Chapter Text
The North Atlantic. Year 895.
There was a time, a simpler time, when the young prince Amleth wouldn't have considered scratching another man. The bloody wars and battles the ten-year-old dreamed about weren't real, they were just amusing tournaments for the old and wise he admired and wished to be like. The old and wise like his father, King Aurvandill.
Queen Gudrún had always been cold to her son, a boy practically raised by nannies, guards, and tutors, most of them slaves or servants. The tall, beautiful woman of big, dark blue eyes and long, golden blonde hair that reached her knees wasn't necessarily mean, but she would only interact with her child when strictly necessary, often throwing short glares in his direction at times when he acted a bit more mischievously than was acceptable to her liking. Amleth still loved her. He lived for those small moments when his mother would be kinder to him than usual, softer than usual, when she would smile at him for doing well in his lessons or caress his cheek with what he didn't suspect was feigned fondness. He strived every day to bring about one of those sweet gestures from her, to please her. One day, the child thought, he would become the greatest warrior king who ever lived and make his mother proud to call him son.
King Aurvandil was different, easier. He was nothing less than the perfect father to Amleth. Playful, kind, attentive, and very gentle. Firm only when teaching his boy how to use an ax or a sword. But he was also absent, a warrior who spent most of his time fighting for his kingdom against foreign lands, bringing back slaves, loot, and glory to the small domain of Hrafnsey, the tiny island on the North Atlantic Ocean that he presided over.
Despite always waiting impatiently for Aurvandill's return, the innocent young Amleth didn't resent his father's long absences. After all, the reason he was often away was also the reason the boy idolized him.
The last day Aurvandil returned from war was cloudy and airy, so the wooden longships moved quickly, the wind easily pushing the red and white striped sails forward, to one of the many rocky cliffs of Hrafnsey. Located between Scotland and Norway, the petty kingdom consisted of a few wooden cabins mostly inhabited by fishermen, but a big citadel likewise stood on top of the highest ridge, conveying wealth and power despite also being mostly made of wood.
“He is here!” The ten-year-old Amleth exclaimed, eyes full of wonder. Wearing woolen blue trousers, a red robe woven with very intricate yellow, red, and blue patterns, a light brown cloak, a silver dragon band on his chest, and a beautiful hat trimmed in fur on top of his light blond hair, the little blue-eyed prince was displaying all benchmarks of wealth. He wasn't fully aware of the effect he produced yet though, for he often played with the slaves, the servants, his father's men, and all of their children, oblivious to his own position except when it came to imagining his future as the ruler of Hrafnsey, an idea that often merely served as a game to play with the other youths.
“Mother, father is here!” Amleth opened the wooden door with metal studs that led to his mother's chambers. He found Gudrún half-dressed, her maids only midway through lowering her undergown. The queen turned around immediately.
“Never enter my chambers without an invitation!” She scolded the child harshly. Gudrún was only 24 years old and had been merely four years older than Amleth was now on the day of his birth. Because of this, she treated him more like an annoying little brother than a son. Likewise, the knowledge that she was his mother was the only thing keeping the boy from developing an innocent, childish crush on her as he had on one of the maids, another young lady of outshining beauty who barely ever spoke to him. Both women had big eyes, high cheekbones, long hair, and upturned noses, although that is where the similarities ended. The maid had never scowled at him or rejected any of his flowers.
Amleth didn't react to his mother's understandable irritation at first, he was used to it, but his expression changed, suddenly conveying fear, when she swung her arm as if intending to hit him. She had never done that before.
The young prince was saved from the strike when a maid confirmed that King Aurvandil had indeed arrived. Gudrún’s expression softened, and Amleth was rewarded with a gentle pat on the cheek. What almost had occurred was soon forgotten.
With his round shield tied behind his back, an iron helmet protecting his head, and a fur cloak covering his back, King Aurvandil rode into the fortress followed by his similarly attired men, some of whom carried the red banner of his kingdom. The slaves captured during the raid walked behind them, chains around their necks.
A feast to celebrate the king’s arrival commenced. The whole court was there, and so were Aurvandil's men, wearing their best garments. The king himself was wearing his finest furs and a golden metal band around his forehead, signaling him as the island’s ruler. Queen Gudrún was wearing a long dress of many layers, each dyed a different color. The skirt and sleeves were different shades of red, and her chest was decorated with a marigold forecloth reaching the top of her knees. Her red cloak had a light brown fur edge, and her neck and chest were decorated with big gold brass brooches and glass beads.
Gudrún’s golden hair was split into two long braids that fell down her stomach, and the top of her head was adorned by a net of golden beads, the biggest of which were round ornaments that fell over her forehead in a horizontal line.
She looked every bit of the queen she was. King Aurvandil wouldn't have been pleased with anything less.
The family sat before the other guests, King Aurvandil at the center on a beautifully carved wooden throne. His hair was dark brown, but it was already begging to show signs of gray. Prince Amleth sat to his right, and Queen Gudrún sat at the left.
The loot taken was presented to the ruler, who gave his son a new necklace stolen from a prince, another prince. Amleth had enjoyed every bit of attention received from his father since his arrival. He had been hugged more times than he had in a week. There was no one in the whole world that the ten-year-old loved more than his father.
Dressed in a relatively more modest dark gray cloak, Fjölnir arrived shortly after the festivity began, accompanied by his big, gray dog, which looked more like a wolf than any domesticated animal. The black-haired man was the king's younger brother, and he was initially received as such, warmly, with due respect. That was until a loud, mocking voice rang throughout the big hall where the encounter was taking place.
“Look how the queen’s cup grows wet for more men than her king!” It was Heimir, the jester seer of King Aurvandil's court. He had once prophecized that Amleth would go to Valhalla after fighting and dying for revenge at the foot of a fiery volcano. Amleth truly liked the funny fellow who often made him laugh, and he liked his prophecies even more. The boy hoped they were accurate, that he would end up fighting and feasting in Valhalla, the majestic hall located in Asgard and presided over by the god Odin. Half of those who died in combat were said to enter Valhalla, where they spent their days fighting just for fun, immune from permanent injuries, and their nights feasting on freshly killed boar.
Heimir was dressed in what were rags when compared to the rest of the guests’ attires. Brown robes and trousers, old leather boots, and a ridiculous-looking horned hat. He was impish and old-looking, with long white hair and a half-shaved beard, and his eyes were big and bulging, one green and the other one brown.
The naive and sheltered Amleth didn't quite understand the implication or double meaning of what his father's eccentric friend had just joked about, but his uncle Fjölnir most definitely had.
The jester continued to make jokes at Fjölnir and Queen Gudrún’s expense, implying that they had committed adultery together. Eventually, the king's brother snapped and tried to insult the jester back. An ugly quarrel would have ensued if King Aurvandil hadn't defused the tension by reminding his brother of his beautiful son Thórir, a few months old. The fat and healthy-looking baby was brought in by a nurse, making the proud father beam. He had momentarily forgotten his grievances.
Prince Amleth was also beaming at his cousin. The ten-year-old couldn't help being fond of babies and more than once had been told to stay away from the nursery. His uncle Fjölnir was as emotionally distant from him as his mother Gudrún was, but he had never betrayed any ill feelings towards his nephew. This was enough for Amleth to often experience a sort of unquestioning, unspoken affection for his uncle.
Fjölnir toasted for his son and then for his brother, the War Raven King Aurvandil. Encouraged, Amleth wasn't shy about toasting for the kingdom of Hrafnsey by raising his horn and exclaiming: “Skål!”
For a brief, happy moment, Amleth felt as close to everyone in his kingdom as he had always felt to his father. He even felt connected to his mother and uncle.
Oo
Having been seriously wounded in battle and only narrowly survived, King Aurvandil had almost named Amleth his successor. He thanked the gods for sparing him, because despite longing to die fighting, he knew that Amleth wasn't ready to rule. The prince was too innocent, too gullible, and Aurvandil had seen love in his eyes, an almost genuine affection for everyone around him, even those known by some to despise and envy the ruling family.
Amleth had only witnessed the act of killing at funerals, and he could not afford such naivete, not in the world he lived in. King Aurvandil's grandfather had claimed the throne after killing his uncle, and who was to say Amleth wouldn't have to deal with a similarly power-thirsty pretender?
Aurvandil's close encounter with death had made him aware of his own mortality. Amleth needed to lose his innocence, because his father wouldn't be there for him forever.
Oo
King Aurvandil and his son Amleth entered Odin’s temple, a tall, isolated, and triangle-shaped wooden lodge in the middle of the woods known as the Odinshof. The king had told his son that he had also been initiated into the cult of Odin through the same rite they were about to partake in.
The boy was both frightened and enamored by what he encountered inside the temple. Priestesses with braided hair who wore long, light gray robes and veils sang special chants said to have been created by Odin. The women took the king and the prince's weapons as they walked inside, where they were prohibited. They also presented the king with a bowl full of blood he then proceeded to dip the golden bracelet he was wearing into. Amleth tried to conceal his open-mouthed and fearful expression when his wide eyes met those of his father, who showed no such weakness. The fear persisted though, even while hidden. For a moment, the idea that his father planned to sacrifice him had crossed the child's mind, terrifying him, but he had suppressed the urge to run away from the temple screaming like a little girl. Human sacrifices were rare among his people and mostly performed during times of crisis. Those were the silly thoughts of a stupid little boy, and he was becoming a man.
Several tall, wooden statues stood along each side of the temple, representing different gods. Thor, easily identifiable by his hammer, was among them. At the back and center of the room stood the biggest figure, a stone sculpture portraying a one-eyed, bearded man sitting on a throne with two ravens above his head.
“Odin!” Amleth exclaimed in awe. The look one of the priestesses directed at him made him realize his mistake. He had to be silent.
Prince Amleth and King Aurvandil went down to the basement of the temple, where whatever remained of the boy's fear disappeared the moment his father started encouraging him to follow his lead and act like a wolf. That wasn't scary, that was child's play, that was fun. That was imitating Odin, who had descended to hell in order to obtain wisdom and lost his eye for it. Stripped down to their undergarments, father and son barked and walked on their knees and palms all the way to an underground fireplace, where their friend Heimir waited for them, also half naked. The jester gave them a strange beverage served to them on bowls to drink without using their hands, as dogs would. This liquid was said to provide people with knowledge. Unbeknownst to the child, he had just consumed a potent hallucinogenic. Soon enough, he and his father would be devoured by a frenzy, an Odinic frenzy.
They started acting even sillier. To gain knowledge and be great they had to degrade themselves. Sometimes they were wolves, sometimes they repeated everything Heimir said, the wisdom he imparted. Odin’s wisdom, the god's highest value. How to be more than dogs or wolves, how to be men. How to be honorable, live and die in honor.
They were warned about the seeking knowledge of women. Three women. The Norns and their knowledge of fate.
The Norns were said to be the three goddesses responsible for shaping the course of human destinies. They spun the thread of fate, which could not be changed, and tended to the world tree, the center of the universe connecting heaven, Earth, and hell. The knowledge of the Norns could not be sought. One had to live through whatever they spun for you. One could not escape fate.
Prince Amleth saw many scary things, the order of which he would always struggle to remember, but he did well hiding his anxiety from his father and Heimir, or at least he tried to. Many of the things the young boy saw he would not now for years to come whether they had been real or imagined.
He was made to swear an oath on King Aurvandil's golden arm ring, a decoration representing wealth, power, and kinship. The child was, at least, certain of this, that he had sworn to protect his family and avenge his father if he were to be killed. He did so fiercely, with the sincerity and conviction only a naive young boy who deeply and devotedly loved his favorite parent could truly possess, but he also did so without knowing that he would actually have to fulfill his oath, that real and not only hypothetical tragedy awaited him.
Amleth was forced to touch his father's bloody wound as he whined and squirmed back pathetically. The king had needed to emphasize the importance of the blood they shared. And there, inside Aurvandil's chest, was a tree where his and his son’s ancestors hung from the branches, all of them kings said to be descendants of Odin, connected through blood for centuries.
The boy shed several tears during his initiation. Heimir caught one of them and told him that it was the last tear he would ever shed out of weakness, that it would only be given back to him when he most needed it. For years, Amleth would try to make this prophecy real, to hold back any further tears after that last one, as a man would, but they would escape his eyes sometimes nonetheless, especially at night, when he wouldn't be awake to wipe them away before they fell and then pretend that they hadn't been there at all.
Oo
Fully armed again and dressed in the dark gray and blue robes, trousers, and cloaks that they had initially entered the temple with, Aurvandil and his son Amleth left the sacred building. It was starting to snow, so the delighted little Amleth opened his mouth and tried to catch a few snowflakes with his tongue. Had Aurvandil seen this, he would have worried about the manhood rite of passage having had no immediate effect on the childlike nature of his son, but he didn't see it. The first arrow of Fjölnir’s ambush pierced him before he could witness his boy's last moment of innocence.
Oo
Aurvandil tried to use his sword to defend himself, but it was useless against the second and third arrows. He had to compel Amleth to run, for the child had tried shielding him with his body following the first wave of the ambush. The last thing the king would ever feel for his boy was pride.
Amleth was forced to watch helplessly from behind a rock as his father was surrounded by several horses, ridden by his uncle's accomplices. The king was then stabbed with spears and swords as he cursed and called his brother Fjölnir a bastard and a half-breed.
But what tormented the young prince more than anything else was the moment Fjölnir removed his helmet, revealing his treachery right before dealing the final blow. The world turned upside down, no longer making sense. That was his uncle, his distant, not very talkative uncle, but his uncle nonetheless. His father's brother. And his father was dead.
It didn't take long before Amleth heard the men calling for his death as well, so he ran, tears escaping his eyes without him knowing. Curiously enough, he didn't fear death, because he knew his fate lay elsewhere. What he feared was life now that he would never again see his father or be held in his arms. And what would become of him and his mother without a home? Fjölnir was the king now, so everyone would be hunting for them. Where would they live?
Oo
Amleth remained hidden amidst fallen trees for a few seconds, and only when he thought that all of his uncle’s men were searching for him elsewhere did he decide to come out slowly. Doing so was a huge mistake.
An awful-smelling man wearing black rags caught the boy by surprise, grabbing and tackling him to the ground before implying that he would enjoy killing him very much. Trapped underneath the sadistic man’s weight, Amleth did fear for his life, but only for an instant before noticing that his attacker had been careless enough to let one of his arms roam free.
As his heart began beating faster than it ever had, the young prince first thought of using his free limb to hit the man in the face. Simple, the child thought quickly, but likely ineffective. Then he remembered the knife inside his pocket, the one the priestesses had temporarily taken from him upon entering Odin’s temple.
Amleth's would-be murderer lost his nose that day. The boy hadn’t actually intended to mutilate the man outright, he had merely used the knife to strike back at his attacker with all of the strength he could muster, intense fear driving his every movement.
But Amleth hadn't cared about whether his actions would hurt or kill the man either, much less stepped back to look at the damage done to him. He had transformed, changed from a meek mouse who would not hurt a fly into a dangerous creature willing to do whatever it took to survive, a wolf.
The ten-year-old kept running, encountering on his way signs of struggle, signs that his uncle's men had been there. He found dead villagers on the road, probably those who had resisted his uncle's coup or the looting that had followed, and saw a young peasant girl die after being shot by an arrow. He felt so very sorry for her, thinking bitterly about how his father would have never done that to his own people. But Aurvandill was gone, and Amleth had to run. He could do nothing to help those peasants, nothing at all. He was too small. He had to look for his mother and find her before his uncle did. His mother would, for once, be so pleased to see him. She would hug him, she would smile at him, she would pat his cheek, she would comfort him… they. They would have to comfort each other. He was a man now.
So he kept running, hiding. On the ground of an empty farm Amleth found a red blanket that had seemingly once belonged to a peasant who now lay dead. The boy picked the covering up to use as a cloak in order to hide himself in plain sight amongst the villagers. That is how he found his mother screaming in Fjölnir’s arms as he walked away with his men. She sounded so scared and upset.
Amleth wanted to scream too, he wanted to cry out for her, try to save her, but if he did that, his uncle’s men would simply find him and kill him. His mother was about to be hurt and he couldn't do anything about it. He was so small and weak. Not a wolf, only a pup. He couldn't do anything but wait. Survive and wait. Run away to find help, or grow old and strong enough to save his poor mother. He had to.
Amleth eventually escaped the island on a small, wooden rowing boat. He didn't have a plan. He didn't know where to go or if he would manage to reach another shore by using the stars to guide him as his father and tutors had taught him. The cold water was sprinkling him, making him shiver. What would he drink? What if he died of thirst? He had never even sailed alone before. All he had was pain. He was scared of the endless ocean that was beginning to surround him, missed his father, and feared for his mother, who he knew was being hurt and abused. The mere thought made his heart ache. It hurt. Knowing that he couldn't save his mother now from the many awful things he had been told men did to women was tormenting. It really hurt. The treacherous Fjölnir was alive hurting his mother and his father was dead. He was in so much pain. He wanted to weep but couldn't, because he was a man. The present was too unbearable for the child. He was in pain.
“I will avenge you, father!” Amleth cried out the fateful promise to himself as he rowed, thinking only of the future. “I will save you, mother! I will kill you, Fjölnir!” The how and when didn't matter. The present was too painful. Only the promise mattered. Only his honor. Only his father's golden arm ring. “I will avenge you, father! I will save you, mother! I will kill you, Fjölnir!” He kept exclaiming repeatedly for nearly an hour in an almost self-soothing manner meant to replace what he really wanted to do. Sob. Everything was wrong, but everything would be fine once he had his mother by his side, once he avenged the person he had loved the most, once the monster who had taken him was gone. “I will avenge you, father! I will save you, mother! I will kill you, Fjölnir!”
More tears fled, but it was so chilly that he didn't notice, and soon enough the cold had dried them all from his face.