people told her that. All she needed to do was run, like her father had taught her, run and don't look back. Her heart beat with fear. Fear of being captured but most of all fear of what these barbarians would do to her family. Even if her people were skilled swordsmen, she had heard many tales of these Northmen, tales which made them sound like the devil himself.

Edithe scrambled from the bed, pulling her dress and boots on with careless haste as her mother roused Nessie. She had a dagger, the handle carved with the head of a raven, it had been a birthday present from her father and she concealed it in the folds of her dress before tying her cloak and standing ready by the door.

Her mother cupped her cheeks, her voice now as calm as the sea after a storm, "you know where to go, beloved."

"Yes," Edithe nodded and her mother smiled, kissing her forehead like she was still that same little girl who would spend the day running through the wilderness only to return home with scraped knees and brambles snagged in her hair. Happy memories made her squeeze her mother tight, tight enough to hear the hammering in her chest and realise the calm in her voice was all a facade, a mother's way to protect her frightened daughters. There was no more time for memories or gentleness. Those things belonged in the peace of sunshine and the innocence of childhood, it was time to run, perhaps even time to die.

When the door swung open there was chaos. Fire, screams and the clang of iron on steel, a frenzy of noises all ringing out in heavy darkness. Edithe pulled her cloak around her and tried not to look, tried not to see the axes hacking through flesh and the blood that soaked the earth. But even in the dark, even with half closed eyes she could still see the redness of it and she could still hear the pain of it in the cries of dying men.

"Hurry," her mother urged, grabbing Nessie's hand and running for the treeline.

Edithe took one last look at her home, crossing herself and making a silent prayer to God before her fingers wrapped around her dagger and she began to follow. Her mother's cloak served as a banner, leading her through the carnage until it began to fall to the floor, the motion slow like the wind falling from a ship's sail. She didn't see the plume of ochre velvet hit the dirt, she only saw the Northman with his bloodied axe, his hair fair but his eyes dark and both of them fixed on her. He grinned, his teeth shining white as if he was a murderous wolf while her sister crouched beside their mother, wailing like a child of five rather than a girl of thirteen.

Edithe took a step backwards and he advanced like she hoped he would. She called out, "run Nessie, run and hide," praying the sound of it carried to her sister's ear before following her own advice. She ran back towards the safety of her home, the heathen stalking her every step and the anticipation of being caught tingling along her spine.

When she slammed her front door closed, a sigh of relief filled her lungs before she forced the bar into place, hoping to buy enough time to escape through the tiny window at the rear of the house. She could hear the Northman banging against the wood, his battle cry heartstopping as she loosened her cloak to help her squeeze through the opening. The crack of the door beginning to split made her faster and with one final push she tumbled through the window, landing hard but safe in a pile on the floor.

She scrambled to her feet and began to run, terrified that he would see her escape and ashamed that she had not done more or been braver. She weaved carefully between the shadows, desperate to make it to the treeline where she hoped Nessie had fled. Her little sister, six years younger than her, was still such a baby in so many ways.

Standing between her and escape was a man, tall and broad, his torso bare of anything but blood and strange black markings. He cut through her people like it was a dance in which only he knew the steps and she watched with morbid fascination, silent and still until she saw her own brother fall to his axe.

Edithe didn't recognise the strangled scream which began to pierce the air as her own but when the Northman looked her way she knew it must have been. His eyes locked with hers, his brief loss of focus so careless that it almost cost him his life. She wished it had but the sword that struck for him only grazed his neck and he regained his movements, his murderous dance, slaying all that stood against him.

She knew right then that battle was over and all was lost. There were no more clashes of swords, only crying and the sound of timber splitting as fire consumed the village. Her father had been Lord of these lands and a great heaviness weighed in her heart, no doubt he had succumbed to the heathens along with his people. By morning there would be nothing left but dust and the empty bodies of the ones she had called her friends and family.

She turned, hoping to find another way to escape only to see the man who had slain her mother now closing in with two others by his side. Life as a slave to these heathens would hold no meaning, letting them touch her with their bloodied hands would be an abomination. She straightened her spine like her mother had always taught her and ran like her brothers had taught her. Fast, surging with every ounce of strength while the Northman laughed at her, the sound loud and mocking, curling hate into every fibre of her body.

When her mother's killer reached out to grab her, she grasped the dagger from its hiding space and landed it in his neck like she was born to kill. His blood spurted warm on her face and surprise froze her. She had expected to be cut down and reunited with her family, instead she watched the man gripping his neck, lifeblood pouring through his fingers as he dropped to her feet gurgling his last breaths.

The man who had killed her brother seized her arm before she had even considered moving, he was taller and broader than she had thought, the markings on his body more intricate and beautiful than she had expected. He was still laughing at her but the laugh was softer now as his hands clamped around her arms and he forced her to face him. He spoke in words she didn't understand, the sounds harsh and cruel but his smile gentle, his eyes crinkling like she hadn't killed one of his people.

"Valkyrie," he told her, patting her hair and taking a lock between his fingers.

Edithe jerked her head away from his touch, hating his gentleness, hating his smile and hating him for being a skilled enough warrior to kill her brother like he was nothing more than a boy with his first sword.

"Rollo," the man said, thumping his chest like some sort of beast before carefully waiting for her reaction. If he was asking her name then he was a fool as well as a barbarian for she would tell him nothing.

"Rollo," he said again and anger burned hot in her core, if her dagger hadn't been lodged in the throat of his friend then she would have lodged it in his antagonistic smirk.

Edithe knew she was defenceless to a man like this but that did not mean she was submissive. She spat, the spittle landing amongst the blood on his face and his smirk faded to an angry line, his foreign words a low growl that made her blood run like ice in her veins. She might have cried but she did not, she goaded him again, kicking his shin without restraint before fighting to pull her arms free from his grasps.

Suddenly he was laughing again and this time it was even harder than before, his face lighting up, his chest rumbling with the sheer pleasure of amusement.

"I hate you!" Edithe cursed and he pulled her tight, her face pressed to the naked plains of his chest, the smell of blood and sweat intoxicating as he whispered words like lovers do, the sound of them only for her, his lips against her ear.

She didn't like the way he was holding her even if she didn't understand the words he whispered. Her hands balled into fists, her knuckles digging against his chest in an attempt to push him away but he was like stone, steadfast and unaffected by the way she fought him.

"Valkyrie," he told her again, releasing her from his ironclad grip. His thumb was rough as it brushed against her cheek and she pushed his hand away with disgust.

"I would sooner die than be a whore to a godless heathen!" she shrieked and he smiled, accepting her words as though they were love songs. He shoved his axe into his belt and when she tried to run away he heaved her onto his shoulder, chuckling as she tried to fight him and bringing his hand down hard across her rump when she bit him.

With his men as witness to her humiliation he stepped over the bodies of her people, carrying her like a prize he had conquered. Even if the battle had been lost she did not accept her fate.