Fighting, Honour and Valhalla || Vikings x Originals x TVD Fic

The sky was dull and grey as the people of Kattegat moved through the village with slow, heavy steps. Their bodies bore the lingering aches of broken bones and bruises, but the pain on their faces came from something far deeper. After Dahlia had released them from her grip, many had found themselves standing in the wreckage of their lives, struggling to understand who they were. At first, they couldn't even piece together how they had come to be holding swords against their neighbors, or why they were covered in the blood of their own kin.

It hadn't taken long for the memories to come flooding back. One by one, they remembered. They saw themselves attacking their friends, throwing fists, swinging blades, and setting fires. They recalled the helpless faces of their loved ones, the screams of neighbors they had known for years, and the terror in the eyes of those they had struck down. Dahlia had ripped away their will, leaving them as empty shells, and in doing so, she had made them the tools of her violence.

When they realized what they had done, many collapsed to the ground in shock. Some screamed, others wailed, while most simply wept, unable to make sense of the damage. Even now, days later, the sound of crying could be heard in the streets, in the longhouses, and from the quiet corners where men and women sat alone, staring at their trembling hands. The weight of guilt pressed heavily on all of them.

The marketplace, once a lively center of trade, was eerily silent. Stalls stood abandoned, their goods untouched. Fishermen walked past the docks without sparing a glance at the waters. Blacksmiths sat in their forges, staring at unfinished weapons and tools. Everywhere, people avoided looking one another in the eye, ashamed of the faces they might see looking back. But most of all they all shared the guilt of what had happened to the Jarl. At first it started as a rumour but then it was confirmed as truth when Hilds dead body was placed in a boat and burned out at sea. They had helped a monstrous witch kidnap the Jarls daughter and kill one of his women, and the worst part was that Thorfinn had yet to waken from his slumber near a week onwards from that day. He was in the Mikaelson home where he continued to sleep as the Longhouse had been destroyed.

Ragnar sat on the broken steps of the longhouse, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes scanning the village below. Kattegat was a shadow of what it once was, the air heavy with the weight of shared grief. People moved about slowly, their faces hollow as they tried to rebuild not just their homes but their lives. Many were still nursing bruises and broken bones from the fight they could not remember clearly but would never forget. Beside him, Rollo leaned back, his broad frame resting lazily against the cracked wooden post of the steps. His face was etched with weariness, his eyes staring blankly into the distance.

"They've managed to gather some timber to start on the longhouse," Ragnar said, breaking the silence. His voice was low, heavy. "But the ships... we won't have enough time to repair them, not with the state we're in."

Rollo exhaled through his nose, his lips twisting into a slight frown. "Then there'll be no raiding this summer."

"No," Ragnar agreed. "There won't."

The silence stretched between them for a moment, broken only by the distant sounds of hammers striking wood. A few children darted by in the square, their laughter muted, hesitant, as though even they felt the weight of what had happened.

Rollo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and clasping his hands together. "I'm not sure if I even want to, brother," he said quietly, surprising Ragnar.

Ragnar turned his head to look at him, his brow furrowing. "Not raid? You?"

Rollo shrugged, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "What's the point of it all? Glory? Silver? What good is any of that if we're left with this?" He gestured vaguely at the broken village around them.

Ragnar didn't respond immediately. He shifted his weight, his hands resting loosely on his knees. "I understand," he said finally. "I've thought the same. This..." He paused, searching for the words. "This feels like a punishment, like we're caught in some twisted trap the gods set for their own amusement."

Rollo leaned back against the post again, letting out a bitter laugh. "A nightmare, that's what it feels like. I just hope we've finally broken free of it."

Ragnar's lips pressed into a thin line as he nodded. "If only it were that simple."

Rollo rubbed a hand over his face, his fingers brushing against his beard. "The things we saw out there, Ragnar. The Ulfhednar, the witch... even Thorfinn. He stood against monsters and witches like he belonged in their world, not ours."

Ragnar's gaze dropped to the ground, his jaw tightening. "He's not the same, Rollo. Whatever he is now, whatever he's become, it's something... more. And it concerns me."

"It should," Rollo said, his voice grim. "To think such things exist outside of tales. The Ulfhednar tearing through men like wolves in a sheepfold, that witch twisting our minds as if we were her puppets... And Thorfinn, fighting them like he was born for it. If only the gods had blessed us that way, brother."

Ragnar turned to look at his brother, his expression unreadable. "Blessed?" he echoed softly.

Rollo shrugged again, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Aye. With strength, speed, power. Anything that could even the odds."

Ragnar didn't reply. He looked down at his hands, his fingers curling slowly into fists. The leather of his gloves creaked faintly under the pressure. He stared at his clenched hand, his thoughts racing, his expression darkening. If such things existed in the world how could he become a legend, stories of Thorfinn would no doubt wipe out any mention of his name from the songs, even if he had discovered the path west it was Thorfinn who slew the Leviathan, who became Jarl at merely fifteen winters through conquest.

He wouldn't forget the vision he'd seen in the forest, Floki had told him it was an illusion and not to be trusted, but he knew better. That was his future, an old man, no renown, no legend, just old and left to die. He wouldn't let that happen, he wouldn't let his name fade to time, if these creatures of legend are all real then he merely needed to become one of them, he would gain power and he wouldn't let anyone stop him.

...

Outside in the Mikaelson courtyard, Mikael struck the training dummy with his sword. Each blow landed cleanly, and the wooden frame rattled with the impact. Straw spilled from the split seams, scattering across the ground. Mikael adjusted his grip on the hilt, the sweat on his palm making the handle slick. He stepped closer and brought the blade down again, this time striking the post that supported the dummy. The loud crack echoed through the courtyard, but Mikael paid no mind to the sound. His focus remained entirely on the strikes, his jaw clenched tightly.

His mind was consumed by one image: Dahlia walking away victorious. The memory of her smirk, her complete control, burned itself into his thoughts. He couldn't erase the shame of his failure to protect his family or avenge his stolen child. That woman had humiliated him in front of his sons, and the people of Kattegat. She had won. The thought alone made his chest tighten, and he swung the sword harder. The training dummy wasn't enough to satisfy his anger, but it was the only outlet he had. A few feet away, Finn stood, his arms folded across his chest. He watched his father without speaking. His posture remained still, his shoulders straight. His gaze didn't waver from Mikael, but his expression was devoid of emotion. Finn made no move to intervene or offer words, as if he were a mere observer rather than a participant in this family tragedy. If he felt anything about Dahlia's attack or the havoc it had caused, it didn't show.

Klaus sat on a bench near the wall of the courtyard. He worked on a piece of wood with a dagger, carving in uneven strokes. The blade scratched against the surface, leaving grooves and marks that did not seem to follow any particular pattern. He turned the wood over in his hands, inspecting his progress. His grip on the dagger was firm but unsteady. His hands trembled, making the blade slip more often than not. Klaus set his jaw as he resumed carving. Occasionally, he glanced at Mikael, his face clouded with something unspoken, before returning his attention to the uneven piece of wood in his hand.

Inside the house, Henrik lay in his room. His face was pale, and beads of sweat clung to his forehead despite the cool air. His body was still apart from his shallow breaths. His arms rested limply by his sides, the blanket pulled up to his chest. The boy had not fully recovered from what Dahlia had done to him. She had tortured him in front of Mikael, her magic forcing Henrik to scream and writhe as she demanded answers. Though Esther had worked tirelessly to heal him, her magic could only go so far. The fever remained, and Henrik had not spoken since the attack.

Esther sat beside Henrik's bed, a bowl of water on the table next to her. She dipped a cloth into the water and wrung it out before placing it on Henrik's forehead. Her movements were precise and deliberate. Her lips moved silently, humming a tune she used to sing to her children when they were small. Her thoughts, however, were anything but calm. She blamed herself for Dahlia's actions. It was her deal with her sister that had brought this misery to her family. She had thought she could protect them, but she had failed. Now her youngest son lay broken, and her family hated her.

In the main hall, Elijah sat by the fire pit. His shoulders were square, but his posture gave away his exhaustion. He stared at the flames, the flickering light reflecting in his eyes. His hands rested on the arms of the chair, his fingers curling slightly against the wood. Elijah's thoughts circled endlessly, his mind returning to the moment Dahlia had bested them. He had been powerless, unable to protect anyone. His pride, his honor—everything he had built himself upon—felt hollow now.

Arwyn stood against the far wall, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her gaze remained fixed on the floor. She shifted occasionally, her movements small and restless. Arwyn had been used against her will during the attack, forced to transform into her wolf form and attack the people she cared about. The shame lingered. Every time she thought of it, her stomach turned. She clenched her arms tighter, as if she could hold herself together.

Blaeja sat on a low stool in the corner, her hands resting in her lap. Her gaze moved from Elijah to the flames and back again. She didn't speak, her fingers tracing idle patterns on her dress. She had watched Hild die that night. Hild, the woman who had welcomed her, taught her their language, and treated her with kindness. Blaeja didn't know how to reconcile that loss. Every time she thought of it, she felt a hollow ache in her chest.

Rebekah stood in her room upstairs, holding Freydis close to her chest. The baby nursed quietly, her small hands moving slightly as she fed. Rebekah adjusted her grip, her gaze moving between her daughter and the bed behind her. Thorfinn lay on the bed, his face pale and his body still. His breathing was steady, but he had not woken since the attack. Rebekah's lips tightened as she looked at him. She brushed a hand over Freydis's head and adjusted her grip again.

The room was silent apart from Freydis's faint movements. The shutters were half-open, letting in a cool breeze. The scent of herbs lingered in the air from the poultice applied earlier to Thorfinn's injuries. Rebekah turned her attention back to her daughter, her hand brushing gently over the baby's head. Despite everything, Freydis was here, safe in her arms. But her heart was heavy. She couldn't forget the sight of Hild's body burning at sea or the guilt she felt over being powerless to stop Dahlia from taking her child's sister and her own child in all but blood.

The Mikaelson home carried a stillness that was almost suffocating. The despair that hung over the family was inescapable. Each member carried the weight of their failure, the memories of that night replaying endlessly in their minds. Even the smallest tasks felt heavy, and though life continued, it felt as though time had stopped. Klaus continued carving the wood outside, his hands shaking as he worked. Mikael struck the dummy again, the loud crack echoing through the courtyard. Inside, Esther replaced the cloth on Henrik's forehead. Blaeja adjusted her dress, her fingers moving absently over the fabric. Elijah stared into the fire, his thoughts elsewhere. Arwyn remained against the wall, unmoving. Upstairs, Rebekah shifted Freydis in her arms.

Rebekah ran her fingers through the soft tufts of white hair on Freydis' head, the same striking color as her father's. It was a small comfort, in the face of so much loss. Hild's death was still fresh in her mind. Her sister-wife had been more than just a companion—she had been a source of solace, someone who had shared in her burdens and offered strength during her weakest moments, especially the nights when Thorfinn was presumed dead. Hild would have loved Freydis as much as Rebekah did, and now she was gone, along with Morgyn, leaving a void that felt impossible to fill.

Her eyes fell to the faint scar on Freydis' small arm. That mark pulled her back to the night of Freydis' birth, a night she would never forget. She had been utterly exhausted, barely able to lift her head, but all she had wanted was to hold her daughter. Instead, her mother had taken Freydis from her arms without explanation. Even now, the memory made her stomach twist. Rebekah had tried to get up, but her body betrayed her. She could only watch as Esther raised a dagger, its blade gleaming in the dim light. She had screamed, her voice raw with desperation. "What are you doing?!"

Hild had placed a steady hand on her shoulder, pushing her back against the bed. "It will be okay," she had whispered, but her expression was anything but reassuring.

Freydis' cries filled the room, until they suddenly stopped. Rebekah's heart had clenched as she saw a single drop of blood glisten on the dagger's tip. "What have you done?!" she had cried, her voice cracking.

"This is the way it has to be," Hild had said, her voice quiet but firm. There had been a sadness in her eyes that Rebekah hadn't understood at the time.

Now, she understood. The spell Esther had cast that night had been the key to tricking Dahlia. The blood taken from Freydis had been used to bind her to Morgyn, merging their essences through their shared lineage as firstborns. It was a cruel necessity, a deception powerful enough to fool even Dahlia. Morgyn had been taken in Freydis' place, and though it had saved her daughter, it had cost them both Hild and Morgyn.

Rebekah held Freydis closer, brushing a finger along her tiny cheek. She was safe, but at what price? The thought haunted her. She glanced down at Freydis, whose small, bright eyes had fluttered open. They were a shade of blue that seemed almost luminous, lighter than her own or Thorfinn's. She smiled faintly, despite the ache in her chest. "You are safe," she whispered. "And I will make sure it stays that way."

Her gaze drifted to the bed where Thorfinn lay motionless. His face was pale, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. It had been a week since the battle, and he still hadn't woken. Rebekah had stayed by his side every day, torn between hope and fear. She needed him to wake. Freydis needed him to wake.

The knock at the door startled her.

"Come in," she said, her voice steady despite the tension in her chest. The door creaked open, and Rebekah's stomach tightened when she saw who it was. Her mother stepped inside, carrying a small basket of supplies.

"I'm here to tend to his wounds," Esther said, her tone neutral as she moved toward the bed.

Rebekah didn't reply, her focus remaining on Freydis as she gently rocked her. Esther sat down on the opposite side of the bed and began to unpack her basket. Rebekah couldn't stop herself from glancing over as Esther pulled back the blanket, revealing the extent of Thorfinn's injuries. Deep cuts and bruises covered his body, Rebekah inhaled sharply, her throat tightening.

Esther worked in silence, unwrapping old bandages and applying fresh ones. "You cannot hate me forever, Rebekah," she said without looking up.

Rebekah continued to rock Freydis, her expression unreadable. "You've given me little reason not to," she replied coldly.

Esther paused for a moment but didn't respond. She picked up a small jar and began preparing a poultice, muttering a quick spell under her breath before spreading it across Thorfinn's wounds. Her hands moved with practiced care as she cleaned each injury. When she finished, she tilted Thorfinn's head back and poured a bitter tonic into his mouth, forcing him to swallow.

"These wounds run deep," Esther said, finally breaking the silence. "He's fighting something inside—something toxic. It's slowing his healing. His body is trying to rebuild itself, but it's taking longer than it should."

Rebekah didn't respond, her eyes fixed on Freydis' peaceful face.

Esther looked at her daughter, her voice softening. "I did what I had to do to keep both of you safe," she said.

Rebekah's lips pressed into a thin line. "You made the deal, Mother," she said quietly. "You brought this upon us."

Esther exhaled slowly, her hands pausing. "And I've lived with that guilt every day since." She stood and moved to Rebekah's side, placing a hand on her shoulder. "You're a mother now. Look at her," she said, gesturing to Freydis. "Look at her and tell me you wouldn't do anything—sacrifice everything—to protect her."

Rebekah finally looked up, meeting her mother's gaze with a mixture of anger and pain. Her silence spoke louder than words.

Esther leaned down and pressed a kiss to her daughter's head. "I hope you'll forgive me one day," she said softly before turning and leaving the room.

Rebekah sat in the quiet that followed, her thoughts racing. She hated her mother for the choices she had made, but deep down, she knew the truth. She would do the same for Freydis if it came to it. Looking down at her daughter, she made a silent promise. Whatever it took, Freydis would be safe. Rebekah would see to it, no matter the cost.

___________________________

Thorfinn stood in the middle of a dense forest. The trees around him were twisted and gnarled. The ground beneath his feet was uneven. The air was heavy. In the distance, he could hear Hild's voice, calling out for help. He ran toward the sound, pushing branches out of his way. Each step felt heavier than the last, but he forced himself forward.

The first creature came from his left, a werewolf charging at him with claws outstretched. Thorfinn raised his axe and swung it into the beast's side. The werewolf stumbled but didn't fall. It lunged again. Thorfinn stepped to the side and brought the axe down on its neck. The creature collapsed. He didn't stop moving.

Another werewolf emerged from the shadows. This one leapt toward him. Thorfinn ducked and swung his axe upward. The blade caught the creature in its jaw. Blood sprayed as the werewolf fell to the ground. He heard more snarling behind him. He turned and saw two more closing in. One slashed at him. He blocked the attack with his axe and kicked the creature back. The other lunged, and Thorfinn used the axe to strike its head.

The forest seemed endless, but he could still hear Hild's voice. He pushed forward. The creatures kept coming. A wolf with glowing eyes jumped from above. Thorfinn dropped to one knee, avoiding the strike, and buried his axe into its chest. Another came at him from the side. He rolled under its swipe and grabbed a fallen branch. He jammed it into the creature's throat. The werewolf collapsed.

Thorfinn's breathing was heavy. He could see an opening ahead. He ran toward it, his legs burning. When he broke through the trees, he saw Hild. She was on her knees, her arms bound behind her back. Dahlia stood behind her, holding a dagger. Thorfinn yelled her name and started running.

More creatures appeared between him and Hild. Thorfinn swung his axe. He struck one creature in the side and shoved another back with his shoulder. He could hear Hild's cries growing louder. He broke through the line of beasts and sprinted toward her.

Dahlia raised the dagger. Thorfinn yelled her name again. She didn't stop. The blade came down. Thorfinn's steps faltered as Hild's body slumped forward.

"No!" he screamed. He tried to push forward, but something hit him from the side. He fell to the ground.

He looked up, expecting to see the sky. Instead, he saw the sea. The water churned above him. In its depths, the shape of the Leviathan loomed. Its form was massive. Its body moved slowly through the water, its jaws opening wide. Thorfinn tried to move, but the force of the sea dragged him downward.

The Leviathan's mouth opened wider. Thorfinn yelled as he was pulled toward it. The darkness swallowed him whole.

...

Thorfinn's eyes opened. His chest rose and fell fast, each breath rough. Sweat ran down his face and neck. His arms stayed still at his sides, his fingers curling weakly into the blanket. His legs felt stiff, refusing to move. He stared at the ceiling, unblinking, the weight of his body pressing him into the bed.

His breaths began to slow, but his chest ached with each rise. He gritted his teeth and pushed himself up slightly. A sharp pain flared in his side, forcing him back down. He clenched the edge of the blanket in his hand, his knuckles tight. The nightmare stayed fresh in his mind, he could still hear Hild's scream and feel the pull of the Leviathan's maw.

His eyes scanned the room, searching for something real. The wooden beams above were dimly lit, shadows stretching along the walls. A faint sound of wind reached his ears through the window. In the corner, Rebekah sat on a stool, she held Freydis close. The room felt warmer where they were. Rebekah's head turned toward him, her eyes wide.

Rebekah set Freydis down in her cot and rushed to Thorfinn. She wrapped her arms around him, her hold firm. Thorfinn grunted, his body too weak to resist. She pulled back slightly, looking at his face.

"I am so glad you are well. When you would not wake, I feared the worst," she said. Her voice wavered as tears fell down her face. Thorfinn lifted his arms weakly, placing his hands on her shoulders. He pushed her back just enough to look her in the eyes. "Hild," he said, his voice hoarse and quiet.

Rebekah's tears came faster. She tried to speak but couldn't find the words.

Thorfinn tightened his grip on her arms, his face tense. "Hild," he repeated, desperation clear in his tone.

Rebekah looked away, shaking her head. "I'm sorry," she said softly.

Thorfinn's breathing grew uneven. He knew, but he couldn't accept it. His hands fell from her shoulders, trembling as he tried to speak again. "Where is my child?" His voice broke.

Rebekah reached for his hand, holding it in hers. "It is a story for another time," she said, her tone steady. "When you are stronger."

Thorfinn's body slumped against the bed. His eyes began to close. He fought to keep them open but couldn't. His breathing slowed, and his head tilted back.

"Thorfinn!" Rebekah shouted. She shook his shoulders, trying to wake him. "Thorfinn, stay with me!" Her voice rose in panic. She turned toward the door. "Mother! Mother, come quickly!"

The next few weeks passed slowly. Thorfinn remained in the same bed, his strength returning bit by bit. At first, he was too weak to move. Rebekah stayed by his side, feeding him small spoonfuls of broth when he could manage it. His voice was faint, his words few. When he was strong enough to sit up, Rebekah helped him lean against the bedframe. He winced with every movement, but he said nothing. His eyes were distant, his mind heavy with unanswered questions.

On the second week, he asked again about Hild and his child. Rebekah hesitated before answering. "Hild is gone," she said, her voice low. "And Morgyn... she is with Dahlia."

Thorfinn's hands curled into fists. His knuckles whitened. He looked at Rebekah, his expression unreadable. "Why?" he asked.

Rebekah placed her hand on his arm, tears began to stream down her cheeks. "It was the only way to save Freydis. We had no other choice." Her voice cracked, but she forced herself to continue. "Hild and my mother... they made it possible."

Thorfinn turned his head away. He stared at the wall, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. He didn't speak for the rest of the day. When Esther entered the room the following morning with fresh bandages and poultices, Thorfinn refused to look at her. "I don't need your help," he said.

"You need to heal," Esther replied. She placed the basket on the table beside the bed.

Thorfinn growled at her. "I will not accept it from you, you're lucky I don't snap your neck!"

Esther opened her mouth to respond, but Rebekah stepped between them. "Leave us," she said to her mother. Her tone was firm, leaving no room for argument.

Esther nodded and left the room without another word.

Rebekah turned back to Thorfinn. She sat beside him, placing Freydis in his arms. "For her, you must heal," she said quietly.

Thorfinn looked down at Freydis. Her small hand curled around his finger. He stared at her, his expression softening. After a long silence, he nodded.

By the third week, Thorfinn began to walk short distances. Rebekah stayed close, ready to steady him if he faltered. His steps were slow, his balance unsteady, but he moved with determination he would not allow Dahlia to get away with what he'd done to his family. He spent hours pacing the room, his mind set on regaining his strength.

When he wasn't walking, he sat by the window, holding Freydis. He spoke to her in quiet tones, telling her stories of Kattegat and the life he would give her. His voice remained rough, but his words were steady.

On the fourth week, he lifted his sword for the first time since waking. His grip was weak, and the blade felt heavier than it ever had. He practiced small swings, his movements slow but precise. Each swing brought a sharp pain to his muscles, but he refused to stop.

Rebekah watched from the doorway, Freydis in her arms. She didn't speak, letting him work in silence.

The pain of losing Morgyn never left him. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Dahlia's face. He saw Hild's body. He clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms. His anger burned, but his focus remained on Freydis. She was all he had left.

By the end of the fifth week, Thorfinn stood tall again. His steps were firm. His grip on his sword was strong. But his heart remained heavy. He looked out the window of the room, the village of Kattegat in the distance. His jaw tightened. Rebekah stepped behind him, placing her hand on his shoulder. He didn't turn to her, but he reached up and placed his hand over hers.

"She needs you," Rebekah said. Her voice was calm.

Thorfinn nodded. "She is not the only one who does," he replied.

___________________________

(A Week Later)

Ragnar, Floki, and Lagertha walked up the pathway toward the Mikaelson home. Word had reached them that Thorfinn was finally well enough to receive visitors. They hoped to find him recovering, perhaps beginning to take charge of Kattegat once again. Instead, the sound of shouting reached them as they approached the house.

Ragnar frowned and quickened his pace. "What now?" he muttered.

Inside, the commotion grew louder. Rebekah's voice was clear, filled with desperation. "Please, Thorfinn, you can't do this!" she cried. Her words were choked with sobs.

When they entered the main hall, they found Thorfinn standing near a table, stuffing items into a pack. Rebekah stood a few feet away, tears streaming down her face. Blaeja, Elijah, and Klaus flanked her, each trying to reason with him.

"This is madness," Elijah said, his voice calm but firm. "You're not strong enough to face her."

"You'll be walking to your death," Klaus added, crossing his arms.

Esther stood near the corner of the room, her face pale. "He speaks the truth. You cannot face Dahlia. Not now, not ever," she said. Her tone was devoid of emotion, but her words carried weight.

Thorfinn ignored them all. He tightened the straps on his pack and slung it over his shoulder.

Rebekah rushed forward and grabbed his arm. "Please, listen to them," she begged. "Stay here. Stay with your family."

At that moment, Ragnar, Floki, and Lagertha stepped into the room. All eyes turned to them. Rebekah's gaze locked onto Ragnar's. "Please," she said through her tears. "Talk to him. He won't listen to us."

Ragnar frowned and approached the table. "What is this?" he asked, his tone sharp.

Rebekah wiped her face, trying to steady her voice. "Thorfinn is leaving. He's going to track Dahlia, to find Morgyn, and... and kill her."

Ragnar turned to Thorfinn. "You're leaving Kattegat?" he asked. "Now? After everything?"

Thorfinn nodded. "I cannot sit here while she has my child."

Ragnar's expression darkened. "Kattegat needs you. Do you know what state we're in? We're weaker than we've ever been. Without a Jarl, this village will fall apart."

Lagertha stepped forward. "He's right. We need strong leadership now more than ever. You've barely recovered, Thorfinn. This is no time for vengeance."

Thorfinn looked at both of them. "Floki will tell all of you the commands I have left. He has access to my silver and resources. If you follow my instructions, Kattegat will become stronger than it ever was."

Floki, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. He grinned and let out a small giggle. "You mean I get to build a fleet?" he asked.

Thorfinn nodded. "Yes, Floki. A grand fleet. When we sail for England next, we will not be content with a mere two chests of gold and silver."

Floki's grin widened. "I'll get started right away," he said, his tone almost cheerful.

Rebekah stepped closer to Thorfinn, her hands trembling as she reached for him. She clutched his tunic, her tears returning. "Don't go," she whispered. "Stay. Please."

Thorfinn cupped her face in his hands. "If I cannot find her by the time the fleet is ready, I will return," he said, his voice steady. "I promise you."

Rebekah's tears fell faster. He leaned forward and kissed her, a firm and lingering kiss that seemed to silence the room. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers. "Take care of Freydis," he said.

He turned to the others. Elijah approached him first. "You're a fool... be careful," he said, gripping Thorfinn's arm tightly.

Klaus smirked faintly. "Try not to die, brother."

Floki gave him a slap on the back. "Don't take too long, or I might name the ships after myself."

Lagertha placed a hand on his shoulder. "Come back whole," she said simply.

Ragnar stood last, his face unreadable. "If you don't return, I'll have to become the new Jarl," he said.

Thorfinn gave him a nod before stepping toward the cot where Freydis lay. He bent down and picked her up gently, cradling her close. Her tiny fingers wrapped around his thumb, and for a moment, his expression softened. "I will love you always and forever," he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. He held her for a moment longer before placing her back in the cot.

Rebekah sobbed quietly as he turned toward the door. Without another word, Thorfinn walked out, the pack on his back and his sword at his side. Thorfinn stepped outside, the cold air brushing against his skin. He paused when he noticed Arwyn standing near the path. She was still, her arms crossed, her face set. He walked closer, stopping a few feet away.

"I hate you for what you did to my family," she said. Her voice was low, strained. Her gaze was sharp, but her hands trembled at her sides.

Thorfinn stood silently, his face steady as he let her speak.

"I love you for saving me from a life of misery in that cursed form," she added after a moment. Her voice wavered but did not break.

He nodded slowly, meeting her eyes. "I understand," he said.

He stopped in front of her, their eyes locked. "Do you want to come with me?" he asked after a pause.

For a moment, her expression was unreadable. Then, without warning, she stepped forward and struck him hard in the stomach. The force of the blow made him double over, clutching his gut. His breath escaped him in a loud grunt.

As he struggled to straighten, she turned and began to walk away, her long braid swaying with each step. She glanced back over her shoulder, her tone impatient. "Are you coming?" she asked, as if he was the one keeping her waiting.

Thorfinn let out a small chuckle, shaking his head as he stood. "I suppose I am," he said, his voice still a bit winded.

He caught up to her, and together they walked to the stables. They saddled two horses in silence, then mounted and rode out of Kattegat. Neither spoke as they left the village behind and entered the dense forest, the sound of hooves muffled by the soft earth beneath them.

When they reached a large white oak tree, Thorfinn slowed his horse to a stop. He dismounted, his boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. Arwyn watched him with narrowed eyes, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword.

"What are we stopping for?" she asked, her tone guarded.

Thorfinn didn't answer right away. Instead, he turned toward the tree. From behind it stepped a man, his white hair catching the faint light that filtered through the canopy above. Arwyn's eyes immediately narrowed, her stance shifting as she recognized him.

Geralt of Rivia stood still, his piercing yellow eyes moving between the two of them. His expression was unreadable, but his hand stayed away from his sword.

"You didn't tell me there would be another," Geralt said in his usual gruff tone, his gaze fixed on Thorfinn.

"Does it matter?" Thorfinn replied, his voice calm but firm.

Geralt let out a low grunt, his expression unchanging. "The training I'll put you through isn't easy. There's no guarantee you'll survive, even before we face the Witch," he said, his voice heavy with experience.

"I'll do whatever it takes," Thorfinn said without hesitation. His eyes burned with determination.

Geralt shifted his gaze to Arwyn. He studied her for a moment before speaking. "And you?" he asked.

Arwyn didn't answer right away. Instead, she stepped closer, her hand dropping from her sword. "I do not fear death," she said flatly.

Geralt's lips twitched into something that could almost be a smirk. "Good, what we will face will be much worse," he said.

He turned back to Thorfinn and gave a single nod. "Let's go, then. We have a long road ahead of us."

Geralt clicked his tongue, calling his horse from the shadows. The three mounted their horses, the silence between them stretching as they rode deeper into the forest. As they disappeared among the trees, the village of Kattegat faded behind them, for Thorfinn, it marked the beginning of what would become the most grueling years of his life.

(AN: So here we are, the end of the second arc and the beginning of the third. Thorfinn will be undergoing his training arc now, where he will be steeped much deeper into the supernatural world and getting much better. After this Thorfinn will be the best with a sword, unless they can make it up in other ways Thorfinn will beat them in a sword fight. He'll also have a lot more time to adapt to his magic that he gained from eating leviathan meat. If you couldn't tell the reason Thorfinn had been so sick this chapter is because of the swallow potion Geralt gave him, it fixed him but it also poisoned him. Anyway I hope you enjoyed the chapter.)

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