Siobhan Doyle scoffs at this. "And who'll mind the babes while we're out chasing wolves, eh?"

Erik nods, acknowledging her point. "We'll need to work together, share the burdens. The elderly can watch the young while the able-bodied tend to the fields and defenses."

"And what of the witch hunter?" someone calls out from the back. "One man can't cover the whole village!"

Erik's expression grows grim. "Aye, 'tis true. But I have some skill in that area myself. Between the two of us, and with the village working together, we can maintain our defenses."

I watch the faces of the villagers, seeing doubt and fear warring with the need to believe Erik's words. It's a precarious balance, and I can't help but wonder how long it will hold.

Cathal Doherty, his voice gruff with emotion, speaks up. "And what of food? With most of the men gone, how will we tend the fields properly?"

Erik nods, his face serious. "We'll need to work smarter, not just harder. I've knowledge of farming techniques that can help increase our yields with less labor. And we'll need to be creative - every scrap of land must be put to use."

God, he's repeating the same sentence but with the words changed around. Yikes.

Maeve snorts beside me. "Aye, and I suppose we'll be eating grass and twigs come winter?"

Erik's patience seems to be wearing thin, but he maintains his composure. "We'll preserve what we can, trade with neighboring villages if need be. It won't be easy, but we will survive."

The crowd continues to press Erik with questions and concerns, their voices rising and falling like the tide. I watch, feeling oddly detached from it all. These people, with their petty worries and squabbles, seem so small in the grand scheme of things. Yet, I can't help but feel a twinge of pity? Responsibility? I'm not sure.

"But what of the harvest?" Muireann Doherty calls out, her voice tinged with desperation. "How can we bring it in with so few hands?"

Erik runs a hand through his golden mane, his frustration evident. "We'll make do. The young and old will pitch in. Every able body will be put to work."

Conall Devlin scoffs, his arms crossed over his chest. "And I suppose ye'll be out there with us, swinging a scythe from dawn 'til dusk?"

"Aye, if need be," Erik retorts, his emerald eyes flashing. "I'm no stranger to hard work."

Ciara, her emerald hair catching the fading sunlight, speaks up timidly. "What... what if the English come here? While our men are away?"

A hush falls over the crowd at her words. I can see the fear etched on every face, the reality of war suddenly very close.

Erik's voice is grim when he responds. "Then we fight. Every man, woman, and child old enough to hold a weapon. We defend our homes, our families."

"With what?" Seamus Doyle demands. "Pitchforks and kitchen knives?"

"If we must," Erik says firmly. "But we'll prepare. I'll train those who remain in basic defense. We'll fortify the village as best we can."

Maeve lets out a bitter laugh beside me. "Oh aye, that'll be a sight. Grannies and babes holding off the English army with sticks and stones."

I want to roll my eyes at their naivety. But something keeps me rooted in place, listening.

"And what of food stores?" Brendan Quinn asks, his voice gruff. "If we're to survive a siege, we'll need more than what we have."

Erik nods solemnly. "We'll increase our stores. Every family will be required to contribute. We'll smoke meats, dry fruits, preserve what we can."

"With what salt?" someone calls out. "We barely have enough for our daily needs!"

"We'll find a way," Erik insists, though I can hear the strain in his voice. "We always have."

"And what of the children?" Aislin's soft voice cuts through my thoughts. "How do we protect them from... from all this?"

I feel a lump form in my throat. Damn this child's body and its inconvenient emotions.

Erik's face softens as he looks at my mother. "We shield them as best we can, Aislin. We give them hope, even in dark times."

Hope. What a quaint concept. I almost want to laugh. But as I look around at the worried faces, the trembling hands, the eyes wide with fear, I feel that twinge again. Stronger this time.

As the debate rages on, I find my mind wandering. I think about the powers I've discovered, the knowledge I possess. Could I use them to help? Should I? Or would it be better to let these people fend for themselves, to watch as their world crumbles around them?

The sun is starting to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the village center. The argument shows no signs of abating, and I wonder how long we'll be standing here, rehashing the same points over and over.

God, I miss air conditioning. And indoor plumbing. And literally anything that isn't this medieval shithole.

As I'm wallowing in my misery, a booming voice cuts through the anxious murmurs of the crowd. "People of Baile Rois!"

I turn to see Father Timothy and Father Brogan striding towards us, a gaggle of nuns trailing behind them like ducklings following their mother. Great, just what we need - more religious bullshit to add to this clusterfuck.

Father Brogan's face is a mask of serene confidence as he addresses the crowd. "Fear not, good people. The church shall stand by you in your hour of need. We shall protect every woman, child, and greybeard within these hallowed walls."

Father Timothy nods sagely, his jowls quivering with the motion. "Indeed, all shall be well in due time. We shall pray fervently for the safe return of our brave men from the war."

A small voice pipes up from the crowd, trembling with emotion. "But 'tis not fair!" It's Ciara, her emerald hair a tangled mess and her mismatched eyes brimming with tears. "I'm but a week with child, and already my husband is to be torn from me!"

Cathal Doherty steps forward, wrapping a comforting arm around his daughter's shoulders. "There, there, my sweet. All shall be well. He'll return to us, mark my words. And when he does, we'll make those honey pies you love so much, just as we always have."

Conall Devlin appears at Ciara's other side, his face a mixture of pride and concern as he places a hand on her still-flat belly. "Aye, my love. I'll return to you and our babe, come hell or high water."

Father Brogan clears his throat, drawing attention back to himself. "Let us speak of divine providence, my children," he intones, his voice taking on the rhythmic cadence of a practiced sermon. "For it is through the grace of our Lord that we shall endure these trials. As it is written in the Book of Isaiah, 'Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.'"

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

He continues, his voice rising and falling like the tide. "And lo, did not our Lord Jesus Christ himself say, 'Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest'? Take heart, good people of Baile Rois, for though the path ahead may be fraught with peril, we walk it not alone. The Almighty watches over us, guiding our steps and shielding us from harm."

On and on he drones, spouting platitude after platitude. I can practically see the villagers' eyes glazing over, but somehow, miraculously, they seem to be calming down. The power of bullshit, ladies and gentlemen. Never underestimate it.

Finally, mercifully, Father Brogan winds down his speech. He turns to Erik, his expression suddenly serious. "Master Colm, a word if you please. There are matters we must discuss."

Erik nods, his face unreadable. He catches my eye and beckons for me to follow. As we start to walk away, Father Brogan turns to the nuns. "Sisters, return to the church. We have private matters to discuss with Master Colm at his cottage."

Ah, let's see what this 'talk' is about.

We make our way through the village and into the forest, the evening shadows growing longer with each step. By the time we reach Erik's cottage on the outskirts of Baile Rois, night has well and truly fallen.

Inside, Father Timothy and Father Brogan seat themselves at the table without waiting for an invitation. Erik, ever the gracious host, moves his armchair to face them and settles in.

Armchair captain. Haha.

I find myself a quiet corner, eager to eavesdrop on whatever nonsense is about to unfold.

The air in Erik's cottage feels thick with tension as Father Brogan reaches into his robes, pulling out a parchment sealed with wax. My heart skips a beat. What fresh hell is this?

"Master Colm," Father Brogan's voice cuts through the silence, "this missive is addressed to you." He extends the letter towards Erik, who takes it with a raised eyebrow.

Erik turns the parchment over in his hands, his eyes widening as they land on the seal. "This... this bears the Boruma signature wax," he mutters, his voice a mixture of awe and confusion.

Father Brogan nods, a sly smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Indeed it does. Tell me, Master Colm, how fares your father, Ragnar?"

The color drains from Erik's face. His emerald eyes dart between the two priests, a storm of emotions brewing behind them. "How... how do you know of my father?" he demands, his voice barely above a whisper.

Father Timothy lets out a chuckle. "Oh, Erik," he says, his jowls quivering with barely suppressed glee, "we found out when the messenger brought us the missive. We knew you were Norse, we just didn't know how Norse you truly were."

Should I kill them? No, too messy. Plus, I'm not sure I could take them both before Erik stopped me. Fuck. What are they going to do?

With trembling hands, Erik breaks the seal and unfurls the parchment. His eyes scan the contents, growing wider with each passing moment. When he speaks, his voice is thick with disbelief.

"To Erik Ragnarsson, son of Ragnar Lothbrok, greetings from Brian Boruma mac Cennétig, High King of Ireland," he reads aloud. "We write to you in a time of great peril for our fair isle. The English dogs snap at our heels, their greed and ambition knowing no bounds."

Erik pauses, swallowing hard before continuing. "In recognition of your Norse heritage and the strength of your people, we make this offer: Aid us in our war against the English invaders, and the northern portion of Ireland shall be yours to rule in our name."

My jaw drops. Holy fucking shit! This is... this is huge. Erik's voice grows stronger as he continues reading.

"A ship awaits you at the port of Dun Laoghaire, ready to bear you back to your homeland. We entrust you with this missive and the future of our alliance. Deliver these tidings to your people, and return with the strength of the North at your back."

The letter goes on, detailing the proposed borders of this new Norse territory and the expectations of both parties. As Erik's voice fades, a heavy silence descends upon the room.

Holy fucking shit! This changes everything. A Norse-controlled northern Ireland? The balance of power in the British Isles would shift dramatically. And Erik... Erik would be at the center of it all.

I watch as Erik's face cycles through a range of emotions - shock, disbelief, excitement, and finally, a grim determination. He looks up at the priests, his emerald eyes blazing with an intensity I've never seen before.

"How long have you known of this?" he demands, his voice low and dangerous.

Father Brogan spreads his hands in a gesture of innocence that fools absolutely no one. "The messenger arrived but yesterday eve. We thought it best to deliver such... momentous news in person."

Erik nods slowly, his mind clearly racing. "And what do you expect of me now?" he asks, his tone carefully neutral.

Father Timothy leans forward, his piggy eyes glinting with barely concealed greed. "Why, to do your duty, of course. To king and country... and to God."

I have to bite my tongue to keep from laughing out loud. God? Please. This is about power, pure and simple. These cloth-wrapped vultures are probably already counting the tithes they'll extract from Erik's new Norse subjects.

Erik's face hardens, his emerald eyes flashing with a fierce pride that seems to make him grow even larger in his seat. He leans forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over the two priests.

"Hear me well, good fathers," he rumbles, his voice low and dangerous. "In the lands promised to my people by Brian Boruma, no Christian God will hold sway. Those territories shall be the domain of Odin All-Father, and him alone."

Father Timothy's face flushes an alarming shade of puce, his jowls quivering with indignation. "Blasphemy!" he sputters, spittle flying from his lips. "You cannot simply cast aside the one true faith!"

Erik's laugh is a harsh bark that makes me flinch. "Cast aside? Nay, good father. We Norse have never bowed to your carpenter god. Our blood, our very essence, is tied to the old ways. It is by Odin's will that we fight, and it is to him that we shall dedicate our victories."

Father Brogan, ever the more composed of the two, raises a placating hand. "Now, now, let us not be hasty. Surely there is room for... compromise?"

Erik's eyes narrow dangerously. "Compromise? And what manner of compromise would you suggest, priest? That we pay lip service to your god while secretly honoring our own? Nay, I'll have none of that duplicity."

I watch the back-and-forth like a spectator at a particularly vicious tennis match. The priests are way out of their league here. Erik's got the backing of the High King himself. What are they gonna do, excommunicate all of Ireland?

Father Timothy, his face still flushed, leans forward. "But think of the souls, man! The poor, benighted heathens who will be led astray by your pagan ways!"

Erik's laugh this time is full of dark amusement. "Led astray? I assure you, father, my people need no leading. We walk our own path, guided by the wisdom of the Aesir."

Father Brogan, ever the diplomat, tries again. "Perhaps... perhaps we could come to an arrangement. Your people could practice their faith, but agree not to... spread it beyond your new territories?"

Erik considers this for a long moment, his thick fingers drumming on the arm of his chair. "And in return?" he asks, his voice deceptively calm.

Father Brogan exchanges a quick glance with Father Timothy before continuing. "In return, the Church would... tolerate your practices within your own lands. We would not seek to convert your people, so long as you do not seek to convert ours."

I have to admire the old fox's cunning. He's basically offering Erik exactly what he already has, and trying to spin it as some kind of concession.

Erik leans back in his chair, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "A generous offer, to be sure," he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You would 'allow' us to practice our faith in lands that are rightfully ours by decree of the High King himself."

Father Timothy, seemingly emboldened by his colleague's diplomacy, pipes up. "It is more than generous! We offer you the chance to save your souls, even if you insist on clinging to your heathen ways!"

Erik's smile vanishes in an instant, replaced by a scowl that would make a berserker think twice. "Save our souls? Listen well, priest. My people will shed their blood on Irish soil, fighting your wars against the English. We will water the earth with our life essence, and you dare speak to me of saving souls?"

The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. I find myself holding my breath, waiting for the explosion that seems inevitable.

Father Brogan, sensing the dangerous turn in the conversation, quickly interjects. "What my colleague means to say is that we respect your people's sacrifices. We merely wish to ensure that all of Ireland remains united in faith, even as we welcome new allies."

Erik's gaze sweeps between the two priests, his expression unreadable. When he speaks again, his voice is low and measured. "Here is what will happen. In the lands granted to my people, we will worship as we see fit. We will build our temples, honor our gods, and live according to our customs. Your church will have no say in these matters."

God, if I was still a man I'd have a hard-on when he said 'Here is what will happen.'.

Father Timothy opens his mouth to protest, but Erik silences him with a look that could curdle milk.

"In return," Erik continues, "we will not seek to spread our faith beyond our borders. Those Irish who wish to join us may do so of their own free will, but we will not actively proselytize."

Well, it's not like the Norse ever tried to convert others to their religion, did they? No. People just converted because they wanted to.

Father Brogan nods slowly, a look of cautious relief spreading across his face. "That... that seems a fair compromise."

Erik's smile is all teeth. "I'm glad you see it that way, father. For make no mistake - this is not a negotiation. It is a statement of fact. My people will come, and we will bring our gods with us. You may choose to accept this gracefully, or..."[...]