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21 - Soul 101: How Not to Embarrass Yourself with Bjorn
🕑 Added 2025-07-01 23:56:32 +0000 UTCThe three of them were alone, moving through the woods in a tense silence. Every snap of a twig underfoot seemed unnaturally loud.
Ragnar walked first, his broad shoulders cutting a path through the low-hanging branches. He felt no satisfaction from the day's events in the great hall. He had kept his life, yes, but he had been forced to relinquish the treasure, the tangible proof of his vision. The Earl's smug face was seared into his memory. However, he had secured something far more valuable, a key the others were too blind to see.
He held a length of coarse rope in his right hand. The rough fibers pressed into the calluses of his palm. He kept enough slack in it so it did not pull, yet its presence was a definitive statement. The rope connected him to the priest, Athelstan, a simple physical reminder of his ownership, of the knowledge and insight this man represented.
Behind him, his son Bjorn walked. He clutched his chosen items tightly to his chest: a bundle of leather-bound books and wooden scroll-cases, tied together with a leather thong. In the hall, when the Earl's men had pawed at the chests, Bjorn let them have every gem and coin, then simply took the books. The Earl’s men had laughed, deeming them worthless.
Between father and son walked Athelstan. He held his head as high as he could, fighting the instinctive urge to let the rope, force his gaze to the ground. He was saturated with a primal fear, but as they pushed further into the alien woods, another feeling began to crystallize: confusion.
The scale of the forest was immense, the trees far older and thicker than those in his tamed homeland. The silence was not peaceful, but predatory. His eyes were drawn to the bundle in Bjorn's arms. He recognized the tooled leather cover of the Lindisfarne Gospels and the cylindrical case that held the writings of Saint John. They were the treasures of his monastery, penned by men he had known, men whose brothers these 'men' had just slaughtered.
A sudden cognitive dissonance seized him. These men had murdered the creators but saved the creation. He looked from Ragnar's impassive, powerful back to the intense, focused expression on Bjorn's face. They were not the simple brutes he had imagined. Their complexity was a new and more terrifying thing than simple savagery.
The silence stretched, broken only by the rhythmic squelch of their boots in the mud. After a while, a new sound drifted through the trees: the familiar, comforting shuffle and lowing of their own animals. A rectangle appeared ahead, the door of the longhouse.
A small shape detached itself from the door, then moved with a sudden, joyful cry.
"Father!" Gyda launched herself from the house. Her bare feet were silent on the packed dirt as she ran directly at Ragnar, showing no sign of slowing. She collided with his legs and wrapped her arms around them in a tight embrace.
Ragnar stopped dead. For a long moment, his posture as the hard-faced warrior did not change. Then, like a glacier calving, the tension broke. He let the rope fall from his hand. It landed with a soft, wet sound in the mud. He knelt with his knees sinking into the ground, and pulled his daughter into his arms. He held her close, his large scarred hands enveloping her small back and his face buried in her hair.
"I knew you would come back," she mumbled into the fabric of his tunic.
"I am here," Ragnar's voice was low, stripped of the hardness it had held on the road, filled with an emotion he showed to no one else, not even Bjorn.
"Did you reach the west?" Gyda asked, pulling back to look at him.
Bjorn stepped forward. "We did. And it was filled with treasure."
"And where is it, this treasure?" A woman's calm voice came from the doorway. Lagertha stood there, wiping her hands on an apron and she did not move from the threshold. Her sharp eyes took in the entire scene in an instant.
She saw Ragnar kneeling in the mud with their daughter with his guard completely down. She saw Bjorn, standing tall but clutching a strange bundle of wood and leather. Her gaze went to him first, her eyes scanning him from head to toe, checking for injuries. Finding none, she met his eyes and held his gaze for a long moment, a silent communication passing between them. She saw the change in him, in his eyes, and gave a single, affirming nod.
Ragnar rose, pulling Gyda with him. "The Earl took it all for himself. But I found it, and it filled the boat to the rails."
Lagertha walked towards him with her gaze unwavering. "I believe you." Her tone left no room for doubt, it was a statement of alliance and their trust between them.
Ragnar’s mouth quirked into a smile. "You ought to believe me. I brought proof." He gestured with his head toward Athelstan, who stood awkwardly with the rope still looped around his neck. "This is a priest from their temple. Priest! This is my family. His name is Athelstan. Although he's a foreigner, he speaks our language, don't you?"
Athelstan flinched at being addressed. "A little, yes."
Gyda, still clinging to Ragnar's side, looked at Athelstan with wide, curious eyes. "What is wrong with your head?"
Athelstan instinctively touched the smooth, bald patch of his tonsure. "When we become monks, they cut our hair. It marks us as servants of God."
"If you're a priest, which God do you like best?" Gyda asked with the simple directness of a child.
Athelstan hesitated. "There is only one God."
Lagertha's eyebrows knitted together slightly. The idea was so foreign that it momentarily surprised her. She moved closer to Ragnar, her body brushing against his, and whispered so only he could hear, "I've missed your smell... and your body."
A smirk played on Ragnar’s lips. He reached down, picked up the end of the rope, and pressed it into Gyda's small hand. "Here. You can touch him."
With a shared, private laugh, Ragnar and Lagertha turned and entered the warm light of the longhouse.
Bjorn opened his arms as he looked at his sister with a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Well? No hug for your big brother?”
Gyda looked at him, first his face, then the strange bundle of things in his hands. “You said you’d bring me something beautiful.” she tilts her head then gives him a teasing look: “Is it hiding behind all that wood and rope?”
A flicker of shame crossed Bjorn's face. In the chaos of what happened to him during the raid, the confrontation with the Earl, and the journey home, he had completely forgotten his promise. His eyes darted around and landed on Athelstan, who stood silently as a captive audience.
An idea, a perfect escape, bloomed in his mind.
He smiled. "I'm sorry, Gyda. There wasn't much beauty in that place. Just stone and frightened men." He gestured with his chin toward Athelstan. "But I brought you something better than beautiful things. I brought you someone who knows all the best stories."
"Better than yours?" Gyda asked, skeptical.
“Not even close,” he said without missing a beat.
Gyda laughed with her skepticism melting away. She looked at Athelstan with new interest, as if seeing him for the first time not as a strange captive, but as a potential source of entertainment. "Is that true? Do you know stories?"
Athelstan glanced from the earnest face of the little girl to the rope she now held, realizing with cold clarity that his survival might depend on being useful in ways he had never imagined. His life, once dedicated to quiet contemplation and prayer, was now in the hands of a child's fleeting interest. He had to become valuable. He had to be a good story.
"I... yes," he said, his voice a little hoarse. "I know many stories. Stories from the Holy Book. Stories of miracles..."
"What's a miracle?" Gyda asked, her curiosity piqued.
"It's when God changes the way the world works, just for a moment, to do something impossible to help people."
From the side, Bjorn lets out a short, barely-stifled snort. Not loud, but enough to cut the moment.
Gyda curiously turns her head slowly toward him with one eyebrow lifting.
Athelstan glances over too, confused.
Bjorn just shrugs, trying to mask a grin.
"Tell me one," Gyda with her attention back to Athelstan, demanded, tugging gently on the rope, an innocent command that held the weight of a death sentence. "Tell me a story about a miracle. Start with the best one. The one that surprised you the most."
Hesitant at first, Athelstan swallowed the lump of fear in his throat. He drew a breath. He found himself speaking more to calm his own racing heart than to entertain the girl. "Once," he began, his voice gaining strength, "there was a... man who could walk on water..."
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Night.
A single low fire sputters in the center, casting long, dancing shadows that writhe on the hide-covered walls. The Seer crouches beside it. His long, skeletal fingers run over a collection of yellowed bones, polished stones, and carved runes laid out on a worn leather skin. He is utterly still and absorbed.
The door, a heavy slab of wood, creaks open, letting in a swirl of cold night air. EARL HARALDSON has to stoop to enter. He fills the small space, his fine wool cloak and the silver torque at his neck seeming ostentatious and loud in the primal quiet. He stands for a moment, letting his eyes adjust.
The Seer speaks without looking up, his voice a dry rustle of leaves. "You come here late. And you bring your burdens with you."
Haraldson takes a deliberate step closer, the heel of his boot sinking slightly into the soft earth. "I come looking for answers. I come looking for clarity."
Still not looking up, Seer picks up a small, cracked bird skull, "Do you? Or do you come seeking permission to do what you have already decided?"
"You were in the great hall today. An event so rare I cannot recall the last time. It was right before Ragnar Lothbrok and his lot returned from their unauthorized voyage. Do not tell me that was a coincidence. The gods showed you something."
The Seer places the skull down and picks up a small, smooth bone, turning it over and over in his palm, feeling its history. "Perhaps I just wanted to see the faces."
A flicker of impatience crosses Haraldson's face, "See?". He glances at the Seer's non existent eyes, but stops himself from commenting. "What faces?"
"The faces of men who believe they know what the gods want. And the faces of men who actually listen. They are rarely the same."
A tense pause hangs in the air, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Haraldson steps closer, his shadow swallowing the Seer's. "Tell me about him. Bjorn."
"What about the boy?"
Haraldson's voice lowers, becoming more intense, "Is it true? That they favor him now? That absurd mark from Thor himself… Did the gods truly give it to him?
"The mark... yes. He returned changed. The threads of his fate are no longer the color they were when he left. That much is true."
"Changed? He is Ragnar's boy. That name alone is poison enough. And now you tell me he carries the favor of the gods? That he is… chosen?"
"You ask many questions for a man who is terrified of the answers. Fear is a fog. It obscures the path." The Seer finally stops moving his hands and falls utterly silent.
The fire spits, and a shower of sparks rises between them.
Haraldson’s composure cracks. "I have done everything that was asked of me! Every sacrifice on the stones. Every tradition upheld. I have bled men in the gods' names. I followed every damn rite my father taught me, and his father before him! So why? Why does it feel like they have turned their faces from me? They have always favored me. Always!"
The Seer’s voice drops, becoming chillingly soft. "And yet, they still took your sons from you."
The words land and Haraldson felt like he was slapped. Haraldson flinches, the memory still a gaping wound. He turns away from the Seer, staring into the dark corner of the hut as if the answer lies there. "I need to know if they still do. If they still see me. And if this boy threatens my rule. Tell me what to do. Can I turn this? What if I marry my daughter to him? Bind his new power to my house? It is a strong political move, and it would quiet the whispers."
The Seer is quiet for a long time. He slowly reaches out and drops a pinch of dried herbs into the fire. A plume of acrid, white smoke billows up. His voice resonates through the smoke, "If the Gods have truly gazed upon someone… he shall never serve. He will only be served."
A cold dread settles in Haraldson's gut. He understands the implication: the boy cannot be controlled. Not by him. And not by anyone. "Then at least tell me when I will die. I need to know how much time I have left."
"Time for what?"
Haraldson gestures vaguely with his frustration mounting. "To… to fix this. To ensure my line continues. To make sure my family, my wife and daughter, are safe and provided for."
For the first time, the Seer lifts his head. His face, a mask of wrinkles, tilts towards the Earl. The place where his eyes should be seem to bore directly into Haraldson's soul. "Are you sure that is what you are afraid of?"
Haraldson is taken aback. "What else would I be afraid of?"
"You are afraid of dying forgotten. Of your name becoming a footnote in another man's saga. You are afraid of being replaced. Of discovering that, in the grand tapestry of the gods, your thread never truly mattered at all."
Haraldson stares, speechless. The Seer has flayed him open, exposing the raw, pathetic fear beneath the titles and the bravado. He turns abruptly toward the door, his authority shattered. He places his hand on the rough wood with his back to the fire.
Haraldson voice is a quiet, broken thing, a confession he hadn't intended to make. "Sometimes, I wonder if the gods even exist. Or if we just tell ourselves they do… because we're too afraid to be alone in the dark."
He pulls on the door. Just as the gap widens to the night outside, the Seer speaks again, his voice clear and final.
"You will die when silver touches the sun-haired one"
Haraldson freezes with his hand still on the door. The prophecy hangs in the air, a perfectly crafted puzzle of doom. He slowly turns around, desperate for more, for an explanation, for anything.
But the Seer has already turned back to his fire. He is running his fingers over the old bones again, humming a low, tuneless sound, as if Earl Haraldson had already left. As if he were already a ghost.
Haraldson waits for a long moment, staring at the hunched figure. There is nothing more to be had here. He turns and walks out, swallowed by the night, carrying a new and far heavier burden than the one he brought in.
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Next Day.
Morning came softly over Kattegat. Pale, silver light filtered through the canopy of the forest, brushing the wooden shingles of the longhouse. The cold of the deep night had dulled, leaving a crisp chill in the air.
Athelstan sat on a small stool just inside the open door, clutching the leather-bound Gospel of Saint John that Bjorn had allowed him to keep. He hunched over it, seeking refuge in its familiarity. The Latin words, once a source of infinite peace, blurred before his eyes.
Last night, in a gesture of welcome or perhaps a bizarre test, Lagertha and Ragnar had invited him to share their bed. He had refused with his body rigid with a fear so profound it eclipsed all other sensations. The strangeness of this place pressed down on him, and the book was a small, solid island of order in a sea of chaos.
Bjorn appeared beside him, nodding, "Follow me."
He rose slowly, his joints were stiff, and his heart was beginning to pound a nervous rhythm.
Bjorn stood near the entrance, waiting with his expression unreadable. As they stepped beyond the longhouse into the grey morning light, Bjorn reached to his belt and pulled a small, sharp knife. The blade glinted.
Athelstan's breath caught in his throat. 'This is it', he thought, a wave of resignation washing over him. 'This is how it ends'. He closed his eyes, bracing for the sharp, final pain.
But the knife didn't come for his throat. Instead, with a quick movement, Bjorn leaned in and sliced through the rough rope still chafing Athelstan's neck. The sound was a thump as the severed fibers fell away.
A sudden lightness bloomed on his skin, and a sense of freedom, so unexpected it was dizzying, settled.
Bjorn turned without a word and went to gather something from the side of the house, leaving Athelstan alone for a moment. The vast and quiet wilderness surrounded him. The raw, red skin on his neck tingled painfully with each breath of air. His arms hung limply at his sides; he kept his head lowered, his eyes fixed on the muddy ground utterly unsure of what to do next.
Ahead, by the goat pen, Bjorn had settled himself with his legs folded beneath him. He was bent over a flat wooden plank with his hands busy. No weapons lay near, only tools of craft; a few sharp chisels, carving knives, and a scattering of pale wood shavings that looked like fallen petals.
A half-built table stood on uneven legs beside a couple of rough-hewn chairs.
Athelstan didn't speak, he just waited.
Bjorn didn’t look up from his task, his voice came low and calm as he scraped a piece of wood smooth. "If I meant to kill you, you'd already be dead. Sit." He gestured with his chin toward one of the crude stools.
Athelstan’s shoulders stiffened, but he obeyed, lowering himself carefully onto the stool. It wobbled slightly beneath him.
Bjorn finally lifted his gaze from his work. A faint smile brushed his lips, not of joy, but recognition, like he hadn't spoken to someone sane in a long time. Someone who didn’t talk about sacrifices every time something bad happened to them. "Do you have a family, Athelstan?"
Athelstan swallowed, the motion painful against his neck. "Yes," he said quietly. He glanced up, meeting Bjorn's direct gaze. "In Northumbria. It's… it is the kingdom your people attacked."
Bjorn gave a single, slow nod of acknowledgement, then turned his attention back to his work with his hands moving with practiced confidence. After a moment of silence filled only by the scraping of his knife, he spoke again. "Tell me more."
Athelstan’s eyes drifted to the rough wood beneath Bjorn's hands, finding it easier to speak to them than to the boy's intense face. "I was born to poor farmers. They already had four sons and a daughter. They couldn't care for another child, so I was given to the Lindisfarne Monastery. There, I found… a kind of peace. Freedom, even. I served Father Cuthbert. I learned to forget myself, and give my life entirely to God."
Bjorn's hands paused in their work. He set the tool down deliberately. "Are they alive? Your family?"
Athelstan shook his head slowly, his gaze falling to his own hands, which were clenched in the folds of his robe. "No. The sweating sickness took them all, years ago."
Bjorn looked up, his young face earnest. "I'm sorry. That must have been a great sorrow."
Athelstan lowered his gaze further, the edge of his robe fluttering in the light breeze. "It was God's will," he said softly. The words slipped out from old habit, but they felt hollow in his mouth, a coin he was no longer sure had any value.
Bjorn's voice, though quiet, was firm. "God's will? So you being here, a slave in my father's house, is also God's will?"
Athelstan looked up, a spark of his old conviction returning. "Of course."
Bjorn’s tone sharpened. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. "And the death of your fellow monks, who prayed to Him day and night, is that also His will?"
Athelstan hesitated, the well-worn theological arguments rising in his mind. "It was foretold… that divine punishment would fall upon God's chosen people for our grievous sins. And so it has happened. That is why they died. For our sins. Like our savior, Jesus Christ. And that is why your people came to us."
Bjorn let out a short laugh. "No. You had gold. That's why we came." He picked up a wood shaving and flicked it away. "Some of your people died trying to protect it, as if gold was worth more than their lives. Without that treasure, no one would have come. Probably."
He leaned back, his eyes glinting with a challenging smile. "Tell me, priest, why does your God need silver and gold? Sounds like he’s got expensive taste." He watched Athelstan closely now, waiting, almost willing him to snap.
Athelstan's calm finally cracked. He straightened his back, his voice rising with an anger that satisfied him. "My God is not greedy! His kingdom is not of this world!"
Bjorn shook his head. "Then why is His kingdom so full of treasure?"
Athelstan’s voice softened, but he did not falter, trying to regain his composure. "Christian people give their riches to the churches and monasteries in order to save their souls."
"What are their souls?"
Athelstan met Bjorn’s gaze, opened his mouth to give the simple, catechized answer… and found he had nothing. The silence grew, stretching between them.
“The soul…” he said quietly with the tip of his carving knife resting against the wood. “It’s the part of us that feels guilt, love, and purpose.”
He ran a thumb over the grain of the half-shaped board in his lap, then looked up, not at Athelstan, but just past him, as if seeing something from far off. “It’s the quiet voice that says ‘This isn’t right,’ even when everyone else is cheering.”
Athelstan’s breath caught faintly in his throat. A memory stirred, of fire and screams, of the Lindisfarne scriptorium. His lips parted, but no words came.
Bjorn jaw clenched just barely, before softening. “Or the part that breaks when we betray someone, even if no one sees it.”
Bjorn paused. His voice, when it came again, was low, like the words weren’t meant to be spoken aloud. “It’s not just who we are. It’s why we are. Why we fight. Why we grieve. And why we hope.”
He drew in a breath through his nose, then returned to carving, not to dismiss the thought, but because there was nothing else left to say.
Across from him, Athelstan remained still. He didn’t cross himself, and he didn’t speak. He just watched Bjorn, unsure whether the ache he felt was sorrow, or the beginning of understanding.
After a pause, Bjorn shifted. "Enough of this. Tell me, how many languages do you speak?"
"At least four," Athelstan answered, grateful for the change. "Old English, Latin, Greek… and I understand Old Norse."
Bjorn smiled faintly. "I am sure you know how to write in your languages. But what about mine? Can you write in Old Norse?"
Athelstan shook his head. "Not to write a book. I have only seen the runes carved on stones. They seem… rough. Just names and simple words. Not a full alphabet like Latin. Only symbols. I have always thought it strange, that a people could speak so much, but write so little."
Bjorn didn’t answer. He reached behind him and pulled out a folded piece of waxed cloth, placing it gently on the work plank. He unfolded it with care, revealing not tools, but layers of thin birchbark and cured leather flaps marked with neat, clean symbols.
Athelstan leaned in, his eyes narrowing, then widening in recognition and disbelief.
"These aren't just runes," he murmured, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "They look like Old Norse marks… but they are cleaner, arranged in columns. Some have lines beneath them, others have small modifying marks…" He looked up at Bjorn, his awe eclipsing his fear. "You made this?"
Bjorn nodded once, his expression was matter-of-fact. "I used what was already there. But I made new ones, too. Our sounds after all, don't all fit on old stones."
Athelstan squinted, leaning so close his breath misted on the leather. "They look like runes, but… they are different."
"They are," Bjorn said, a faint smile touching his lips. "Simpler and easier to remember. Every sound our mouths make gets its own mark."
Athelstan traced a character with the tip of his finger, a gesture of pure, academic instinct. "This one?"
Bjorn pointed without looking. "ᛏ; the 't' sound. As in Thor."
Athelstan tried it softly, shaping the sound with his mouth. "t."
Bjorn indicated another. "ᚠ, the 'f' sound. As in fiskr."
Athelstan repeated it. "f."
Bjorn's eyes gleamed. "No tricky letters that sound like other letters, and no fancy scribbles. Just the sounds we say."
Athelstan looked from the script to Bjorn's face. "You want the people to read?"
Bjorn returned to smoothing a chair leg with a piece of sandstone with his focus absolute. "Someday. For now, I just want you to read."
They sat quietly for a while, the sounds of the waking settlement drifting around them.
Athelstan leaned forward again, studying a character. "This one, 'ᛁ', is like the 'i' sound? As in fiskr?"
Bjorn nodded. "Try to copy it." He slid a flat, smooth piece of softwood toward him, and beside it, a crude stylus carved from bone.
Athelstan hesitated for only a second, then picked up the stylus. The weight felt foreign and familiar at once. He carefully etched the vertical line of the character into the wood. His hand was steady, the line surprisingly clean.
He looked up from his work, the full weight of what he was seeing, what he was doing, crashing down on him. "This… this could change everything for your people."
Bjorn didn't look up from his work. He spoke with the simple, unshakeable certainty of a man stating a fact of nature. "That's the plan. It will take years of course,"
Then, almost like he was humming a tune in his head, he added, “One fine day, we fly away... don’t you know that Rome wasn’t built in a day?”
Athelstan paused, then looked at him sharply, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “Where did you hear that? That saying about Rome… I mean no offence, but it’s not one you’d expect men like you to know.”
Bjorn shrugged and offered no answer with a half-smile tugging at his lips.
Athelstan stared at the young man before him, no longer seeing a boy or a barbarian, but a builder.
He was no longer a prisoner, but something else entirely, a witness. He was impressed, and at the same time, profoundly unsettled.
The morning birds called softly from the trees, singing over the birth of an alphabet.
