He lets the threat hang in the air, unspoken but unmistakable.

Father Timothy, his face now an alarming shade of purple, sputters incoherently. Father Brogan places a calming hand on his colleague's arm.

"We... understand," Father Brogan says carefully. "And we thank you for your... candor in this matter."

I watch as the two priests exchange glances, clearly realizing they're out of their depth. It's almost comical, really. They came in here thinking they could bully Erik into submission, and now they're backpedaling faster than a drunken unicyclist.

Erik leans back in his chair, the very picture of a victorious warrior-king. "I'm glad we could come to an understanding," he says, his voice dripping with false sincerity. "Now, unless there's anything else..."

Father Timothy shifts in his seat, his face still flushed with anger. He clears his throat, his voice strained as he speaks. "When do you plan to leave Ireland for Norway?"

Erik turns his face towards me, his emerald eyes meeting mine. I feel a flutter of nervousness in my stomach, wondering what he's going to say.

"Once Lile is with child and her belly visibly shows, we shall depart for Norway," Erik declares, his voice steady and sure. "However, there is one matter I wish to be transparent about."

Father Brogan leans forward, his brow furrowed. "And what might that be?"

Erik's gaze sweeps across the room, landing on each of us in turn. "I intend to take Lile's family with us. Aislin, Maeve, Atlas, Nuada, Larisa, Fionn, and Oisin will all accompany us to Norway."

Father Timothy's face turns an even deeper shade of purple, if that's possible. "Why in God's name would you go to such lengths for this child?" he sputters.

Erik's expression hardens, his jaw clenching. "My reasons are my own," he says, his tone brooking no argument.

Father Brogan's eyes narrow, a calculating look crossing his face. "And how do you intend to take Oisin when he's meant to go to war in a week's time?"

A small smirk plays at the corners of Erik's mouth. "Oisin has followed us here. He waits just outside, ready for me to break his leg."

So that's what they spoke about in private at Eamonn's meeting? I feel a mixture of surprise and grudging admiration for Erik's cunning. He's thought this through more thoroughly than I gave him credit for.

Father Timothy leaps to his feet, his fist slamming down on the table with enough force to make the wood groan. "This is inconceivable!" he roars. "You cannot simply take serfs from their rightful lords!"

Erik remains unruffled, his posture relaxed as he regards the fuming priest. "I'm being transparent about my intentions," he says calmly. "This will happen whether you object or not."

Father Brogan places a hand on Father Timothy's arm, his voice low and urgent. "Sit down and hold your tongue," he hisses. "We're planning to revolt against these nobles. There's no point in false virtue now."

I have to bite my tongue to keep from gasping aloud. Revolt? The priests? Now this is getting interesting.

Erik throws his head back and laughs, the sound rich and booming. "Revolt? During a war?" he asks, his voice thick with amusement. "You jest, surely."

Father Brogan's eyes narrow, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "We've been planning this for years. The war provides the perfect cover. While the nobles are distracted, we'll seize control of the villages, one by one."

Erik leans forward, his interest clearly piqued. "And how do you intend to accomplish this feat? The common folk are hardly trained warriors."

"We have allies," Father Brogan says, a hint of pride in his voice. "Members of the Tuatha Dé Danann who sympathize with our cause. They'll provide the muscle we need."

Father Timothy, who has been seething silently, suddenly bursts out, "We shouldn't be discussing this with him! He's leaving, taking valuable serfs with him!"

Erik holds up a hand, his expression thoughtful. "Peace, good father. I may be leaving, but that doesn't mean I can't be of assistance. Tell me, what do you hope to achieve with this revolt?"

Father Brogan's eyes gleam with fervor. "We aim to overthrow the corrupt nobility, to create a society where the church holds true power. No more will the common folk suffer under the yoke of tyrannical lords."

I have to stifle a snort. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, more like. Trading one set of oppressors for another.

Erik strokes his beard, considering. "An ambitious goal. But tell me, what will happen to the people I take with me to Norway? Will they be considered traitors to your cause?"

Father Brogan waves a dismissive hand. "They're but a handful compared to the masses we'll liberate. Their absence will be of little consequence."

Erik nods slowly, his expression unreadable. "And what of the war? Surely you realize that if Ireland falls to the English, your revolution will be short-lived."

"We have plans in place," Father Brogan assures him. "Once we control the villages, we'll have the resources to mount a proper defense against the English. The nobles have been hoarding wealth and weapons for too long."

I watch the exchange with growing fascination. It's like watching a high-stakes game of chess, with Erik and Father Brogan feeling each other out, probing for weaknesses.

"And you believe the common folk will simply fall in line with your new order?" Erik asks, skepticism clear in his voice.

Father Brogan's smile is cold. "They'll have little choice. It's either us or the English. Besides, we'll promise them freedom from serfdom. That alone will win many to our side."

Erik leans back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the armrest. "A bold plan, to be sure. But what of the other priests? Surely not all of them share your... revolutionary fervor."

Father Timothy, who has been fidgeting restlessly, speaks up. "Those who oppose us will be... dealt with. We cannot allow dissent to undermine our holy mission."

I feel a chill run down my spine at the priest's words. There's a fanatical gleam in his eyes that speaks of violence to come.

Erik's gaze flicks to me for a moment, and I see a flicker of concern in his eyes. "And what would you have me do with this information?" he asks, turning back to Father Brogan.

The priest leans forward, his voice urgent. "Say nothing of our plans. When you reach Norway, spread word of the coming revolution. Perhaps we can inspire others to throw off the shackles of nobility."

Erik nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. "I'll consider it. But know this - my first priority is the safety of my family and my people. I'll not jeopardize that for your revolution."

Father Brogan's lips thin, but he nods in acceptance. "Fair enough. We ask only for your discretion."

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Erik leans forward in his armchair, his massive frame casting a long shadow in the flickering candlelight. His emerald eyes gleam with a cunning that makes my skin prickle. "I have a proposition to make," he says, his voice low and measured.

Father Brogan's eyebrows rise slightly. "Go on," he says, his tone cautious but intrigued.

Erik's gaze sweeps across the room, lingering for a moment on each face before he continues. "The Norse will aid you in your revolt," he says, "under one condition."

Father Timothy, who's been fidgeting restlessly in his seat, leans forward. His face is flushed, whether from anger or excitement, I can't tell. "What is the condition?" he demands, his voice sharp with impatience.

A small smile plays at the corners of Erik's lips. It's not a kind smile. "Postpone your revolution," he says simply.

The silence that follows is so thick you could cut it with a knife. I hold my breath, watching the priests' reactions from my quiet corner. Father Brogan's face is a mask of careful neutrality, but I can see the wheels turning behind his eyes. Father Timothy, on the other hand, looks like he's about to explode.

"Postpone?" Father Timothy sputters, his face turning an alarming shade of puce. "After all our planning? All our preparation? You expect us to simply... wait?"

Erik holds up a hand, his expression maddeningly calm. "Hear me out," he says. "The Irish troops are not yet organized enough to face both the English threat and internal strife. Give them time to become a cohesive fighting force. Let them deal with the English first."

Father Brogan strokes his chin thoughtfully. "And what then?" he asks. "How does this benefit our cause?"

Erik's smile widens, showing a flash of teeth. "Once the English threat has been dealt with, there will be celebrations. A great banquet, with all the nobles gathered in one place..."

Understanding dawns on Father Brogan's face. "Ah," he says softly. "I see."

Father Timothy's eyes widen. "You mean to... to kill them all? At once?"

Erik nods, his expression grim. "It's a cleaner solution," he says. "More efficient. And with the Norse backing you, the transition of power will be smoother."

I watch the priests' faces, fascinated by the play of emotions across their features. Father Brogan looks calculating, weighing the pros and cons in his mind. Father Timothy seems torn between his thirst for immediate action and the allure of a more decisive victory.

"How can we trust that you'll follow through?" Father Brogan asks, his voice low and intense. "How do we know this isn't some ploy to protect your noble friends?"

Erik's laugh is harsh and humorless. "My loyalty is to my people, not to the Irish nobility," he says. "I care not for their fates. But a stable Ireland, allied with the Norse? That serves my interests far better than a land torn apart by civil war."

Father Timothy leans back in his chair, his brow furrowed. "It would give us more time to prepare," he muses. "To gather more supporters, perhaps..."

Father Brogan nods slowly. "And with the English threat dealt with, the common folk would be more likely to rally behind us," he adds.

Erik's eyes gleam with triumph. He knows he's got them. "Precisely," he says. "You'll have a stronger base of support, a more organized fighting force, and the element of surprise. The nobles will never see it coming."

The priests exchange a long look, some unspoken communication passing between them. Finally, Father Brogan turns back to Erik. "We'll need to discuss this with our... associates," he says carefully. "But your proposal has merit."

Erik nods, his face a mask of polite interest. "Of course," he says. "Take all the time you need. But remember, the longer you wait, the more lives will be lost in this war with England."

Father Timothy stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "We should go," he says to Father Brogan. "There's much to consider."

Father Brogan rises more slowly, his eyes never leaving Erik's face. "Indeed," he murmurs. "We'll be in touch, Master Erik. Thank you for your... insight."

I watch as the priests make their way to the door, their movements stiff with tension. As soon as the door closes behind them, Erik lets out a long, weary sigh.

I turn to Erik, my mind racing with the implications of everything I've just heard. "That conversation was... enlightening," I say, carefully choosing my words. "But I have my doubts about this whole arrangement. Do you really think the High King will just hand over the north part of Ireland to the Norse, even if you help them?"

Erik's emerald eyes meet mine, a spark of something dangerous flickering in their depths. "What makes you say that?" he asks, his voice low and measured.

I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. "It's just... I've heard stories of similar deals gone wrong. In fact, there was this one time when the English offered lands to some Norse settlers, only to slaughter the entire village days after they arrived to set up. I can't help but wonder if history might repeat itself."

A dark chuckle escapes Erik's lips. "Ah, but you see, that's precisely why I don't intend to stop at merely helping them win this war."

My eyebrows shoot up. "What do you mean?"

Erik leans forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over me. "I plan to kill not just the nobles, but the High King himself. I'll take over Ireland completely and become the new High King."

Holy shit on a stick. Talk about ambition. This guy's not just aiming for a piece of the pie, he wants the whole damn bakery. "Christ, you're that ambitious, huh?" I mutter under my breath.

If Erik hears my comment, he doesn't show it. Instead, he continues, his voice filled with a fervor that's almost frightening. "This opportunity has only been possible because of their revolt. I'm very interested to see how it plays out."

He stands up abruptly, his movement making me take an involuntary step back. "But that's a concern for another day. Right now, I have a leg to break."

The casual way he says it sends a shiver down my spine. But instead of fear, I feel a surge of... anticipation? "I want to watch," I blurt out before I can stop myself. "It would bring me satisfaction to see Oisin suffer."

Erik sighs, running a hand through his golden mane. "Are you certain? It won't be a pleasant sight."

I nod vigorously. "I'm sure. Besides, it's... 'educational'."

Erik regards me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nods and moves to the door. Opening it, he calls out, "Oisin! Come inside!"

There's a pause, then the sound of heavy footsteps. Oisin lumbers into the cottage, his eyes darting nervously between Erik and me. "Let's just get this over with," he grunts. "Do it quick, aye? And... and maybe do both legs? So they don't get any bright ideas about taking me to war on one leg just 'cause I can cook or some shite."

His gaze lands on me, and his brow furrows. "Should the girl be watching this? Ain't right for a child to see such things."

I bristle at being called a 'girl' and a 'child', but I force myself to keep up the act. "It's for my education," I pipe up, injecting a note of childish enthusiasm into my voice. "I'm learning to be a healer, like Erik!"

Oisin's face twists into a sneer. "Education, my arse. You just want to see your old man suffer, don't you?"

I don't bother denying it. Instead, I watch as Erik instructs Oisin to lie down on the floor. The big man does so with a grunt, his face a mask of grim resignation.

Erik positions himself carefully, then raises his foot. There's a moment of tense silence, and then-

CRACK!

The sound of bone snapping fills the room, followed immediately by Oisin's agonized howl. I watch, fascinated, as his leg bends at an unnatural angle. Blood doesn't spurt out like in the movies, but I can see the skin already starting to bruise and swell.

Fuck me sideways, that's satisfying. Watching this piece of shit writhe in pain... it's like Christmas came early. I have to bite my lip to keep from grinning like a maniac.

Erik moves quickly, his hands sure and steady as he begins to treat the break. He splints the leg efficiently, his movements practiced and precise. All the while, Oisin alternates between cursing and whimpering.

"Here," Erik says, handing Oisin a crutch once he's finished. "Use this to walk. Keep the leg elevated when you're resting, and don't put any weight on it for at least six weeks. I'll check on it regularly to make sure it's healing properly."

Oisin nods weakly, his face pale and sweaty. As he struggles to his feet - well, foot - I can't help but feel a surge of dark glee. How the mighty have fallen. Not so tough now, are you, you abusive bastard?

Erik turns to me, his expression serious. "Pay attention," he says. "This is important for your training. Notice how I set the bone and applied the splint. In the future, you may need to do this yourself."

I nod eagerly, playing the part of the attentive student. But inside, I'm practically dancing with joy. Seeing Oisin brought low like this... it's better than any revenge fantasy I could have cooked up.

Oisin hobbles towards the door, his face contorted in a grimace of pain. He pauses at the threshold, turning back to Erik with a look that's equal parts gratitude and resentment. "I... I thank ye, Colm," he grunts, the words seeming to physically pain him. "For savin' me from the draft."

Erik's lips twitch, suppressing a smile. "It's nothing," he says, his voice carefully neutral. "Oh, and do call me Erik from now on, not Colm."

Oisin's eyebrows shoot up, a flicker of understanding crossing his face. "Aye, I knew that was a moniker," he nods, wincing as the movement jostles his broken leg.

Erik chuckles, the sound low and rich. "Take care on the path back home," he says, his tone almost jovial.

I watch Oisin's retreating form, a dark thought bubbling up in my mind. I hope he doesn't make it. I hope some wolves come and gobble him up when they see his handicap. It's a vicious thought, but I can't bring myself to feel guilty about it. After everything he's done, a broken leg is getting off easy.

"I've walked with a broken leg before," Oisin calls over his shoulder, his voice strained. "I can handle it." He takes another step, cursing colorfully as pain lances through him. "Fuckin' hell, though, it hurts somethin' fierce."

As Oisin disappears into the gathering twilight, Erik closes the door with a soft thud. He turns to me, a grin spreading across his face. "Everything is coming together nicely," he says, rubbing his hands together. "Now, I believe I have a... task to attend to." He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. "Time to, as you so eloquently put it, 'beat my meat into a cup'."[...]