The Summer Siege (Viking Omegaverse, #3)

by Lyx Robinson

He’s like a mirage, a glittering image that lures you in, and though you know it’s dangerous, you still want to try and reach it.

“I am not gentle,” I warn. Her eyes glint in the dark. “Nor am I fragile.”

neck, kiss her cheek, her brow. My senses may scream that she is my Vanirdottir, that she belongs to me in the deepest way possible – but that is all poetry and ancient magic, that is the dream that gleams upon her, holding me transfixed when I let myself look at her. But the reality is that she is suffering, and she wears Thrain’s mark, and I… I am who I am.

“Wasn’t this Thrain’s watch?” “Thrain’s occupied,” I tell him with a smirk. “The rudder is stuck in the riverbed.” Olaf’s moonlit beard twitches up as he deciphers this. “Wait – are you serious? Now?” I lift my hands in feigned helplessness.

I say nothing. I keep to the basic healing arts, all the while collecting their materials and keeping their things tidy. I stay in my place, as ever I have. But gods, it’s been a week and he still hasn’t woken up.

Oh Ivar

“Gods – couldn’t you wake me once it was healed?” he wheezes. I glare at him. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I snap. “Next time we save your life we’ll try to do it at a more convenient time.”

“What is it they called me?” he asks me in undertones. The shouts are loud enough now that we can speak privately. “Prince of Hell and damnation?” I tell him in Gaelic. Incredibly, I hear him laugh. “I quite like that, actually. I’ll keep a note of it.”

them run to their deaths since they are so set on it –” But Gofraid only has eyes for Ögmundr. Though Olaf tries to cut him away from the combat, his father always staggers forward again to meet his nemesis with a roar. And the two giants fight, the earth trembling under their feet. Then – a crunch, a growl of pain. Gofraid’s huge silhouette slumps. And Olaf turns, his voice piercing the air.

“The Viking King has clearly done his best to respect the terms of our deal. So I will give him his son back, in a manner of speaking.” “You mean… you want us to throw him?” “Oh, I think I will do it myself.”

And my mother starts to shear off my hair. With my bound, trembling hands, I reach for my one little braid, the one coiled with Uradech’s ribbon, holding it against my chest alongside the favours of my pack. Your place is not on your knees, girl, Uradech said to me once.

“No – get off me!” I burst out, wrenching out of his grasp. I pull out my knife, hold it out between us. “Don’t touch me.”

Cussing would be appropriate here

“You may have known me all my life, but all you ever did was lie to me. You taught us that pain and obedience are the most sacred forms of love – but obedience is not love, is it? Obedience is about control.”

“If you refuse to heed God then you are damning yourself,” he says. “Would you really renounce God just for the sake of freeing that Viking man, Tamsin? You must think hard on this, now. Think hard on the consequence.” Why is it that the choice always comes back to this? To renounce myself, or renounce God; there can be no peace between us.

“I do,” I whisper. “I renounce God.”

He has been carved lean by his imprisonment; starved of contact, of pleasure, of joy. I burrow into his braids, kiss his tattoos, whining with impatience. I want to give it all back to him. Give him everything. Let us find ourselves in each other again.

The hinges creak as though in protest of unleashing this red-eyed demon, and then – CLANK. His shackles drop to the floor.

The red half-moons that the shearing instrument left around her ears, smearing blood over her pallor. She is like a toppled stone goddess, flowers and moss peaking through the fracture lines. The priest did this to her. Him and his Christian order – he tried to capture her, to tame her. Shave her golden mane as though he wanted to pluck the crown from her head, take her divinity from her. Make her less.

“Ivar,” she intones, and that layered voice rushes down my spine. Odin, what peace it is to surrender to her. I stand before her now as a supplicant, as Thrain must’ve done; Thrain, who understood this wisdom far earlier than I.

“And I hope for your sake that you have a reason for disturbing us.” “Oh, do I have a reason!” Emrys exclaims. “There’s a war up there – a full-scale fucking war, or have you forgotten?” Oh. Fuck me, that’s right.

“It is Ögmundr then, leading this onslaught? Not my father?” “It is he, indeed. Your father left for the ships.” “Last I saw Ögmundr, he had many friends.” “He does. We estimated near four thousand when they first attacked.” “And how many are you in the fort?” “Around five hundred,” Emrys says, with steely grit. Ivar scoffs and mutters to himself, “He says this with all the confidence of a man at the head of a great Volsung army.”

“Witchcraft or no, if she can have the Viking horde fall on their own swords, I would have her come!”

“Beg pardon, Majesty. But I want to be clear. Doesn’t your Christian book forbid slavery? Is it not something your god frowns upon?” Queen Beatha raises her eyebrows. “The Lord’s teachings are many,” she says. “He also says, an eye for an eye.”

Could it be that they are embracing change, too – that Queen Beatha, as a daughter of Clota, is following her newfound Viking allies into ruthlessness? To be seated here like this with the lords of Dublin and my aunt turned vengeful queen feels like some strange alternate world.

“An eye for an eye, indeed,” he says. “It seems like it is not a good year for kings.”

“Let this be the first time a member of our royal family pardons a cursed man,” Queen Beatha says. “I pardon you, Rhun, son of Beddwyn. As a cursed man who has shown temperance and strength of will, I give you the right to roam freely, on condition that you continue to show rigorous self-discipline.”

“Far be it from me to judge you, Tam, but are you sure? Don’t you have enough on your plate as it is?” He nods at my three wolves, who are a few paces behind me. I flush. “For God’s sake, it’s nothing like that,” I protest,

“In a way, they freed me,” she murmurs. “Some part of me always wanted to feel like my place was among them. Even if it meant forcing myself. But now I see it’ll never work. You can try and twist into the shape they want, and still they’ll insist on twisting you further.”

“Only you would stage your claiming ceremony in the middle of a full-blown siege,” he says, amusement in his tone.

“I’m not interested in taking anything,” he murmurs. “I only wanted to stay and take care of you. If you’ll have me.”

“Rare are the days I’m told I can have a positive influence,” I mutter, and she laughs. “But I’m glad I could’ve helped you find your courage, in some small way.” “Some small way,” she echoes, throwing me an amused look. “Modesty doesn’t suit you, Ivar Gofraidsson.”