#aethesltan

How had this unknown man, Aethelstan wondered, come from nowhere, possessing nothing, and found the golden path to paradise and fallen into King Edward's good graces so easily? Rarely had he seen his father accept outsiders so readily, even holy men. Perhaps, Edward was normally suspicious, but as his health worsened, it was increasingly difficult for new people to be accepted in Wessex, much less, in his presence. But for some reason Aethelstan could not still understand, Ingilmundr had been accepted and received calmly by the ailing king.

In fact, he almost envied the ease with which Ingilmundr had won the king's favor, when Aethelstan had been so harshly rejected by him as a child. He often tried to forget the dark years he had spent alone, surrounded by strangers, by people who did not care about him. When Aethelstan was still a child, too young to understand who he was, or the weight that would be placed on his shoulders as the years passed, God was his only companion. And that was enough, at least, at that time.

Because God would never abandon him, and Aethelstan knew it. So, alone in the cold, forgotten monastery, he did not think about how life might be different for a boy at his age; he did not even know how other boys lived. “You are nobody.” He had heard it repeatedly, as the monks whispered that it was for his own safety. That it would be better if he did not know who his parents were, or where he came from. Knowledge, Brother Ymar used to say, was as dangerous as it was devastating. If Aethelstan knew who he was, would it make things easier? He knew the answer to that question, even then.

But sometimes, deprived of the company of other children, surrounded by older, taciturn men, he dreamed of a better, even different life. Where he had a father and mother who loved each other, and loved him, perhaps even siblings. He liked to think he would grow up in a home filled with love and companionship. On cold winter nights, when blankets were scarce and bread was too hard to eat, these fantasies lulled Aethelstan to sleep, oblivious to the ominous whispers of the wind outside.

And for a time, that was all he knew, until her arrival. Aelswith, his grandmother, as he would later discover. She was kind, curious, and had a melancholy in her eyes that he was not accustomed to seeing in the faces of older people. She began to visiting him every day, asking what life was like there, if he was treated well. It was a comfortable life, he could not deny that, and the monks were as kind to him as any devoted man of Christ. But no, it was not a happy life, but a terribly lonely one. If Aelswith had wanted him to read the Bible to her, he could have done it with his eyes closed, having memorized every verse as he struggled to endure the passage of time. When Ymar decided it was the ideal time for him to learn to read and write, Aethelstan was deeply grateful, and he quickly learned, able to recite passages from the Bible better than many older monks.

Aelswith liked Aethelstan to read to her, and once he knew he could trust her, he appreciated her visits. She had a friend to introduce him too, and he was curious about who she was. At the time, he had no idea it would be the only time he would be in his mother's presence. He would have begged her to stay, to take him away with her, if he had known, but he did not, and he kept hoping that she would return for a long time. Yet, that was the only time he would spend with her, and not long after, he learned he had a twin sister, whom the monks had deliberately chosen to hide from him.

Could they really be alike? When Aelswith took Aethelstan away from the monastery, worried for his safety, he used to look closely at people, searching for a girl at his age, who looked like him. Perhaps, it was just childish innocence, but Aethelstan believed he would recognize his sister if he met her on the street. That never happened, like countless things in his life. But he was not afraid of loneliness anymore, even though those dreams still tormented him. God was guiding him on a new journey. Aelswith, too, was with him.

He was too young to understand her concerns, and he left silently when she took him away from the monastery to safety. They were supposed to leave for his aunt, Aethelflaed's estate, because those were uncertain times. For a child who believed himself an orphan, he was curious to meet his family, but terrified of ruining everything. What if they did not like him? None of that seemed to matter to the former queen, who said anyone met him would like him. It seemed true, in the end, when he met Stiorra and Aelfwynn. It was strange to have friends, but he was learning fast.

Alone, Aethelstan enjoyed their company, pleased with the new direction his life had taken. Until the warriors arrived, of course. Aethelflaed seemed to trust them, promising they would not be a threat to any of them. To him, they were not particularly Christian or trustworthy, but they were brave and treated Aethelstan well, and he grew to trust them. Even when they had to flee because the cruel Mercian men were coming after them. Aethelstan did not know how much time had passed since he had been taken from the monastery, but he did not miss that life.

But he still kept God close to him, a wooden cross around his neck on a worn chain. One of the women who accompanied them, he learned her name was Eadith, was his favorite, and she always helped him read the Bible when he was anxious, even though he doubted she found it very interesting. And when she promised that he should always listen to Uhtred, for he was a brave and intelligent warrior, Aethelstan took her words to heart, even as they set out for the land of the people they were fleeing. A disease was raging in those lands, and it was unsafe for them to be exposed. He was pleased to see Aelswith there again. However, she seemed uncertain, wanting him to meet someone. It was the first time he had seen his father.

Aethelstan, sometimes, late at night, still remembered the melancholy tears on Edward's pale face when Aelswith dragged him to the king. He did not want Aethelstan, did not want him there, with him. And he never felt like he truly belonged in Wessex, in his father's company, after that day. If we are being honest, Edward had practically ordered Aethelstan taken back to the monastery, but despite that, he still kept the toy king that Aethelstan had made as a child. But, deep down, Edward did not think of himself as the good king his son believed him to be, nor would Aethesltan think so again in time.

He never forgave his father for sending him away into danger. Aelswith had begged him, when they were separated from Uhtred and forcibly taken to Wessex, to spare the children. She had even removed his cross so they would be safe, and no one would suspect his lineage. But, of course, the gods were not on their side, and it was not long before they discovered he was King Edward's firstborn. None of this haunted Aethelstan until he was imprisoned in the castle and met his younger brother, the king's heir. No one would have blamed Aethelstan if he felt jealous, or even envious, of his brother. He felt none of this as he listened to the Danes' demands and offered himself as a hostage.

When Edward looked at him, even so many years after the battle, Aethelstan could almost swear he saw the same fear in his father's eyes as when he was forced to watch as his two heirs were held hostage. They had won that war and cemented peace, but Edward still avoided talking about those bloody days. Aethelstan did not either. That day, after the peace was agreed upon, Edward ordered Uhtred to look after him and take him away.

Well, he was not really upset about it, because Uhtred had been by his side, every time Edward was away. The Danish warrior quickly grew into Aethelstan, and he discovered what it was like to have a father. After all, that was how he saw the man, and Uhtred corrected him less and less as the years passed. In Rumcofa, Uhtred's pagan homeland, things seemed easy. Good, even.

Aethelstan no longer felt alone, and the children did not mind that he was the king's bastard. Osferth, his uncle, was also a bastard, and they became good friends as the prince grew older. He may have loved the peace he found in the monastery, but this life felt right, the life he had been born to inherit. These people were his family, and Aethelstan finally felt like he belonged, that he was accepted. Much time had passed since he had last been with Edward, but he did not think about it much, at least, he tried not to.

And he did not really think about it until the peace of Rumcofa was threatened. It was not just Brida and the Danes following her; something else was happening, something they did not yet understand. This was not his home anymore, not while they were being attacked by enemies lurking in the shadows. It was the first time since the siege of Wessex that Aethelstan could remember being in real danger. This time, however, he did not know who was trying to assassinate him. Things only got worse when Aethelflaed died unexpectedly. His cousin's safety was at risk, all of Mercia was at risk, and despite Uhtred's efforts, Edward seemed to have his own plan in mind.

On his lower lip, Aethelstan still bore a small scar from when he was mistakenly attacked by one of his father's men while seizing control of Mercia, taking away Aelfwynn's birthright after her mother's death. Aethelstan had sworn he would never forgive Edward and would keep distance from him, for all he had done. But deep down, he knew he missed his father's presence; even though Uhtred was like a foster father to him, he needed Edward too. So, when he asked him to take control of the Mercian soldiers, he was incapable of refusal, and deep down, he hoped this would also honor Aethelflaed's memory.

The war did not respect their mourning period, and Aethelstan thought the differences between Uhtred and Edward would be too great for them to fight together. But they did, and with much suffering, Bebbanburg was reclaimed. The traumas, however, would not be easily forgotten. Aethelstan had never desired, or even coveted, the throne, and yet, he was considered a threat. When the war ended, and Aelfweard was declared a traitor, many of the common people whispered that he would be content, finally being Edward's next son to inherit the throne. It was merely a malicious rumor, really, because that was not the life he wanted. Aelfweard was still Edward's legitimate son, and Aethelstan had no desire to fight against his own brother.

His brother's betrayal had not been the only thing that had angered Edward, and when Uhtred would not swear fealty to him and instead kept the men of Bebbanburg separated between the rival kings, Aethelstan knew his days with Uhtred were coming to an end. Many things were coming to an end, it seemed. Aelswith no longer wished to remain in Wessex, not after everything that had happened. And with Aelfwynn and Cynlaef, now married, she decided it was time for them to leave for Frankia. She did not ask him to leave with them, knowing Edward would not allow it, but she promised to wait for him, as if certain that one day, Aethelstan and she would meet again.

However, the fate of men was unknown, even to the noblest. And Aethelstan had to leave for Wessex with Edward, even though he preferred to spend his free time in Mercia. Honestly, he liked his father's new wife and was pleased that she did not treat him indifferently. When his younger brother, Edmund, was born, he was happy for his father. He was not concerned about the throne, or who would inherit those lands. He had been born a nobody, and he would die a nobody; armor and chainmail did not change who he was. However, the queen did not seem concerned about his closeness and tried to keep Aethelstan as close to the king as possible, for which he was grateful. Without Uhtred, without the people of Rumcofa, he felt loneliness begin to consume him again.

If he could, just for a moment, go back in time, he would never have left the monastery, never have left Rumcofa. It was better to be a nobody than someone who did not know his way. Things, however, became a little easier as Edmund grew older and he learned to appreciate the boy's company. The only company he had, really. Aethelstan turned all his free time to Christ, and to the sacred words. Deep down, he knew he needed God's merciful hand upon him more than ever.

Because he had not told anyone many things, not even to Uhtred, though he suspected Osferth did know. Of course he did; Aethelstan had never been able to deceive his uncle, and he missed him terribly. Perhaps, if Osferth had survived the attack on Rumcofa, he might have been able to be honest about who he really was, whoever he was. He was not ready to admit what he felt, or who he felt for, yet. Surely, Aethelstan thought uneasily, this was some divine punishment, a punishment for his recklessness.

In Rumcofa, he always denied it when Finan or Sihtric suggested he was man enough to find a woman. In those days, he lied, saying he did not want to upset Edward if he decided he needed to marry for the good of Wessex. Why would he be angry, his companions often asked, if he was nothing more than a bastard? Bastards did not form political alliances, to which Aethelstan shrugged and said he had no time to think about it. Osferth, ever watchful and shrewd, complained about the pranks and ordered his nephew to be left alone. There would be time for women later, he said, embracing Aethelstan. He doubted Osferth truly believed his lies, but he never seemed bothered by his nephew's secret passions, and that unspoken secret died with him.

Unfortunately, that dark secret did not disappear along with the only person who knew. Aethelstan was certain he was still tainted by sin that night, no matter what he did. He had prayed, begged God for mercy, for help, for any sign of how he could drown the confusing feelings stirring in his chest. He had even remained chaste, trying to endure the burning desires that had stirred in him over the years whenever a handsome boy arrived at Edward's court and was kind to him. He had even brutally rejected the young men's innocent attempts to friendship.

It was a test of faith, was not it? To prove himself worthy of being in Wessex, by his father's side, while Edmund was too young to care about the fate of the kingdom. He was there by God's blessing, and he could not commit such an unforgivable sin. Not after everything he had done to keep those thoughts from his mind, hidden in the darkest parts of him. For a time, he almost believed he was healed, that God had forgiven him, and he could start over, as a true man. Until Ingilmundr arrived, he had not imagined fighting that desire could be so difficult.

He watched the man attentively, silently, throughout the dinner, nodding at any of his father's complaints while keeping his eyes fixed on his wineglass. It did not matter that he ignored Ingilmundr; he could feel the heat of his gaze on him. Curious, cautious, and something else Aethelstan could not yet define, and he was too afraid to discover the answer. He smiled slightly when the holy man told him about his journey, impressed by his strength and perseverance. Perhaps, he should be more like Ingilmundr. And when his father asked him to take Ingilmundr to his chambers, Aethelstan held tightly to the cross he wore around his neck. If the man noticed this strange act, he did not say anything to him, and he was grateful.

Their walk was silent, as they watched the servants gather throughout the castle. Ingilmundr's chambers were modest, and far from King Edward's. However, they were much closer to Aethelstan's, than the prince liked. Not that he considered himself above anyone, no. On the contrary, he feared closeness not out of arrogance, but out of fear of falling into temptation. But the Devil seemed to be smiling upon Aethelstan that night, as he bid Ingilmundr farewell.

Unexpectedly, the man smiled at him, briefly stroking Aethelstan's arm before turning his back and entering the chambers. Unable to react, he stood before the doors, too frightened to move, too scared to walk away from Ingilmundr's chambers. He knew, even without seeing, that his own face was flushed beyond decorum, all from an innocent, brief touch. Finding strength, he swallowed hard, rushing to his own chambers, feeling an uncomfortable heat overtaking his body. Was this what happened when you stifled a desire for too long, Aethelstan thought, and it worsened when it finally could be felt?

Aethelstan did not want to know the answer to that question, ever. So, he simply stayed alone in his chambers, ordering none of his servants to disturb him, while he pulled his leather belt tightly, leaving himself in only his tunic. The same tunic he still wore now, as he tossed and turned in bed, trying not to think about Ingilmundr's brilliant smile. He felt pathetic. This almost unknown man had barely touched him, and he felt like a desperate animal, unsure of how to control his own thoughts.

Frustrated, ashamed, he screamed into the furs, knowing the servants would not storm his chambers unless they thought he was truly in danger. His face hot with shame, his body sweaty from a sleepless night, Aethelstan gasped, sitting up in bed, furiously removing his tunic, desperately needing to breathe, pulling his pants awkwardly away from him. Aethelstan needed to be anywhere but in his own skin. And he begged for mercy as the tunic fell to the floor, and the night chill penetrated his pale skin. Keeping his eyes closed, he recited an ancient prayer that Ymar had taught him, to use when he felt he needed Christ's guidance. He had never needed His guidance more than in that moment. The cross against his bare chest felt so heavy.

Before Aethelstan could think clearly, before he could regret what he was doing, he lay back on the bed again, his hand slowly sliding down his waist and gasping sharply, angrily realizing how hard he was. He sighed, glad to be alone, away from everyone else, so that his shame, his sin, would remain with him. It was humiliating how desperate he already seemed for no particular reason. All he could do was moan, letting his thoughts overwhelm him as he touched himself.

He bit his lip hard, until he felt the blood trickle down, as if it could erase his desire, as if the pain made up for what he was doing in the darkness of his chambers. God would forgive him later, Aethelstan was sure, or at least he hoped so. Better to be alone there, moaning, completely breathless, desperate and humiliated, where no one could see him, than to give in to the sin of the flesh, was not it? That was what Aethelstan kept repeating to himself, moving his hand faster, as if giving in to his desire soon could lessen the guilt in his mind. Not that it changed anything, because every time he closed his eyes, it was Ingilmundr he thought of, and Aethelstan did not know whether to stop what he was doing or moan even louder. He was too lost in his own desire to think better, to worry about the sin he was committing.

It was all he could manage, as sleep seemed increasingly distant, and his moans more broken. Everyone in the castle was asleep, caught up in their dreams enough to be oblivious to the murmurs coming from the prince's chambers. If anyone heard, he hoped they would only suspect he was seeing a girl behind Edward's back. However, over the years, Aethelstan had realized that the servants held more secrets than he think. The servants always seemed to know when he needed to be alone, and to keep description. And as he arched his back in bed, begging anyone within earshot for salvation, he hoped the last awake servants in the castle would be merciful and keep his secrets.

With his dark curls plastered to his face, he could almost still feel the heat of Ingilmundr's touch on his arm as he failed to contain his own sobs. Of guilt or pleasure, he could not tell, as he cumming against his own hand. The relief of his restless thoughts forced the prince to lie still as he fought exhaustion. Keeping his eyes closed, Aethelstan became acutely aware of the coldness of the cross against his sweaty chest. Horrified by what he had done, he sat up in bed, rubbing his hand rapidly against the furs, sickened by how clammy it felt. Before he knew it, hot tears were streaming down his face, his sobs faltering and growing louder. May Saint Cuthbert watch over his sinful soul, because Aethelstan was finding it increasingly difficult for God to forgive his weakness. Aethelstan continued to weep until his weariness was stronger than he was, and thoughts of Ingilmundr were weaker than his guilt.

When he woke the next morning, Aethelstan felt miserable, terribly so. If he had thought the sleepless night had been uncomfortable, he could not even begin to imagine how disturbing his dreams would be, if they could even be called dreams. They were much more like a nightmare. After all, what else could it be, if he had dreamed of Ingilmundr all night? Surely, he thought, God was testing him ever harder to see when he would finally give in and commit the sin of the flesh. He would not do it, he had promised himself, not after last night. It would be difficult, of course, to resist the temptation, being so close to Ingilmundr, but he could not come up with any explanation good enough for his father to let him interrupt the readings with Ingilmundr, which had not even begun yet, and he was trying to escape.

He could not be honest with his father, and he knew it with a heavy heart. He did not even want to begin to think about what Edward's reaction would be if he knew, or even suspected, Aethelstan's secret desires. He was a Christian man, the son of the king and prince of Wessex; he could never let anyone discover the truth. The entire image, the entire history, of the House of Wessex would be ruined because of him, and Aethelstan would never allow that, even if he had to spend his entire life alone, never knowing the sensation of a loving touch, or of love returned. If God were fair to him, he would endure this challenge.

Hopefully, Edward would live long enough for Edmund to grow up and take the throne. Aethelstan had no interest in taking a wife; being forced to sleep with a woman just to produce heirs, this mere thought made him shiver every time. But he would have no choice if the worst happened to his father. He would pray for Edward's soul, and for his own. Slowly, then, he rose, staring with disgust at the robes lying on the floor, trying to forget the night before and his weakness. Aethelstan remained silent as the servants prepared his bath and left him clean robes before leaving the chambers. He might be a prince, but he did not need help with such basic things. A bath at dawn would help him clear his mind. At least, that is what he hoped, but no calm reached him, no matter how much he cried out for mercy.

Perhaps, he was not asking hard enough, Aethelstan thought. The entire Wessex castle was still very quiet, and only the servants hurriedly walking through the corridors could be heard. The chapel would be empty, and he could enjoy God's company until he could being forgive. He even asked that the servants not tell the king and queen that he was already awake; he needed some peace. Edward would not be curious; few things pique the king's interest these days, but Eadgifu would ask so many questions, and he was not ready, or sane enough, to answer any of them. All he wanted was to be alone. The weight of his secret, of his sin, seemed less when he was not accompanied by true Christians.

Then he sighed in frustration, tangling his dark curls into the gold strands, pleased with the way they molded to his hair. It was not fair that Edward should be so bothered by this. High-ranking Danes adorned their hair and beards with ornaments; why was it so different from his? He had once argued this, the first time his father noticed the gold in his hair. “You are not a Pagan, Aethelstan,” he had said, serious, resolute, coldly, and Aethelstan had merely nodded, promising to behave like a true Saxon, whatever that meant to Edward. But, as expected, he ignored his father's criticisms, and it seemed the king grew increasingly furious when Aethelstan disobeyed him.

Yet, that morning, he doubted his father would rise soon and find him in the chapel. Perhaps, it would have been better for him if Edward had been there; things would have been easier, but he knew none of that as he left the chambers, walking purposefully, desperate for God's forgiveness. He only felt true peace when he was in the chapel, and his knees touched the cold floor. He did not know how long he had stood there, hands clasped, eyes closed in concentration, calling out to God to drive away these cruel thoughts, this unholy desire. What did he need to do? What did Christ expect of him so he could be a man free from sin? Aethelstan was too focused on his own suffering to notice footsteps approaching.

Slowly, trying not to interrupt his prayers, Ingilmundr walked over to Aethelstan, kneeling beside him, and when the prince looked at him, he knew God had a wicked sense of humor. He begged for atonement and salvation, and God sent Ingilmundr straight to him. And if that were not bad enough, in this state. Honestly, it was almost impossible to expect him not to corrupt his own mind at that moment. God was distant, and the Devil smiled maliciously at Aethelstan.

“I hope I am not interrupting your prayers,” Ingilmundr said, and he seemed genuinely concerned as he looked at Aethelstan, who had not yet found the strength to speak.

All he did at that moment, shameful as it was, was watch the other man. Ingilmundr's hair was still very damp, showing that, like Aethelstan, he had woken before everyone else and decided a bath would help him through the day. Small drops dripped from his curls, running down Ingilmundr's neck, and soaking into the dark, modest robes he wore. He was a holy man, a man of God, and Aethelstan seemed to forget that, even with the cross hanging around Ingilmundr's neck. Because he was watching the drops run down Ingilmundr's pale skin, disappearing into the layers of clothing he wore, torturing Aethelstan's mind with even more confused thoughts.

“Do not worry, I was just finishing up.” He muttered, looking away, noticing Ingilmundr looking at him curiously.

“I beg you to stay a little longer, if it would be all right, my lord,” Ingilmundr said, reaching out to Aethelstan to stop him from rising. The touch seemed to set his entire body on fire, and Aethelstan feared his fate would lead to an even hotter place in the end.

“Yes, of course.” Aethelstan nodded, smiling slightly at him.

When Ingilmundr smiled at Aethelstan, he quickly looked away, forcing himself to ignore the strange heat that consumed his chest. Ingilmundr, it was noticeable, said nothing, closing his eyes and beginning to pray as well. Once he was certain the man was lost in his conversation with Christ, Aethelstan allowed himself to look at him once more. The dark curls seemed to perfectly frame the man's face, complementing his sharp jawline and looking so attractive that Aethelstan did not even mind the growing beard. He never understood why other men loved beards so much. They were rough, difficult to keep trimmed, and grew so quickly. Not that Aethelstan understood, of course, because his had never even begun to grow, making his features even more youthful.

He had not thought much about it until now, noticing how Ingilmundr's beard seemed to enhance his Danish beauty even more. It was like seeing an angel incarnate, Aethelstan thought, even if it was like lusting after Lucifer himself. The problem, he soon realized, was that even Lucifer used to be beautiful. It was too much torture to remain there, so close beside him, kneeling before the image of Christ, while the most impure thoughts dominated his mind. God would not hear his prayers if he continued to choose the path of sin. He would speak to his father later, begging him to let him go to Mercia again, to the forgotten fields that held the memories of easier years.

Unexpectedly, Aethelstan stood up, startling Ingilmundr, who stopped his prayers to look at him. He was panting, ashamed, and furious with himself for not being able to control his thoughts even in the presence of a holy man, in a place created for prayer and salvation. He could not let Ingilmundr understand what was happening to him; no one could know. It had to be a punishment chosen especially for him, to torture him until he proved himself a worthy man, a better man.

“Is everything alright, my lord?” Ingilmundr murmured, standing and approaching Aethelstan slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal.

“Yes, I am fine,” He said, almost gritting his teeth. Those words, my lord, only made the guilt in Aethelstan's mind even heavier. “I need to take care of some matters, but do not let my departure interrupt you.”

“Why do not you join me tomorrow?” He asked, smiling slightly, unconcerned by the confusion that filled Aethelstan's features. In fact, Ingilmundr was beginning to wonder what was making him so nervous, and he hoped to discover the source of that unusual fear in the prince's eyes. “Study your grandfather's chronicles with me, as the king suggested.”

May God punish the king for his thoughtless cruelty, Aethelstan thought as he nodded to Ingilmundr, clenching his right hand tightly, trying not to show the discomfort he felt as he hurriedly turned his back on Ingilmundr, like a child escaping of his responsibility. Aethelstan did not look back as he left the chapel, failing to notice Ingilmundr give him a confused smile, perhaps beginning to suspect what was causing the prince such unease. None of that mattered now, as Aethelstan took a deep breath, feeling his tunic cling to his body, damp with sweat.

If it was already torture to be in Ingilmundr's presence for a few prayers, he did not want to think about what it would be like to be in Alfred's chronicle room. Servants never entered unless the king commanded, and scholars had all the privacy they needed to enjoy the late king's stories. And being there, alone with Ingilmundr, did not seem like a good idea, much less prudent. But when Aethelstan finally returned to his chambers, slamming the door loudly as he pressed his back against it, he allowed himself, for a moment, to imagine that Ingilmundr was as eager as he was for the coming of the next day, even if it brought them a little closer to the flames of Hell.

It was no surprise that his sister was so adept at devising strategies and betrayals. As Danes, they learned to love their people before their family, because, in the end, they were one and the same. And there was no honor if the people and the family were not united. This was what he repeated constantly, trying ever harder to convince himself that this was the right thing to do, that this was what was expected of him. Ingilmundr knew the trouble he was getting into the moment he entered Anlaf's chambers. Nothing good, or safe, was planned in his father's chambers. Honestly, he was almost glad when he did not have to be present at the meetings, even if he felt he was being cheated.

Perhaps, he deserved it. Anlaf could not accept that his warriors were weak, men who hesitated on the battlefield, and Ingilmundr had hesitated more times than he cared to admit. Not because he did not believe in what they were doing, or because he did not want his people to conquer more lands. He wanted that, of course he wanted that, and so much more. But after a while, so many wars, so many deaths, so much innocent blood spilled, he began to doubt that war was truly the way forward. Even though he tried to forget, even though he struggled not to think about that night, Ingilmundr still thought of her eyes when he closed his. Of his mother's eyes.

No matter what Anlaf declared, or how much he denied it, deep down, he knew his mother would never agree with what they were doing. Ingilmundr couldn not even understand how a strong and fearless woman like her, yet so kind and loving, had chosen to marry a man as ruthless as Anlaf. Or perhaps she had no choice and did the best she could for her children, for as long she lived. Without her comforting presence, it was not long before Anlaf became the worst version of himself, the one the Saxons feared most. For the rumors and hearsay about his cruelties, his ruthlessness, were many, and they were all true.

A king who knew no mercy would never accept his children as weak, as cowards. And when Astrid began to accept his orders without complaint, regardless of the bloodshed, Ingilmundr sensed his father was distancing himself from him, almost as if he no longer believed he was willing to do what was necessary for their people. This was his last chance, and Ingilmundr knew it, even if Anlaf had not said anything. The Danish king was not known as a man of warnings, but of revenge, and he knew his father's cruelty well enough to do whatever it took to defeat the Saxons.

The problem, it seemed, was that Aethelstan was hiding from him. Every time Ingilmundr looked for him, he was strangely too far away to be found. As if hiding in a place like Wessex was possible, especially when he was the king's heir. The people did not need King Edward to declare Aethelstan the Aetheling; they knew he would be chosen. Ingilmundr had only met Edmund at the castle a few times, and he was certain the boy could never be king unless the king lasted a century for him to be finally ready.

However, it was different with Aethelstan. Before he was a prince, an heir, he had been a boy devoted to his faith, and, with Uhtred's help, a warrior. Edmund would never understand what it took to be king without first facing battle, without first looking into the eyes of his enemy as his soul left his body. Ingilmundr had no desire to waste time searching for a possible heir, when Aethelstan stood before him, but the prince was making things nearly impossible, and none of this diminished the Dane's curiosity.

When the candles illuminated Aethelstan's pale face as he knelt seeking for forgiveness from the shadows, Ingilmundr had been strangely fascinated by him. Whatever weighed on the prince's chest, Aethelstan's desperation only made him more interesting, more pleasing to look at. A man who deeply feared God, Ingilmundr thought, was an easy man to convince. Tell him that God will punish him for sleeping too much, and he will stay awake for the rest of the week. Ingilmundr had known too many men like that to think Aethelstan would be any different.

He desperately wanted to discover what kind of man Aethelstan was. So, he waited for him in the chronicle room, as he had promised. And yet, the prince had not appeared in that first day, or any other, but Ingilmundr continued to wait. He would wait patiently for as long as necessary. Before Anlaf arrived in Wessex, he would have enough time to convince the prince to heed his advice and keep him among the king's personal advisors. If Aethelstan would agree to stay close to him, of course. A week had passed, but he still was not ready to declare defeat. No war was won easily, much less quickly.

When Ingilmundr heard footsteps approaching, he smiled slightly, pleased with the prince's quick surrender. But to his surprise, it was not Aethelstan who entered the chronicle room, but the king's wife, and queen of Wessex. Eadgifu was not only a very beautiful woman, even if age was beginning to leave small traces on her pale face. It was noticeable that she was wise and shrewd; otherwise, King Edward would not have trusted so much in her advice. Few men truly cared about their wife's opinion, and Edward was undoubtedly one of them.

Eadgifu, Ingilmundr remembered the king saying, was very attached to Aethelstan. It would not be easy to convince the prince to listen to his whispers if he continued to trust his stepmother so much. And the moment he caught a glimpse of the queen entering the room, he knew he would need to keep her away from Aethelstan when the time finally came. Uhtred was far away, tending to his own land, his own family. By the time he noticed, if he even noticed, that something was wrong, it would be too late. And hopefully, Aethelstan would already trust Ingilmundr enough for Uhtred to truly pose a threat.

“Lord Ingilmundr, I was wondering if you were still here.” Eadgifu said, smiling like a true queen at him. It was no wonder the people of Wessex and Mercia loved her so much. Even in other kingdoms, they commented on her kindness. “I thought perhaps I could find Aethelstan with you.”

“My queen.” Ingilmundr murmured, rising and walking toward Eadgifu, only to bow briefly. As a man of God, his love should be not only for his Creator, but also for the most important family in Wessex. “I fear you will not be able to find him here, and I beg your forgiveness.”

“A pity, indeed.” Eadgifu nodded as she walked around the room, examining the volumes of Alfred's chronicles, looking at the ancient writings with genuine interest. “I have always wondered what King Alfred would have thought of Aethelstan if he had known him before his death. They are somewhat alike, do not you think?”

Ingilmundr had seen few paintings of Alfred, most of them depicting the king's younger years. And in his opinion, the two could not be more different. However, he knew that was not what Eadgifu meant. After all, she was close enough to the king's bastard son to notice the similarities, similarities that a Dane who had lived his entire life in Ireland could never comprehend. But, perhaps, she was right. Why would the Danes consider Aethelstan, the king's heir, a future threat, if he did not pose a risk, as Alfred had to the Danes?

“Did you know the former king, Your Majesty?” Ingilmundr asked, feigning curiosity, as he approached the queen, observing the parchments she absently fingered. Ingilmundr did not care for Alfred's stories, though he could not deny that the king's chronicles were interesting.

For King Edward to continue believing that Ingilmundr's arrival was nothing more than a strong desire to study Alfred's chronicles, he would need to convince Eadgifu as well. He was there to study, was not he? And Ingilmundr was studying the Saxons and the royal family of Wessex. And they never even suspected that a holy man like him would be capable of hiding a terrible secret. Fools, thought Ingilmundr, all of them for believing that just because God was supposed to be their savior, they could trust the first stranger who crossed their path.

“Unfortunately not. I was in Wessex when I was younger, and indeed, I met Alfred, but I never imagined then that we would one day be family.” Sighing, Eadgifu turned her back on the scattered chronicles, looking closely at him. “Aethelstan is a lonely boy, like his grandfather was. I know he tries to hide it from Edward, but I can see how lonely he is.”

Since Uhtred's departure, Ingilmundr could have guessed, even if he would not have been so bold with the queen, and suspected she would not confess those words. Because yes, Ingilmundr had noticed how Aethelstan spent his days alone in the castle, or in Wessex, and even when his younger brother accompanied him, it did not seem to be enough. Ingilmundr wondered if things were different when he was in Mercia, away from the prying eyes and malicious whispers. Where he could be who he once was, the bastard warrior who commanded the men of Mercia. There, even as the king's son, Ingilmundr suspected the people did not care as much for him.

“What I expect of you, Ingilmundr,” Eadgifu said, all kindness quickly draining from her features, surprising him. Apparently, he was not the only one searching for hidden answers. “Is that you not win his friendship if your journey to Wessex is brief. I do not need to see such a gentle soul as him undergo unnecessary torment. Do you understand what I am saying?”

Honestly, Ingilmundr understood more than Eadgifu was actually saying. Because there was so much more in her words, was not there? In Wessex, people came and went all the time, and it was no different at Edward's court. And Aethelstan, as a grown man, was aware that life in his father's shadow was not the same as the life he had experienced alongside with Uhtred, as a carefree warrior. Friends, Anlaf used to say, when they were gathered around the fire, were as dangerous as enemies. Sometimes, Ingilmundr thought, friends could be more ruthless in their betrayal. The blow always came from those least expected.

Eadgifu was not talking about mere friendship, Ingilmundr quickly realized, and he imagined the queen was satisfied with his understanding. To utter those words, those suspicions, would be too dangerous for all of them. And Ingilmundr wondered if Eadgifu was truly right about what she was insinuating to him. A mere mention of it to Wessex's enemies, or to rival kingdoms, could spell the ruin of everything Alfred had fought so hard to conquer.

“Do not worry, my queen,” Ingilmundr assured her, hoping she would see the truth in his words, even if everything was designed to win her trust. “Aethelstan will be safe by my side, and I hope the knowledge of a king as wise as Alfred will help him find some peace.”

What a phenomenal liar he was becoming; Anlaf would be proud of him. Eadgifu, visibly more relaxed by Ingilmundr's words, wasted no time in letting him continue his studies alone. Eadgifu was one of the wisest women in Wessex, Ingilmundr was certain of that. With just a few words, however, she had revealed the Saxons' most valuable secret. If, and only if, what she feared was true, Anlaf would be satisfied with the information his son would bring him. Honestly, Aethelstan's constant disappearance was beginning to make sense to Ingilmundr, and if he was right, it would not be difficult to extract the truth from the prince. However, Ingilmundr could not risk it yet, not without knowing for sure.

The plan was still too fragile, too uncertain, for mistakes to be made. Ingilmundr was confident, however. The gods had indeed smiled upon him. And all he needed to do was wait for Aethelstan to approach. For a time, Ingilmundr considered seeking him out and asking him to spend some time together, pretending he would like to study Alfred's chronicles with him. But after the desperate reaction in the chapel, he feared that Aethelstan would be frightened and distance himself even further. Or, worse, that he would run to Mercia, where Ingilmundr could not accompany him without arousing unnecessary suspicion. Aethelstan would come to him; Ingilmundr would just have to be patient.

And patience was something the Danes learned from a young age. Years might pass before a kingdom was conquered, but they never gave up. Ingilmundr was supposed to meet Astrid very soon, though his sister did not say when that meeting would be. He hoped to have information before they met. Perhaps, Odin heard his most desperate prayers when, two weeks after the Queen Eadgifu expressed concern for her stepson, Aethelstan went looking for him. It was cold that morning, and the people of Wintanceaster were still asleep, with only a few servants wandering around the castle. Honestly, he preferred mornings like this.

Ingilmundr did not want to be here, in Wessex, surrounded by enemies, by people who would not hesitate to sentence him to death if they discovered he was a spy. Even though nothing in Ireland grew and the cold was brutal, he missed his home. No, he missed belonging, and, though he was reluctant to admit it, Ingilmundr wondered if he had ever truly belonged at Anlaf's court. He had not felt like he belonged anywhere since his mother's death. In Wintanceaster, at least, the people seemed content with his presence, even if it was all a lie. A warrior's life was forged in blood and betrayal, his father had taught him that, and Ingilmundr had known no other way. Until he met Aethelstan.

As the delicate doors opened and the prince entered the room, Ingilmundr watched him closely. Against all King Edward's orders, Aethelstan still wore the gold threads in his hair, and Ingilmundr had to keep his attention on his parchments to keep from smiling at this small act of rebellion. Adornments were signs of status and power for the Danes, and without realizing it, Aethelstan was increasingly conforming to their customs. Even with his short, curly hair, which always made Ingilmundr wonder if it was as soft as it looked, he wore lush blue robes, as his position at court demanded, nothing could make Aethelstan less attractive to Ingilmundr's eyes.

To be fair, he despises the Saxons' style of dress. With their short, neatly combed hair and fine, delicate robes, they looked ridiculous, especially the kings, with all their unnecessary jewelry and simplistic crowns. And those holy robes made Ingilmundr uncomfortable, almost freezing with cold. Worst of all, he often thought, was his hair. Before arriving in Wessex, he was furious about the new persona he was supposed to assume, but strangely, while dining with the king and his heir, Ingilmundr could not contain his surprise when Aethelstan complimented his short hair. According to the bastard prince, the Danes' hair was interesting, but it was pleasant to be able to see Ingilmundr's face completely. If the king found those careless remarks strange, he did not show it.

Aethelstan, in fact, seemed much more shy now than he had been at dinner. Walking slowly, he approached Ingilmundr, feigning interest in the chronicles. If he had wanted to read any of them, Ingilmundr thought, he would have done so long ago. Aethelstan might be a devout, God-fearing man, but he was not here seeking knowledge or connection with the late king. It was something more, something beyond what King Edward had demanded of him, but he still could not fathom it, even though Ingilmundr knew, or at least suspected, what his true motivation was.

And Aethelstan would not give in so easily. He had undoubtedly spent enough time agonizing over his own thoughts before going to look for Ingilmundr; there was no need to press him further. But Ingilmundr was curious to know how much pressure it would take before he truly earned the prince's trust. The distance between them had made two things clear to Ingilmundr: Aethelstan was more determined than the Danes expected, and, most importantly, he did not know how to react around Ingilmundr. However, he remained silent, pretending not to notice the prince's approach, absently fingering the parchments, as Eadgifu had done weeks ago.

“Lord Ingilmundr,” Aethelstan said, his voice almost an uncertain whisper as he stopped before the Dane.

Ingilmundr had forgotten how pleasant it was to hear Aethelstan's voice; in fact, he had not realized how much he enjoyed the sound of his voice until now, as he slowly placed one of the parchments on the wooden table and turned to observe Aethelstan. Perhaps, if they were not enemies, and this was all just a deception, carefully crafted lies to defeat the Saxons, Ingilmundr might actually enjoy Aethelstan's company. But he was not foolish, and never would be. He could not see things beyond what they were. After all, what future could they have when the truth was finally revealed? It was not worth it, but Ingilmundr was not determined to be rational today.

“My lord.” Ingilmundr smiled faintly at him, extending his hand to Aethelstan, waiting for the prince to sit beside him. “I see you have finally decided to join me. Tell me, are you afraid I will bore you?”

“No, of course not,” Aethelstan murmured, sounding offended by the mere suggestion. His confused eyes followed Ingilmundr’s outstretched hand, sitting beside the false holy man. “I have not been myself recently, and for that I apologize.”

Ingilmundr could not express his surprise at Aethelstan's words. Growing up in the court of Anlaf, surrounded by men even more brutal than his father, kind words, even apologies, were rare, and often just lies used to deceive enemies. But Aethelstan was sincere, Ingilmundr knew it, and he looked so remorseful, his sad eyes staring at the parchments, as if unable to look at Ingilmundr. Or, perhaps, it was not just regret that was making him uncomfortable, desperate to escape his own skin. Then he remembered the queen's words, the mysterious whispers, the secrets she had shared with him. What better time to test that suspicion than now?

“I would not be surprised, actually.” Ingilmundr smiled, looking closely at Aethelstan, his fingers absently running over the parchments. “Where I come from, people were tired of my long monologues. I tend to get overly excited when I find new writings.”

“Do you miss it?” Aethelstan whispered, and Ingilmundr noticed how he followed the movements of his fingers, so intently that he did not notice the Dane staring at him with interest.

Deep down, Ingilmundr knew Aethelstan was thinking of the longing he himself felt. Longing for Rumcofa, longing for Bebbanburg. He longed for a distant life, one that could never be recovered, one that existed only in the memories of his youth. The queen was right, Ingilmundr thought; he was a lonely man, desperately longing for company, for comfort. Slowly, he brought his hand to Aethelstan's back, stroking lightly, carefully, so that the touch would not be perceived as hostile and he would pull away. Aethelstan stiffened, but did not try to push him away.

“Sometimes,” Ingilmundr said, stroking a little harder, and Aethelstan murmured appreciatively. “Some days, though, it is like being freed from a nightmare.”

And, strange as it seemed, he meant it. Ireland would always be his land, and the court of Anlaf is his real home. No place in the world would make him feel more accepted, more protected, than there. Still, he felt like a sham, an impostor among his own people, unable to truly belong, to truly fit in. It would be no different there, of course. He would never be one of the Saxons, no matter how much they believed he had changed, that he had found the path to salvation through Christ. In time, when it was too late, they would discover the truth and send him away, to the gallows, perhaps.

“I am grateful for everything I have here, but sometimes it is too much.” Aethelstan sighed as Ingilmundr's hand rose to near his neck, touching the curls that had fallen there. “And I miss my old life, you know? When I was nobody, and free. Now, people expect a lot of me, they expect me to be like him.”

Like Edward, Ingilmundr supposed. The king, in the Danes' opinion, would wait until it was too late to name the new Aetheling. The people of Wessex, and even Mercia, recognized Aethelstan as the true heir, but it was only whispers and murmurs among themselves, preventing them from reaching the king. All they needed was a small flame to make the people and the ealdormen openly support Aethelstan. And Ingilmundr was willing to be the flame that would burn all of Wessex.

“I imagine the king's health worries you terribly.” Ingilmundr's voice was gentle, silky, like that of a man who wanted nothing more than to comfort. But to the more attentive, it was almost too seductive to be innocent.

Silently, Aethelstan nodded, sighing. So many years had passed since he had left for Wessex, according the rumors, and yet, to Ingilmundr, he still seemed like a little boy desperate to win his father's love. It was not unlike how he felt, trying to prove his loyalty to the Danes, that he could lead them to glory. All he needed was for Aethelstan to trust him completely, heart and mind. Ingilmundr could not let the prince slip away from him again without planting doubts in his mind. Anlaf was due to arrive soon, and Ingilmundr feared what his father would do if he came to him empty-handed.

Slowly, so slowly it was almost torturous, he moved his hand higher, feeling Aethelstan's curls against his fingers as he cupped the back of his neck. He was right, his hair was more, much more softer than he could have imagined. Almost as if it were molded for Ingilmundr to intertwine his fingers there, stroking tenderly as it glided from his fingers repeatedly to his neck, alternating between gentleness and possessiveness. Before he knew it, Ingilmundr began to wonder if Aethelstan had ever been intimate with other people, if he had been capable of letting anyone get so close. And for some reason still unknown to him, a jealous heat welled up in Ingilmundr's chest.

Aethelstan murmured, but Ingilmundr did not understand his words, too focused on the small sighs he let out as he clutched one of the scrolls with unnecessary tightness. When the prince turned, finally facing Ingilmundr, he noticed the confusion in his eyes, the fear too, but something more. It could almost have been curiosity, but it was much more needy, much darker. Then, surprising even Ingilmundr, all he felt was Aethelstan's breath, a second before he pressed his lips against Ingilmundr's. The gods were full of tricks and schemes, and Ingilmundr rarely tried to understand them all. And if this was not the gods' will, then he was ready to face the consequences.

Before reason could take over Aethelstan's mind, Ingilmundr returned the kiss with equal intensity. It was confusing, clumsy, and he doubted now that Aethelstan had ever kissed anyone else before. But they would have time for that, no matter. He would take care of Aethelstan. The prince moaned, and Ingilmundr seized the opportunity, pressing his tongue against his lips, cupping his neck to deepen the kiss. It felt right, it felt like it should always have been, and Ingilmundr could not understand where that thought had come from. He had been with other people, of course he had. Anlaf's men always glanced at him when they thought the Danish king was not looking, and Ingilmundr was more than happy to return the attraction.

But nothing had ever been like this before. Because Aethelstan kissed him slowly but forcefully, as if furious with himself for kissing Ingilmundr. And his lips were gentle, uncertain, and so soft that Ingilmundr lost himself in the kiss, bringing his other hand to Aethelstan's hair and pulling hard, enjoying the prince's abrupt moan. Honestly, he had not expected Aethelstan to kiss him, much less that he would reciprocate his provocation. The queen had warned him, alerted him to Athelstan's affections, but he had not been able to believe her.

In fact, he would never expect that from a God-fearing man, not from a Saxon. But the way Aethelstan explored his mouth, inexperienced but driven by desire, was like a slap in the face to Ingilmundr. The Danes were wrong about Aethelstan in many ways; he had known that from the moment they had met. Nothing could have prepared him for being the target of the affections of King Edward's eldest son, the enemy of his people. But Ingilmundr ignored his thoughts, ignored the voices telling him this was wrong, as he crept closer to Aethelstan, and the chronicle room had never felt as hot as it did now, when he could almost feel the heat of Aethelstan's body.

Abruptly, he pulled his hands away from Aethelstan , only to grip tightly to his robes, dragging the prince even closer, not strong enough to break the kiss. Ingilmundr understood that even if Aethelstan had kissed him, things would not be so easy. He should not press too hard, too far, too reciprocate. But how could he not lose himself in the kiss, when Aethelstan only panted against his lips, and his tongue felt so hot every time it brushed against his? The gods would understand his reluctance to pull away. All of this would help the Danes, Ingilmundr kept repeating as he pulled Aethelstan closer.

As if waking from a reverie, Aethelstan shook his head, his hands going to Ingilmundr's chest as he pushed him away. His pale face was so flushed, and he was so out of breath, that to anyone entering the chronicle room, Aethelstan would have looked miserable. He closed his eyes again, but kept his hand on the Dane's chest, preventing him from approaching. And Ingilmundr suspected he was begging for mercy, desperate to avoid the Creator's punishment for giving in to his own desires.

“I messed things up, I should not have done that.” Aethelstan practically stuttered as he stood awkwardly, turning his back to Ingilmundr. “This is so wrong, and I ask your deepest forgiveness. It will not happen again.”

Aethelstan glanced at him briefly before quickly leaving the room, ignoring Ingilmundr's desperate attempts to call out to him. He had noticed the tears that had begun to stream down Aethelstan's face before he escaped, and he feared this would complicate his plan. But he was not being honest; that was not Ingilmundr's only concern. Uncomfortable, that was what he felt, that Aethelstan had kissed him, only to believe he would be punished for it. What kind of Saxon god was this, that considered being attracted to another person so wrong that it would condemn them to eternity in hell?

Determined not to let those thoughts take root in Aethelstan's mind and delay his advances, he quickly set off to search for him. However, outside the chronicle room, someone was waiting for him, and Ingilmundr only noticed the person when he slammed into them, giving Aethelstan time to escape. Furious, he was ready to rant at the person and chase after the prince, until he noticed the familiarity in the melodic laughter he was hearing. No one else could laugh with such sweetness and malice at the same time as Astrid.

“What do you think you are doing here?” Ingilmundr spat the words angrily, grabbing Astrid’s arm as he dragged her into the chronicle room. “I told you I would look for you when I had enough information.”

“You know, I almost thought you were having more fun than spying, but I must have been mistaken.” Astrid said sarcastically, forcing her older brother to let go of her arm, without ever losing her ironic smile.

Astrid looked so different since they had last spoken, when they arrived in Wessex. Her brown hair, once so adorned with ornaments and jewels, was brushed and tied in a modest little braid. Her clothing was the most surprising. Without all the furs, leather, and armor, she almost looked too ordinary. The gray dress was too simple for someone like her. Then Ingilmundr remembered that he'd met girls dressed exactly like her all over the castle.

“What are you doing here?” Ignoring his sister's insinuations, Ingilmundr rubbing his hand against his face in frustration. “I do not need your help; I am doing just fine.”

“I am sure you will, brother.” Astrid laughed, walking over to Alfred's parchments, noticing that some were crumpled. “And, I am not here for you. But I came to offer my services as a handmaiden to King Edward, and he accepted.” She shrugged, scanning the room carefully, as if searching for something Ingilmundr could not see. “When our father said you should be the one to approach to the heir, I had my doubts. But now I understand.”

Ingilmundr stared at his sister in confusion, noticing how her smile had turned mischievous. Of course, he should have imagined it. Anlaf had spies in every kingdom, in every court, even in his own court in Ireland. If he suspected something about his own son, he would not rest until he found out. And if he already suspected of Ingilmundr, someone must have whispered about the rumors in the Wessex castle about the king's bastard son. He should not have been surprised that Anlaf would send his own son to the enemy kingdom, hoping to gain the Saxons' secrets, even if it meant bedding the king's son.

“Do not try to be modest now,” Astrid said sarcastically, noticing his discomfort. “It is quite obvious to anyone in the castle what a mess the little prince looked like when he left your company.”

“You are wrong,” Ingilmundr murmured, trying to keep his expression neutral, even though it was hard to concentrate when he remembered how warm and soft Aethelstan’s lips had been against his. “He does not even trust me.”

“So, hump him, I do not care," She said nonchalantly. “Just get information, no matter how.”

There were no limits when the Danes' freedom was at stake, and they had all been taught this from childhood. For a long time, Ingilmundr had believed this, blindly accepting orders, no matter how much blood stained his hands. Everything must be done to destroy the Saxons, and principles must never trump loyalty. And he was loyal to his people, to the end.

But that did not change how uncomfortable Astrid's words made him feel, making him almost defend Aethelstan, telling her that was not the path to victory. But she was right, she always was. Aethelstan would not completely trust Ingilmundr until they were so close, so intimate, that they would keep a deep, dark secret from everyone else in Wessex. Sin, he thought, would unite them more than anything. When Astrid smiled, as if reading his thoughts, Ingilmundr knew he would do whatever was necessary for the Danes. But he was confident he would enjoy every minute of it.

It had snowed all night, and the heat from the flames seemed paltry compared to the cruel cold that forced its way into the house, and into their garments. Perhaps, the weather was no less cruel to those who ruled over others. Considered as Anlaf's heir, Ingilmundr did not feel like a prince; quite the opposite, he was tired of Ireland. Of the constant cold, of the pleasant but tedious lands. Of the people who were always seeking him out, begging for favors, imploring him to speak to the king on their behalf. In truth, he was tired of being there, with all of them.

It was not that he disliked those people; he loved them. They were his people, part of his kingdom. He cared for each of them, remembered their stories. But sometimes it was too much to bear. Yet, Ingilmundr knew what was expected of him. Leaving, abandoning his destiny, was not an option. It would not be honorable, and he would never abandon honor. Living in comfort but without honor, without glory, was worse than death. So, perhaps that was what motivated him that night, when one of the king's men burst in, shouting desperately for Anlaf. Despite his efforts to know each of Anlaf's spies, warriors, and servants, he did not think he had ever seen this man before.

Strangely, he almost seemed Saxon, though the king never mixed with enemy peoples. Ingilmundr watched as he bowed briefly before rushing to Anlaf's chambers, elated. What good was being the heir, he often thought, if his father would not let him be present when the plans were being made? Frustrated, he sighed, poking at the flames, pulling his furs tighter around him in the foolish hope of warding off the chill. A glorious, unexpected scream startled him, and he looked around, trying to figure out if they were being attacked or celebrating. It was not long before the unknown man appeared again, smiling excitedly as he departed their home.

“Ingilmundr.” He heard Anlaf call, in the distance, and it sounded very much like an order for him not to heed his father’s call.

Walking reluctantly to Anlaf's chambers, he noticed uneasily that Astrid was already there. Astrid was only three years younger than him, and yet, she was his father's favorite. The people could call Ingilmundr his heir all they wanted, but deep down, he knew Anlaf would choose Astrid over him, if necessary. But he was not furious, not with her, at least. Because he knew how much she had suffered, how much she had tried to become everything their father expected of them, ever since their mother's death. They did not speak of her, especially not in Anlaf's presence. Almost ten years had passed since her death, and they were still forbidden to even mention her name. No matter how many free women, how many slaves, Anlaf brought into their home, they would never replace the loss of his wife, and they all knew it, even if they did not dare admit such weakness.

“Yes, my lord,” Ingilmundr said respectfully, as he looked away towards to his sister.

When he was not sure what Anlaf expected of them, he watched Astrid. She was much closer to him than Ingilmundr ever was, and she always seemed to know when something was wrong. But that did not seem to be the case, not this time, because when her eyes met his, she smiled at him mischievously, content to keep a secret he had not yet managed to uncover on his own. Well, it was not as if he really had any way of knowing. The one time he had eavesdropped on Anlaf's door, the result had not been pleasant, and he still had the mark on his thigh where his father had stabbed him, so many years ago.

“We have news from Wessex,” Anlaf said, with a wolfish smile that always made the hairs on Ingilmundr's body stand on end. That smile often accompanied battles, and he was tired of losing people because nothing seemed to be enough for Anlaf. “It seems our beloved King Edward is not doing so well.”

“Is the king ill?” Ingilmundr asked curiously. Everyone in Ireland knew the stories about King Edward, and how close he was to forging the England the Saxons dreamed of.

Edward was still a young king; it was no surprise that everyone dreamed of King Alfred's greatest wish. Perhaps, the Saxons used to say, it would be his son who would lead them to glory, but noticing the joy on Anlaf's face, Ingilmundr was certain Edward would not survive long enough to achieve that dream. Not that it mattered much to them, of course; the Saxons were always chasing impossible dreams and proclaiming they had been given the mission by God himself. All lies, in his opinion, and a foolish way to rid themself of guilt and greed.

“The Saxons are trying to contain the rumors, but people are talking.” He smiled, rising to his feet, walking toward Ingilmundr. Standing beside Anlaf, Astrid had an unusual gleam in her eyes, almost as if she were about to charge into battle. “The king's condition is delicate, and he is in no real danger. But the healers say it is only a matter of time before he succumbs to the disease.”

War would break out in Wessex, even Ingilmundr could understand that. The Saxons seemed obsessed with warring among themselves every time a king died. He did not know much about King Edward's heirs, only that he had three sons. Not that he would admit it to his father, because Anlaf would chastise him for not having dedicated himself to learning enough about his enemies, but he did not care about enemies so far away. They were safe in Ireland, and they were too powerful to worry about a single Saxon king.

“We are leaving, then, I suppose,” Ingilmundr murmured, hoping this was the answer his father was hoping for. Honestly, he did not give a damn what would happen when King Edward died.

“Rest assured, we are,” Astrid said euphorically, smiling. Anlaf nodded, pleased with his daughter's warrior enthusiasm, while looking disinterestedly at Ingilmundr. “We will leave before the next full moon.”

“So soon?” Confused, Ingilmundr noticed they were looking at him suspiciously, as if they could not believe he was excited about this news. “How are we going to be ready by then? It is only three days away.”

Anlaf stared at Astrid, who nodded respectfully as she left the two men alone in the chambers. If preparations were already underway, of course it would be Astrid, not he, who would give the orders to the men, summoning the warriors to battle. He wanted to feel jealous, envious, whatever, if it proved he cared about their departure. Ingilmundr, yes, cared about the Danes, his people, and wanted them to live in peace, without being hunted and destroyed by the Christians, but he was not particularly happy about leaving for rainy, cloudy Wessex.

“We are ready.” Anlaf quipped, approaching his son. His furious, warlike aura often frightened the bravest of warriors, and Ingilmundr was no different. “And I have a special task for you. We will not go to Wessex together. You must leave tonight.”

Ingilmundr stifled the denial that nearly escaped his lips. An hour ago, he had been told he was not fit to command the Danes, and now he was supposed to set off for Wessex? That strange, unknown man, so much like a Saxon, must have told Anlaf something that truly secured their victory. Something, Ingilmundr thought, observing his father's neutral yet furious expression, that he would not tell his own son. But he knew better than to demand an answer, an explanation for what was being imposed on him. Warriors did not dispute orders; they followed them.

“I am honored to have been chosen, my lord,” Ingilmundr whispered.

“Astrid will accompany you, and she will have her own journey into Saxon lands,” Anlaf said magnanimously, paying no attention to his son's discomfort. In war, the weakest never lasted long; it was time for Ingilmundr to decide if he was worthy of his Danish blood. “She will tell you when the time is right. In the meantime, you must set out for Wessex and infiltrate King Edward's court.”

It was a joke, was not it? Ingilmundr did not look nearly enough like a Saxon to convince the people he belonged there, let alone be present in the king's own court. There was something far more important, far more interesting, that Anlaf was deliberately hiding from him. An element of surprise, one he would not let slip until Ingilmundr proved himself worthy, until his father believed he was worthy of this mission. After all, was he? He had to be; he was the son of a king, heir to a people, even if the Saxons did not see him that way. He needed to show he was worthy of Anlaf, worthy of Valhalla.

“How shall I make the Saxons trust me?” The moment those words escaped Ingilmundr’s lips, he regretted it. May the gods protect him from Anlaf’s wrath.

He remained silent, even as Anlaf struck him hard across the face, and he could feel the blood trickling down his lips. This was how things had been since he was very young, and there was no reason to start questioning his father's teachings now. Brutality and fury were things learned early in Anlaf's court. Ireland was not a land for the weak, and Ingilmundr would prove to his father, no matter the cost, that he was his heir, that he should be chosen, when the time came. Let it begin like this, then, Ingilmundr thought, swallowing reluctantly. He would not spit at Anlaf's feet, not at all.

“Kings do not question, Ingilmundr!” Anlaf roared, striking him again, just so his words would be properly received. “What is the point of a son if he is of no use.”

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Ingilmundr said resolutely, his eyes downcast. “Please tell me my mission, and I swear to you, by Odin, that I will lead our people to glory.”

Slowly, like a predator analyzing his prey, Anlaf stared at Ingilmundr. The king of Ireland was a man of many faces, Ingilmundr thought. The Viking warrior, the Danish king, the nightmare in the night, and the proud father. At least, that was what Ingilmundr hoped his father was feeling when he smiled at him, his son's blood still dripping from his hand. Turning away from him, Anlaf walked to the back of the chambers, rummaging through an old chest. His mother's chest, Ingilmundr thought uneasily. All her belongings had long since been discarded, as if she were a memory unworthy of keeping. Only Anlaf's old weapons and war spoils remained. And, foolishly, Ingilmundr wondered if storing treasures there was the only way Anlaf had found to honor the memory he so desperately tried to forget.

But he would not be so reckless as to question what his father was looking for, so he waited, uneasily, as the sound of weapons falling to the ground did nothing but disturb what little peace he had left. It took almost an eternity, or so it seemed to Ingilmundr, for the king to find what he was looking for. How many treasures could fit in a single chest? However, what rested in Anlaf's hands did not resemble treasure; on the contrary, it was nothing more than a Saxon relic in the eyes of the Danes. The worn cross, attached to an even more worn chain, in Anlaf's hand seemed to have belonged to some kind of priest, or bishop, and must have been as old as Anlaf himself. Curious, he approached his father, wondering why Anlaf had kept the necklace. Spoils of war filled the king's court, but Christian relics rarely lasted long before being sold. He did not understand why he would keep something so worthless.

“Aelfweard, the king's heir, is still considered a traitor among the Saxons and Edward's sycophants, though he seeks ealdormen willing to support his claim,” Anlaf said, to which Ingilmundr merely nodded. When his father began his long speeches, he knew there was no point in trying to stop him, or the sermons would be even worse. “The king has no choice but to choose a new Aetheling. And it is your mission to find out who that will be.”

Confused, Ingilmundr stared at his father. There was no doubt about who would truly rule when the king passed away, was there? Aelfweard was the king's son by his first legitimate wife, and if he was not deemed worthy of inheriting the throne, then Edmund would have to take the throne. He was the son of his third wife, and the one he loved most, according to rumors. However, he soon understood his father's enigmatic words. Because there was indeed another heir. An heir almost forgotten, due to the rumors and malicious whispers about his bastardy. Something Ingilmundr never understood, that was a fact. Royal lines were built on illegitimacy; it was foolish to pretend that was a problem now.

“I will depart for Wessex as you command, my lord.” Ingilmundr nodded obediently as he accepted the cross Anlaf held out to him, confused but shrewd enough not to show it. “What sort of spy must I be, if I may ask?”

“A holy man, my son,” Anlaf quipped, pleased with the disgust on Ingilmundr's pale face. He was a king, a warrior, a Viking. He would never allow his children to follow another faith. It was better to have no children than to have Christian children. “They say the king's favorite son, Aethelstan, is very devoted to his faith and spends most of his time in Mercia, commanding his late aunt's troops. If the spies are right, and I know they are, he is the best candidate to take the throne.”

The bastard, then, Ingilmundr thought. And though he did not voice his doubts, he knew deep down that there was no point in searching for the king's third son. Edmund, as far as he knew, was too young to assume the throne. Too innocent and sheltered to do what was necessary to become the next king. Edmund would not fight his brothers, not for the crown, not for the throne. The warrior who would need to stain his hands with blood was not yet in him. In time, he thought, everyone would learn that there is no escape from the blood of battle.

Aethelstan, yes, was the most likely option. Ingilmundr would not risk their precious time trying to convince a boy while the true heir was there. All this, he told Anlaf, as he listened to the plans. After discovering who would be named heir, he was to gain his trust and poison the Saxons against each other. But only when the king was dead and the heir on the throne. Edward was no fool, much less pious, and they had not relied on his illness to believe a king like him was easily influenced. No, he needed to be dead, but that did not stop the plan from being slowly executed. So, when Ingilmundr expressed his greater suspicion of Aethelstan, Anlaf seemed genuinely impressed that he understood everything. Ingilmundr hated it when his father acted like he was a fool.

He would search for Aethelstan when they arrived in Wessex, they had agreed, but Anlaf had a warning for him. Rumors about the Saxons had reached far and wide, as had the fame of the great warrior Uhtred, who, according to Anlaf, had almost been a father to the bastard. If he were nearby, Ingilmundr would have to be careful. He would not be so easily fooled if the Dane was at his side. And, of course, he needed to carefully devise a disguise so that not even Uhtred would see through his deception. His father would not help him with that, he soon realized, as he accompanied Astrid to where the boats awaited them. Perhaps, never to return to Ireland.

That night, the gods smiled upon him, and Astrid was excited to share the plan she had devised for Ingilmundr. Though they were not close, and most of the time, his sister was not pleasant company, Ingilmundr enjoyed being around her. It seemed less scary, less risky, to set off for Wessex with her. Astrid always seemed to know what to do, like now, as she explained how he could deceive Uhtred without arousing suspicion. Even though Ingilmundr did not like the persona he was supposed to portray, it made sense; even he could not deny that the plan made sense. All he had to do was trust her, and that is what he did as he walked to Wintanceaster.

The journey had been long, uncomfortable, and filled with anxiety, but he was here, now. There was no turning back, and he could not fail with Anlaf, with his people. So, he walked the streets of Wessex, dressed in simple, worn, and ancient clothes, to demonstrate that he was nothing but a man who lived for God. A man who came from nothing, who was nothing, but who would rise in status over time. It was easier to trust men who had nothing, Astrid had said, and he hated to admit how right she was. As always. When he finally glimpsed the jewel of Wessex, where the mighty Edward lay, he knew it was the right moment. The moment he had waited for to prove himself as worthy as any warrior of Anlaf.

Two young girls promised to take him to Father Isaac, who was awaiting the arrival of royal guests at the castle. Gratefully, Ingilmundr was led to the guards guarding the entrance. It was not uncommon for them to receive pilgrims and holy men, but even a murderer could hide in holy robes, and Ingilmundr suppressed a smile at the irony as he was escorted into the castle. Wessex was nothing like he had imagined. Rumors had made him fear he was entering a Christian paradise, but it was merely an ordinary kingdom. But bitterly, he was forced to realize that it seemed far more welcoming, more comfortable, than the somber court he had left behind.

“The king is not well, so you will only be able to speak with him briefly,” Father Isaac said, accompanying Ingilmundr. He seemed very pleased with his presence, though he kept casting suspicious glances at him.

Before they left Ireland, Ingilmundr accepted Astrid's help and let her cut his dark hair to the Saxon length. He had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, as the brown strands fell to the ground. He accepted the clothes handed to him upon disembarking, hating every last one of them. How could they endure the winter in such scanty clothing? It made no sense, but when he looked at Astrid, as changed as he was, he smiled contentedly at his sister. They almost looked like real Saxons, but only almost. And that was what he was beginning to notice about Father Isaac, which was arousing his suspicions.

“All I ask is the opportunity to read King Alfred’s chronicles,” Ingilmundr said, like a true supplicant, and the priest’s smile only proved that even men of faith appreciate flattery.

The castle seemed very silent, almost empty, as they walked through the partially lit corridors. The candles cast an almost ghostly glow over the castle, so different from the court where Ingilmundr had grown up. But he could not allow himself to be lost in memories of the past, not now, as he stood before the throne room as Father Isaac announced his arrival. Reluctantly, feigning shyness, he walked toward the king and bowed. Whoever Anlaf's spy was must be truly trustworthy, because to Ingilmundr, Edward did not look like a dying man, close to death.

Alfred, however, had ruled for many years in illness, as Ingilmundr had heard. The blood of the House of Wessex was indeed strong, and they were not enemies to be faced lightly. Ingilmundr noticed that the seats beside him were empty, and he wondered where the queen and their son were, or, above all, where the true purpose of Ingilmundr's mission might lie. He let the priest speak, telling him how he was a man of God, who hoped to learn Alfred's chronicles and carry the Creator's word to all the kingdoms.

“Tell me, Ingilmundr, what specifically made you come to Wessex?” Edward asked, but he did not seem really suspicious, as if the illness took a toll on him.

“My king,” Ingilmundr said, standing before the king respectfully. “I am nothing but a man born in sin. You see, I was born a Dane, but I lost my parents early in life to war, and I wandered alone for a long time, until a merciful monk found me and cared for me until I came of age.”

Those words were nothing but lies, but Astrid was a true storyteller. When she told Ingilmundr the story she had fabricated, he was impressed by her creativity and pleased to learn that the Saxons loved stories about poor Danes who found salvation through Christ. He just had not expected those lies to be so difficult, so unpleasant to tell. Ingilmundr did not want to be a man of God, and he despised the Saxons' beliefs, but everyone had to make sacrifices, and this was his.

“He promised to care for me, even if I did not choose God's path, as long as I accompanied him to Rome for the pilgrimage.” Edward listened eagerly, but he did not seem truly convinced, but Ingilmundr knew how to win the king's trust. “In Rome, I learned of the works of a Christian, by a son of a pagan, Uhtred, who is said to have been born in these lands. At that moment, I heard the Lord's call and accepted it.”

Ingilmundr knew of the silent conflict between Uhtred and King Edward. But he knew he could trust the warrior, despite everything. Meeting Uhtred's son was like receiving the keys to the kingdom, and Ingilmundr knew it. The king's demeanor quickly changed, and he acted as if he had known Ingilmundr all his life. When the king invited him to dinner, he humbly accepted, promising he would not be a nuisance at court and that he could even help the king if he wanted a few words from the Bible while he was there.

“My son, Aethelstan, returned this morning from Mercia. He is very attached to it, having spent time with his aunt there when he was younger,” Edward said, accepting the goblet of wine placed before him. “He is a great warrior, and my wife begged him to return. She is quite close to him, you see, and she feels most protected when he is here.”

“I have heard many good things about your son, Your Majesty,” Ingilmundr lied. He had barely known who Aethelstan was until Anlaf decided they should leave, but the answer seemed to have pleased the king.

“Aethelstan is a good boy, but he is been very lonely since we left Northumbria,” The king muttered, clearly still furious at Uhtred's choice not to swear the lands to him. Ingilmundr could use that. “Share your studies with him; I am sure you will get along well.”

Before Ingilmundr could think of a cordial response, Edward demanded that the guards fetch Aethelstan. Ingilmundr was curious, wondering why the king had chosen to dine alone with him rather than with his family. Perhaps, he was still evaluating whether Ingilmundr was worthy of his trust. But he thought he had earned the king's trust when the guard returned, announcing the arrival of the king's eldest son. It was time to meet the Aetheling, after all.

“Aethelstan, this is Lord Ingilmundr, he will be spending time with us in Wessex,” Edward said, beckoning his son closer.

May Odin have mercy on him, for Ingilmundr knew the plan could be destroyed at that very moment. Aethelstan approached, sitting on the king's right, briefly greeting Ingilmundr as he waited for the king to continue telling his story. And Ingilmundr had to grip the cup tighter as he drank the wine for what seemed like an eternity. But he was not thinking rationally. Aethelstan was everything the Danes had said he was. The King Edward's bastard, the warrior son. Majesty, despite all the rumors, emanated from him, and there was no doubt that he would be chosen by the king when the time came. However, Aethelstan was also everything Ingilmundr had not expected of him.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Ingilmundr,” Aethelstan said, and the softness of his voice was too painful for the Dane, who nodded, unable to respond.

Honestly, Ingilmundr expected to find an arrogant and spoiled prince, but he was anything but. Aethelstan, with pale, delicate cheeks, looked more like a man of faith than a warrior, but Ingilmundr had known enough wolves to know that the weakest were always the most dangerous. Aethelstan's brown curls, Ingilmundr noticed curiously, were bound with several strands of gold, making him look even more heavenly. Indeed, he seemed like one of the angels Ingilmundr had seen depicted in church stained-glass windows. A temptation of the devil, he thought, to bring down the weak.

“Aethelstan,” The king muttered, but his fury was evident to all present. “What have I ever told you? Take it away, now, Aethelstan.”

“Yes, father,” Aethelstan whispered, not once looking at Ingilmundr.

An unpleasant taste filled Ingilmundr's mouth as he noted the familiarity with which Aethelstan held himself toward the king. For even though he was a bastard, a son estranged from the court, he seemed far closer to Edward than Ingilmundr had ever been to Anlaf. And for a moment, he could not comprehend the discomfort he felt as Aethelstan silently removed the gold strands from his hair, his gaze fixed on the cup before him. But he did not seem embarrassed, at least not much, which made Ingilmundr wonder how many times they had been in this situation before.

“While Ingilmundr is in Wessex studying your grandfather's chronicles, I want you to keep him company,” Edward said, calmer, as if suddenly regaining his composure. “You already know the art of war; it is time to understand the true teachings of Christ.”

“Of course, father.” Aethelstan nodded, finally looking in Ingilmundr’s direction.

And for a second, Ingilmundr thought he was in Valhalla. The Saxon prince's eyes were deep and alluring, and all of Freya's blessings seemed contained there. Aethelstan, Ingilmundr thought, seemed curious about him, keeping his hands restlessly on the table in a failed attempt not to show to the king that he wanted to say more. There would be time for more, Ingilmundr thought, his gaze never leaving Aethelstan's, as if hypnotized, as if unable to look anywhere but where Aethelstan stood. And if the prince was uncomfortable with the intensity with which the Dane was staring, he did not show it.

“It is decided, then.” Edward smiled, briefly reaching for Aethelstan's shoulder and stroking it. “I have no doubt you will enjoy the company of a true scholar.”

God is good, as the Saxons say, Ingilmundr thought. Smiling at the king, he raised his cup in a brief toast. Yes, he would deeply enjoy Aethelstan's company and uncover all the secrets the Saxons held in their hearts so they could find defeat by their own swords. At least, that was what he chose to believe, noticing the brief smile Aethelstan gave him before looking away.

God bless the toxic gays.

Chapters:

Untouched Prayers. (Part I) When news of King Edward's failing health reaches Ireland, it's time for Anlaf to seek allies to defeat the Saxons and those who dream of England. To ensure their victory, he sends Ingilmundr to Wessex with a mission: to find the Aetheling and drive the Saxons back. Little did Ingilmundr know that Aethelstan was everything he had not expected, yet everything he had always dreamed of conquering.

Bloody Sins. (Part II) Accustomed to perpetual solitude in Wessex, Aethelstan finds himself increasingly enjoying the company of Ingilmundr, who seems determined to learn more and more about him, while, like the serpent that circles Midgard, he burrows his way into the prince's unsuspecting heart.