Chapter Text
Dean stares at the horizon, studying the shapes and shadows of the monastery that slowly comes into focus. His green eyes dart quickly over the low towers, scanning each window with purpose, reviewing their plans to seek out flaws and undue risks. His thoughts are busy calculating every detail for the hundredth time.
“Still your mind, brother.” A heavy hand settles on Dean’s shoulder and the man turns his head to take in his best friend’s gentle blue eyes.
Dean takes a deep breath of the warm and heavy air, trying to heed Benny’s advice and calm his churning thoughts. His tongue darts out to moisten his chapped lips and he tastes the ever-present salt that has settled over his skin from several weeks on the water. “I’m glad you’re here,” He mutters quietly so as not to break the blissful calm and Benny’s fingers flex comfortingly on Dean’s shoulder.
“We’re ready, you’re ready,” Benny says, just as quietly with an easy smile.
Dean nods, forcing himself to trust in his friend. Benny is right, they are as ready as they will ever be. The real threat to his focus is the memory that spurs him to search every window in quiet curiosity, maybe even with lingering hope, of who maybe be asleep beyond those darkened windows.
A flash of bright blue eyes and messy dark hair forms in his mind. Dean had been the one who nearly loosed his arrow, mistaking the monk’s brown robes for the hide of a deer. Had the man not turned when he had, Dean surely would have ended his life.
And yet the monk had apologized to Dean in a gravel rough voice that sent a shiver down Dean’s spine. The language he spoke was one Dean barely recognized. He hadn’t heard much of the Saxon language since he was a young boy and those memories have been buried so long that Dean has nearly forgotten.
The monk steadied his unearthly blue gaze on Dean and slowly held out a hand, offering Dean a portion of his foraged mushrooms from the large wicker basket he carried.
Dean had searched his memory for the right words, swallowing hard before he whispered with hesitation brewing in his stomach. “Gratitude,” Dean mumbled as he reached for the offering, certain he had chosen the wrong word.
The monk had offered him a pleased and serene smile. His calm gaze exuded kindness and instilled a sense of peace Dean hasn’t felt since he was too small to fully remember. Dean’s heart nearly skittered to a stop in his chest as the man had nodded before turning and heading off in the opposite direction, toward the monastery Dean’s party was prepared to raid.
Dean hopes, wants even, for the man from the forest to be sleeping within the shuttered and walled monastery. Dean has already decided that should he see those shocking blue eyes this morning, the man will become his. No one shall touch him, no one who wishes to live will bring the monk harm.
As the boats silently beach themselves on the narrow patch of sand, his warriors unload and gather their weapons while Dean takes a deep breath to settle his thoughts and clear his mind.
The time has come.
He stands upon the rocky shore and draws his heavy longsword. His brother, Sam, and Benny take their places at his side and join him in surveying the eager faces before them.
Dean clears his throat, preparing himself. He is not a man of great speeches. His people do not need such eloquence when action and strength are the characteristics that gain respect and loyalty but he feels this situation calls for something.
“The Valkyries are here, Odin is here, watching us today,” Dean says firmly, raising his voice so that everyone can hear. “Some of us may not live to see another moon, but not one among us shall shrink away from the honor of death! Go forward, you all know why we are here. For Laugar! For Valhalla!” Dean yells, each word gaining volume as he raises his sword high over his head. The Wyvern carved into the blade glints in the early dawn light and the warriors around him join in with their excited shouts and cheers.
“For Valhalla!” The horde shouts back in a coordinated echo of Dean’s words, ensuring the monks within hear their calls to battle. Dean grins as he turns toward the monastery, the adrenaline begins to flood his body at the first sound of the monk’s warning bells. But they’re too late. The men inside will not stand a chance against Dean and his warriors.
The heavy English oak doors begin to groan shut, but the Vikings wedge their ram between them and keep the gap from closing as they rush inside.
“Northmen! Northmen!” Panicked shouts rise, giving way to screams as the warning bells chime, the frantic clanging fills the air to heighten the thrill of battle. Monks scurry to hide and flee and Dean laughs at their cowardice.
“Will none of you defend yourselves?!” He shouts at their retreating backs as he strides forward, intending to enter the towering stone building with Sam and Benny at his side. His Jarl’s goal, Dean’s test, is to lead this raid and pillage for gold and other treasures to add to his family’s wealth.
Sam stays at Dean’s side, as a good brother should, knocking aside monks who beg and plead with them in a language that brings only the tickle of a memory but little understanding.
“Out of the way!” Sam growls, shoving aside a balding monk and throwing him against the tall, wooden, crucifix that looms over the entryway of the monastery, sending both man and cross tumbling to the floor.
“Sam!” Dean snaps, not seeing the need to harm those too cowardly to fight back and defend themselves. These men fear death, they do not deserve the honor of dying in service to the gods. Dean turns to the monk and drags him to his feet with a firm fistful of his brown robes and presses him bodily against the wall.
“Where is the gold?” Dean says, voice dropping to a demanding growl as he applies pressure to the man’s throat.
The monk looks at him with wide-eyed confusion before he glances between the three Viking men. The man’s eyes widen in blind fear and he trembles in Dean’s grip but remains quiet aside from his terrified whimpers.
“Let him go!” A rough and dangerously low voice comes from behind the trio and Dean grins as he turns to face the monk belonging to that sinful voice. He doesn’t need to understand the words to recognize the man’s tone.
Dean’s grin turns feral as he takes in the man before him and he releases the trembling monk with a shove. Piercing blue eyes are narrowed into a vicious glare and the monk’s square jaw is set firm. Dean’s heart leaps at the sight of him and his fierce countenance, so different from what Dean had seen in the forest.
His monk is brave.
Dean knows now that he made no mistake in wanting this man for his own.
“Castiel, no,” The older monk says, panic laced in his tone as he stares down the hall toward the younger man.
Castiel brandishes a heavy wooden paddle as a weapon as if a cooking implement could save him from the sharp edge of Dean’s sword.
Sam laughs, swinging his ax playfully at the monk as he closes the distance between them. “At least one of you is brave,” Sam says in perfect English, a result of his years of study.
Dean scowls at the words that leave his brother’s mouth, but he feels a tinge of jealousy and regret. If he had bothered to study with Sam, he would be able to speak with this Castiel. He quickly steps across the narrow space and wrenches his brother back with a growl. “He’s mine,” Dean says in their Norse language, making his intent toward the monk clear.
Sam arches a brow at his brother. “This the monk from the woods?” He asks in Norse, letting his curiosity show with a slight tilt of his head.
The monks look between them, the old man with terror etched in his features as Benny holds him hostage and the younger with a determined glare that suddenly lights with recognition. “You,” He gasps, staring at Dean.
Dean answers with a wolfish grin. “Tell me, Christian, will you show us where you feeble men keep your treasures?” He asks slowly, hoping the monk knows at least some Norse.
Castiel looks taken aback, affronted even, before he takes a foolish step toward Dean. “No.” The single Norse word falls from his lips as an insult and his blue eyes blaze with righteous fury.
“Brother, please. Let them take what they will,” The older monk pleads and staggers toward Dean. “Here, please. This way,” He says in English that Dean does not understand but Sam intervenes, gesturing for the older monk to come to him.
“Kelvin, no!” Castiel yells, rushing toward Sam with his paddle raised and ready to strike.
Dean swats the piece of wood away with his sword, only to have Castiel turn to him with murder in his gaze.
The monk swings violently, too quickly to be prepared, and Dean strikes back with an amused laugh. The paddle cracks in half under the force from Dean’s sword and the pieces fly from Castiel’s hands before the monk can change his course. The makeshift weapon has barely landed on the floor with a clatter when Dean has the sharp edge of his sword pressed against Castiel’s bare throat.
“Enough,” Dean growls, pressing lightly against the soft skin, just enough for a thin trail of crimson to appear.
Castiel’s eyes widen and a small gasp passes his lips but he doesn’t flinch, he only stares at Dean with narrowed eyes and a scowl that has Dean letting out a pleased hum.
Dean reaches forward and grips the monk’s arm tightly, spinning him so that Dean presses up against his back with his sword still trained on the soft skin of Castiel’s throat.
Castiel jerks and spins, catching Dean by surprise as he breaks free. A thin line of red wells across his neck and he wipes the blood away with a growl. “Don’t touch me!” He bites in an insulted tumble before spitting on the ground in disgust.
The words are unfamiliar to Dean’s ears, but the tone does not. He takes a moment to study his adversary with a quirked lip, the barest of amused smirks. The monk’s firm jaw, his narrow nose, and sharp cheekbones provide a perfect setting for those ethereal blue eyes and slightly shaggy dark hair. In the dim torchlight, Castiel’s hair appears black, but Dean knows better. The deep chestnut brown hair catches the sun beautifully. This man’s existence is a testament to the gods. Perfection in the physical form.
The fire burning in the monk’s eyes would be lethal if mortals were granted the powers of the gods. Lightning could strike Dean where he stands and he might not have the will to complain if only he could keep Castiel’s attention.
Castiel is beautiful in his brave and foolish defiance.
“I have no wish to harm you,” Dean says evenly despite knowing that the monk won’t understand him. He fixes the man with a firm glare, a silent order to stay out of their way before he turns his back on the blue-eyed monk and gestures for Kelvin to lead the way.
The Norse brothers turn to follow Kelvin and Dean signals for Benny to head the opposite direction on the chance that the older monk is lying to them. Dean dismisses Castiel with barely a thought. The monk stands unarmed against Dean’s sword and Sam’s ax. He has no chance against them.
They move quietly with Sam holding his ax at the ready. The sounds of the raid echo through the halls but their cohort has yet to progress this deep into the monastery.
Their goal is to subdue the monks and send those who choose to fight to meet their pathetic god. Only once the monks are contained and the outer walls protected are any beyond Dean and Sam to enter the inner chambers.
By now, the first wave of Dean’s warriors should be searching the outer halls for gold and jewels. The Christians are too fond of throwing riches to an absent god while allowing their people starve. Dean has no doubt they will find the treasure they seek.
“I will not let you steal from the Lord!” Castiel’s gravel rough voice yells from behind the trio of men. Sam and Dean turn to see him running toward them, brandishing a torch ripped from the wall of the long hallway, his dark brown robes billow behind him as he runs on his sandaled feet.
Dean rolls his eyes at the sight. While he quietly admires the man’s tenacity, he is growing tired of his refusal to admit defeat. “Stop this foolishness, Christian,” Dean says, letting his annoyance bleed into his tone.
Castiel continues toward them, undeterred, with a fierce sneer etched on his features. Dean stows his sword and drops into a ready crouch, waiting for the monk to come to him. He can’t help his desire to get his hands on the beautiful man, if only for a moment.
Dean lunges as Castiel swings his torch, the rush of flame whooshes harmlessly past Dean’s ears as he aims his shoulder for Castiel’s middle.
Castiel loses his balance as Dean tackles him to the ground and pins him in a rough grip. Dean grins down into Castiel’s furious blue eyes.
Dean stares for another moment and smirks at the monk’s ire before he pushes up and off, ready to bind the man’s hands and haul him with them. Dean gave him a chance to escape and he chose not to take it.
Castiel quickly pushes to his feet and balls his hands into fists, prepared to swing.
“Enough of this,” Sam growls, raising his ax as if about to cleave the monk’s head in two.
“No!” Dean barks. “He’s mine.”
Sam fixes him with an unimpressed look as he brings the butt of his ax down as Castiel attempts to duck. The blow connects with Castiel’s head and sends the monk toppling to the ground with barely a sound. “Fine,” Sam says with narrowed eyes as he gently prods Castiel’s unconscious form with the toe of his boot. “Collect him later.”
Castiel lays unmoving and Dean drops to his knees at his side, fingers probing against his throat for a sign of life as he glares at his brother. “That was unnecessary,” Dean says with a glare that would send anyone other than Sam running for the hills.
Sam snorts in derision and shakes his head. “You are too distracted,” Sam says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Find him later, we have too much to do right now,” Sam grumbles as he pushes past Dean.
The other monk has long since run, Castiel’s misguided attempts at valor were a worthy diversion, and now the brothers are left on their own to find the sanctuary and treasures.
The victorious shouts of their comrades echo through the monastery as they progress inward to seek the large sanctuary they know should be drawing near.
“You intend to spare that fool?” Sam asks as they round another corner, unchallenged.
Dean nods, schooling his features into feigned indifference. “He’s brave.”
Sam snorts and pushes open yet another heavy oak door. “Then he should meet his god with pride.”
“Not yet,” Dean says with a frown. If he has his way, Castiel will not meet his god for a very long time.
The brothers stop when they cross the threshold of the large chapel. A gleaming, golden, cross stands tall and proud behind a gilded altar.
“Do you remember any of this from before?” Sam asks as he turns to Dean with hesitation in his hazel eyes.
Dean frowns as he considers the space. “Some,” he mutters. He is barely willing to admit that this adventure is bringing back memories long since buried.
The images in his mind are hazy and distant. They are merely memories from the mind of a terrified child. His father, his real father, standing tall and proud before an alter much like this one with a steady hand on each of their young shoulders as they knelt to pray for deliverance. The smoke was thick in the air as their home burned and the terrified screams in the distance had Dean’s young heart racing.
That was when Samuel had burst through the door to the sanctuary and their father had shoved Dean and little Sam behind the alter, telling Dean to “take care of Sammy.”
Dean closes his eyes tightly, willing away the memory of Samuel cutting his father down before coming after them.
Dean had found the courage in his heart to pick up his father’s sword despite being too small to wield the weapon. He stood as tall as he could and stepped around his father’s bloody corpse to challenge the towering Viking.
Dean knew he was no match for an adult, he had only seen six summers, but he was determined to do as he was told and protect his brother or die trying.
Samuel had smiled down at him proudly as he wrested the sword from Dean’s small hands. “Brave boy,” Samuel had said. “Come, my children. We must go home.” He had stood and taken Dean by the hand, beckoning for Sam to come. Dean had screamed and jerked away, running to his brother and Samuel had simply picked them up, one under each arm, and hauled them away.
Dean shakes off the memories and grips his sword tighter as he turns to face his brother. “The Christian god refused to protect our father, but Odin chose to protect us even though we did not yet belong to him. That is what we shall remember,” Dean says with an air of finality. He will not entertain the memories of events he cannot change even if he wanted to.
Sam opens his mouth as if to disagree but decides better of the idea. “Let’s just hurry.”
They quickly gather as many treasures to the center of the room as they can before tearing apart the gilded cross that stands as tall as Dean and adding the pieces to their pile. Dean notices that Sam tucks a small book, no doubt a portion of the Christian Bible, into the pouch at his side when he thinks Dean’s isn’t looking.
Dean lets the act go unremarked. He knows all too well of his brother’s thirst for knowledge. Sam loves to read and his research has served them well on this trip. Sam has a curious mind and Dean will not begrudge him that.
Dean eyes a large leather-bound tome that sits on a plain wooden stand. His rough and grubby fingers caress the fine parchment as he stares down at the words in the same language Sam has been studying for years. They are not familiar to him but he thinks that perhaps it is time he learns. If he is to ever lead his people, he needs to be educated in the matters of Wessex and the Christians who live here.
Dean carefully lifts the holy book from its place and adds it to their pile while ignoring the fond smile the action earns him from Sam.
“Dean! Sam!” Benny’s familiar voice echoes down the corridor and is quickly followed by the clatter of footsteps and weapons trudging closer down the stone hallways.
“Here!” Sam calls as he pokes his head out of the large chapel to signal to their group.
Dean continues to work, breaking the locks off heavy wooden creates to check their worthless contents with muttered disgust. His father will not be pleased. These monks seem to value parchment over gold and this does not bode well for their raid.
Benny follows Sam into the cavernous room with a low whistle of appreciation as he scans the pile in the center of the room.
“There isn’t enough,” Dean grumbles when Benny comes within earshot.
Benny shrugs as he reverently brushes his fingertips over the riches gathered in the center of the space. He snaps his fingers at the warriors behind him to call them to attention from their distracted glances about the room.
Many are bloodstained and wild-looking, long hair braided tightly and damp with sweat from a battle easily fought.
“Take everything out,” Sam orders as he gestures to the loot with a wave of his hand. His premature words prompt a sharp look from Dean and an arched brow from Benny.
The warriors go still and glance to one another and then to Dean nervously as they wait for their leader to put forth the direction. Dean takes a deep breath and nods. “You heard my brother, move!” He says clear and boldly in a tone that allows for no doubt or argument.
Benny gives Sam on more appraising glance before he gathers an armful of loot and leads the remainder of their party from the room.
“There isn’t enough,” Dean says, giving voice to his deeply rooted concern. His verdant eyes scan the bare pews and stone walls holding naught but flaming torches. He shakes his head to try to sooth the yawning pit growing in his stomach.
If their Jarl, the man to took them and raised them as his own, is to be appeased, the lack of golden riches will need to be offset with human treasure.
Sam sucks in a shuddering breath with heavy protest flashing in the depths of his hazel eyes before he nods his agreement. “I understand,” He says with a frown. Dean can see his brother’s resigned displeasure clear in his expression.
Dean knows how much his brother doesn’t approve despite his agreement, but he lets the mutinous gleam in Sam’s eye pass without rebuke. He agrees with his brother, but they have no choice.
Dean straightens his stance and firms his jaw. “We can provide for ten,” Dean says coldly as he turns to seek out Benny.
Benny will oversee gathering the monks for them to select from. The Britons are soft by nature and if Dean must steal some of them away, he will choose those most likely to survive the trials of the north.
If he comes across Castiel on his way out of the monastery, well, that would surely mean that Odin is smiling down on him.
“No sign of the blue-eyed one?” Sam questions his brother with an arched brow when Dean joins him empty-handed. His tone is soft and cautious and Dean knows that Sam doesn’t understand.
“No,” He answers. “His absence is likely for the best,” Dean muses as he carefully packs a heavy chest into the longboat. Dean doesn’t bother to hide his disappointment, but if the gods do not bless him with the monk’s presence then he will accept their judgment.
Sam nods. “For him, I am sure,” He says as he gives his brother a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He leaves the “for you, too,” unspoken but Dean can read the words clearly in Sam’s gaze.
Once the boats are loaded, the brothers join their raiding party near the destroyed gates of the monastery. Nearly three dozen monks kneel on the crushed stone of the road and Dean winces in sympathy at the obvious discomfort of the position. Their hands are bound roughly, some in front of them and some behind as they are forced to kneel on the harsh gravel.
Their expressions contain a mixture of fear, anger, and a few glare defiantly at their Viking captors.
“On your feet!” Dean shouts, gesturing for them to rise. His gut churns with turmoil and acid burns in the back of his throat. He agrees with his brother on the matter of forced servitude. Some men and women commit crimes that have them deserving the shackles of being held in thrall, but these men are innocent as far as Dean knows.
They don’t deserve this.
Dean squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath, preparing himself for what may become the most difficult aspect of this entire raid. He has no choice if he is to be seen worthy in the eyes of his Jarl and his people.
Who to choose and who to spare?
Most of the monks stare at him with wide eyes, not understanding the strange words Dean had shouted at them. Slowly, after another urging hand gesture from Dean, they begin to catch on and push to their feet. They offer one another as much assistance as they can with their hands tied and Dean’s heart twists uncomfortably.
Dean watches them carefully and silently notes of which of the monks began to rise first and which appear to have the steadiest balance. He immediately dismisses the eldest among them and those who appear lame or too stubborn to follow an order that gets them off the harsh ground and into a more comfortable position. He needs men with strong backs and flexible dispositions.
Dean points to one young man with downcast eyes and Benny is quick to haul him to the side. The sandy-haired youth lets out a panicked scream that is quickly silenced by Benny’s hand over his mouth.
“Alfie!” An old, weathered, monk attempts to come to the younger man’s aid but Benny shoves him back roughly and continues to pull the young monk to the side, ignoring the vicious sounding words in a language the Norsemen do not understand. The young man is shoved to his knees in the grass and immediately enveloped by Viking warriors, trapping the trembling monk in an impenetrable circle of men.
The old monk continues to interfere and hisses in displeasure when Benny sends the man crashing to his knees with a swift punch to his stomach. “Silence!” Benny barks, uncaring whether the monks understand him or not. His tone should say enough.
The monk coughs from the punch and a shorter and younger monk lowers himself to his knees to murmur fervently in his elder’s ear before he tucks his slightly too long hair behind his ear and out of his face with his bound hands.
He whispers in the Saxon language as the old man raises his voice in disagreement. His words sound like frantic pleas tinged with anger. Dean waits, curious, as the young monk pushes to his feet once more and turns to his counterparts and raises his voice to speak.
Dean raises a staying hand when Benny glances to him for guidance. “Let’s see where this goes,” Dean says, unsure why his gut instinct says to allow this monk his little speech.
The man’s voice raises clear and steady above the amused chortles from the raiders. To Dean, he sounds like a leader asking something dire of his followers.
Several of the young monk’s eyes widen and they swallow hard as they listen. The Vikings look between one another and the monks with trepidation, uncomfortable with not understanding what is being said.
Only Sam nods along in approval.
Dean wants to question his brother for a translation but his pride prevents the words from being spoken.
Finally, the monk stops speaking and he stares at his brothers expectantly. A few nod and more shake their heads.
The oldest monks beg and plead in protest while some of the younger ones square their shoulders and step forward, stopping at the side of the monk who had delivered his speech.
In total, eight young men join the other’s side before he turns to face Dean. He squares his shoulders and meets Dean gaze with a kind of courage Dean had not expected from these meek men. “You want slaves,” the monk says in perfect Norse.
Dean sees a glimmer of defiance in the monk’s eyes when Dean nods his agreement with a frown.
“Take us. We volunteer. Spare the others,” The monk says clearly despite his accent being a little rough. He stands a head shorter than Dean; his dark blond hair is somewhat longer than most of his brother’s and his honey brown eyes are fierce with determination.
Dean sees no reason to refuse to him. A faint smile twitches at the corner of Dean’s mouth as he steps forward. This monk is brave, and Dean can appreciate that about him. “Very well,” Dean says slowly with a slight nod of acceptance. He gives Benny a small wave, indicating the volunteers, and the man quickly springs into action along with several other of the Viking warriors.
The volunteers are quickly whisked away and loaded into the boats, but their leader remains rooted to the spot, glaring daggers at Dean. “Your name?” Dean questions with a slight cock of his head.
The monk narrows his eyes into a glare, scrutinizing Dean before giving a glance back toward the abbey and his older brethren. “Gabriel,” He finally answers with a frown.
Dean gives the man a predatory grin, upping his bravado as he slings an arm over Gabriel’s shoulders to guide him away. “You speak our language,” Dean says with all the swagger he can muster.
Gabriel stiffens but nods silently.
“I appreciate your assistance,” Dean says as he guides Gabriel to the spot where Sam waits for them to board the boats.
“I did not do it for you,” Gabriel spits, attempting to pull away but Dean holds him fast.
Dean pulls the man tighter, leaning down to whisper in the monk’s ear. “The results remain the same,” He says before shoving Gabriel toward Sam. “You should take this one, brother,” Dean says with a lewd grin even as his stomach twists painfully.
“Dean,” Sam says with a scowl as he narrowly prevents Gabriel from toppling to his knees in the rough gravel. Gabriel pulls away from Sam with a disgusted expression and scowls fiercely at Dean.
Dean shrugs as if his brother’s ire doesn’t bother him. “Would you rather he be claimed by Asmodeus?” Dean challenges and Sam’s expression falls. Dean can see his brother’s warring emotions, fighting between his morality and his soft-hearted concern for the stranger.
If Dean has his way, Asmodeus will not touch any of the new slaves and neither will his sons. No one deserves the sadistic touch those three masterfully wield.
“Very well,” Sam says with a frown as he gently guides Gabriel to the boats. He helps the still bound monk navigate the rocky shore without losing his balance and Dean smiles at his brother’s predictable behavior.
For all his talk during the raid, Sam refuses to have someone else’s pain on his conscience when he can prevent the suffering and Dean knows it. Sam glares at his brother as he drags Gabriel onto their boat and urges him down with a gruff order to sit.
Dean watches as Gabriel and Sam glare at one another and he huffs in amusement. Sam will have his work cut out for him with this one and he’s certain the turmoil might do his brother some good. Gabriel seems intelligent and well educated. Exactly the kind of person Sam would appreciate having around him in his quest to learn everything within the realm of men.
Keeping Gabriel close might benefit them all.
Dean turns to scan the rocky beach one last time in hopes of spying a shock of messy dark hair and vividly blue eyes while the others finish loading.
Something about Cas’ gaze is familiar to Dean though he cannot place why but he has no luck in finding the man. Castiel seems to have vanished into the ether.
“Move out!” Dean gives the order as he grips the edge of his boat and begins to push at the bow with several other men and women. Benny quickly joins Dean’s side and they collectively shove off the beach for the half-day journey to camp.
Once the cool water reaches his knees, Dean heaves himself into the boat and takes his place at the helm. His scrutinizing gaze sweeps over his people and the newly acquired slaves. They are all under Dean’s leadership now. The weight of responsibility sits heavy across his shoulders but he accepts the burden as the inevitable consequence of picking up his father’s sword so many years ago. He was groomed to lead from that point forward, maybe even from the moment he was born.
Dean lifts his chin high and directs the boats onward. The north winds will guide them on their journey, and he offers a quick prayer to Aegir for safe passage on his seas.