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The Great Heathen Army.
That is what people were calling the Army that had just come ashore in Northumbria. They say that they have horns that protrude from their helmets like demons, that, their eyes are red with the fires of hell and their intent just as devilish.
But would your intent not be just as devilish? Particularly considering their reason for being here?
"You can't! You can't send him to King Ælle! You have to stop it!" Alvina yelled, her voice becoming shrill from its screaming. Still, she found herself unheard. Though her lips made sound, it was as though she remained silent. She may as well have done.
Nevertheless, she continued. For days she was trapped in that tiny confined cell, only seeing humans when meals and cups of mead were pushed under the door. That made her yelling intensify in the hopes that she may be heard.
She'd tried to help Ragnar, to free him and put him on a ship to return to his sons. Of course she'd been caught because the old man stubbornly refused to go with her, explaining that he "had to die". Had to die?! What a foolish thing to say. She had to keep her promise to Ivar, he did not have to make her a liar.
When she was caught, she refused to stay quiet. Aethelwulf carried her like a child and locked her in her room to keep her from causing more trouble. Of course, she was treated decently and kindly as she remained a princess, but the fact she could do nothing was killing her still.
Her fist knocked against the door, voice cracking with shrill yells, "Let me out!"
Finally, the door budged, knocking her backwards as someone entered. Her father.
"Father, you cannot keep me here! You have to stop them!" She pleaded desperately.
Aethelwulf gave a defeated sigh, looking towards her with a mix of pity and regret. "Ragnar Lothbrok is dead."
She knew he did not regret killing the heathen, he would see it as God's work. Instead, he regretted what was to come; the wrath of the North.
The Great Heathen Army.
"King Ecbert," The family were interrupted when a soldier entered the room with heavy breathing. "King Ælle has been defeated, killed by the heathens in a most ungodly way. It seems, my king, that they now approach Wessex."
Alvin's eyes shot to Judith. News of her father's death must have been painful, especially knowing that he thought her a sinner right up to his death. They never even gained a chance to reconcile and perhaps now they never would - especially if she was a sinner after all.
"How did he die?" Judith spoke up.
The soldier grew pale, looking down to avoid her gaze. "They call it a blood eagle, your grace." He answered. "They-"
"I know what that is." She cut him off with tears in her eyes, gulping back her emotions.
Slowly, Alvina reached out and gently squeezed the woman's hand, a reassuring smile pressed firmly on her lips. Judith smiled back, holding tightly onto the girl's hand.
If the heathen army were to turn their sights to Wessex next then they would all need eachother. They would need all the help they could get, and all they could do was pray to the alright God above for mercy.
