Legends Never Die: Schemes (ch. 178) (Patreon)

“Did you know?” I asked my brother Haldur once we managed to get a private moment when the first day of the festivities started to wind down. There was no accusation in my tone, or anything like that, but I wasn’t asking out of idle curiosity. 

Haldur’s expression pinched, hearing an accusation all the same. “I suspected he might,” he replied and… 

He lied. It didn’t particularly surprise me that he lied. Haldur wasn’t one to admit weakness or ignorance. From his expression, it was clear that Godfrey’s attendance to the wedding was as unpleasant for him as it was for me. Particularly when Godfrey joined the party of King Rurik, who Haldur was attempting to bring into his own sphere of influence, which put Godfrey in his orbit. 

“I wonder what made him so bold,” I remarked lightly, making Haldur relax ever so slightly when the expected rebuke didn’t come. “Truth be told, I nearly forgot about him. He’s kept his head below the waves for some time now.”

Things were rather different these days. I expected Godfrey to make his move much sooner. He had a claim on the throne of Denmark, however short-lived his reign had been before he lost the crown to Horrik. In truth, he wasn't the problem he was during the early days. 

I feared he would have made an attempt to retake Denmark during my conquest of Scandinavia. Perhaps that was his plan, waiting for me to stumble, so he could have an easier time usurping my throne. When the opportunity passed him by, he faded from relevance. My grip on Scandinavia was sure, but my rule over Denmark was unquestionable.

Which made it interesting he was choosing to make a move like this now. Right after I had proven our collective might and the empire was more tightly bound than ever. In a few words -- it felt too late. Too late to make a bid for the throne of Denmark. His rule was too brief and all but forgotten a decade and a half later. 

He was either a fool in denial, or he had his eyes set on another prize. 

“He could be looking for a bride for his son,” Haldur ventured. “Or maybe for himself. He's looking to plant roots somewhere since Denmark is closed to him.” 

Possible. “I would have thought he did so in Saxony,” I replied. In fact, I knew for a fact he had. Widukind felt like he owed Godfrey’s family a debt for harboring him after his first failed rebellion against Charlemagne, so he asked for mercy and offered Godfrey lands to settle when I refused to make Godfrey King of Denmark. “Which one is his son?” 

“Brown haired lad who looks like his bones are growing faster than his skin.” That was a rather accurate description of him. He was a young man in his late teens, a thin beard growing on his cheeks, but he looked like he had grown a foot and a half on the boat ride over. He was currently dancing with a familiar face. Thusnelda's attendant, Ylva. 

From my vantage point, I could see Magnus watching them from the corner of his eye. There was a suspicion clear in his gaze. 

“It seems he's not looking to settle down in Novgorod,” I observed. It was to be expected. Thusnelda was the daughter of one of my kings. It was only natural that there would be competition for her hand, and Ylva seemed to be a filter all the potential candidates had to run through. 

Something I suspected Magnus disagreed with. 

“Perhaps not,” Haldur observed with me, before he followed my gaze. “My boy tells me yours has taken an interest in Wessex.” 

My brother was probing me. Trying to gauge if that was an interest I had given him as part of a broader strategy. However, the surprise on my face wasn't at all fake. “Has he, now?” I questioned, my gaze lingering on my second son, wrapping my head around the development. “He hasn't said as much to me.” 

It wasn't a bad idea, but one I had largely dismissed. With Ragnar removing himself from the succession, Magnus was the natural next candidate to be my heir. I wasn't certain about the decision, broadly speaking. Magnus seemed quite content to remain in his elder brother's shadow, so I was uncertain if he was developing the skills necessary to be a leader rather than his brother's trusted companion. That being said, since Ragnar was becoming King of Alba, Magnus was being forced to step up. 

People naturally drifted to him now, as he was the presumed heir. While that, in itself, was shameful for a boy to have to deal with, it was good for him to step out of his brother's shadow. 

“He doesn't want to look spoiled, I imagine,” Haldur ventured. A very real possibility. “I'd tan my boy's hide if he had the gall to ask for a kingdom like it was some kind of pet.” 

“If he wants it, he'll have to earn it,” I replied. It was worth a conversation, at least. I needed someone I could trust in Wessex, and Magnus was a good candidate. However, I couldn't say it wasn't a little… disappointing, for lack of a better word. Ragnar would have made a strong Alvaldr. Magnus could too, once he grew into himself. Yet, it seemed all my sons were decidedly uninterested in being Alvaldr in favor of kingdoms. 

Haldur snorted softly next to me. “Well, if he does earn it… it does call into question marrying into Bretislav’s brood. He’d be better off marrying into a family in Britannia.” He wasn’t wrong, but I felt that the remark served two masters. Haldur, like me, looked to the future. 

It was why he was at the center of this little plot of building a power bloc within my empire around his family and Sweden itself. A marriage between Magnus and Thusnelda would firmly bring Pomerania into the fold, securing a power bloc for my successors -- Denmark, Saxony, Norway, and then Pomerania.

“I wouldn’t be so certain,” I replied, offering a thin smile. His eyes narrowed a fraction before they widened. 

“Ah,” My brother uttered, and he understood the scope of my plans for Wessex in that moment. For Britannia as a whole. He had been operating under a mistaken assumption. A reasonable one. During my conquest around the Baltic, I created kingdoms from the ground up, which allowed me to put people loyal to me in power. 

When I took over Denmark, I was able to purge the nobility to install loyalists. 

However, he was under the assumption that it would be too monumental a task for Wessex. The population wouldn’t stand for it, he reasoned. Assumed. But I had left Ecbert quite a quandary with very few means to solve it. If I understood him as well as I thought I did, then I knew exactly what he was going to do with that wealth of resources he managed to acquire from the refugees and exiled nobility. 

He wouldn’t use it to provide for the people. 

Haldur took a moment to internalize the news, realizing that it was an opportunity for his second son and the nobility as well. Subtly, he inclined his head to me, appreciating the advance notice. I wasn’t telling him so just because he was my brother. I was doing it because I knew what his next three moves would be. 

Wessex was going to become an important kingdom in my empire. It was going to be densely populated and rich because it sat as the perfect waystation for trade between the Abbasids and us. Enough so that I had to deliberately curtail its eventual power by cutting it in half to prevent England from ever forming. 

His son Harald would inherit his crown. While he couldn’t grant another to his second son, Erik, he could send him across the North Sea to become an important Jarl in Wessex. Provided I had reason to bestow such a favor upon my brother. 

Something he understood most keenly, I think. 

“I would pay less attention to your sons,” Mother’s voice rang out behind us, approaching with a thin smile. “And more to your daughters. Yours in particular, Siegfried. It seems Scáthach and Aife have taken issue with one another.”

A sigh nearly escaped me. Those girls really couldn’t have gone a day without fighting? “For what cause?” The ‘this time’ went unspoken. Mostly because it was entirely unneeded. 

“It would seem a boy caught their attention,” Mother remarked lightly, making my concern grow for a number of reasons. “And the best way they could think of to decide who gets to dance with him is a duel.”

“... where?” I asked, not at all caring for the smile my Mother gave me. It all but screamed, ‘your children are penance for the stress you gave me and your father.’ Worse, I couldn’t exactly argue that point either. All the same, Mother made a gesture for us to follow, and we did. Me, to prevent my daughters from killing one another. Haldur, mostly so he could delight in my suffering. 

The answer was the small garden on the other side of the palace. I heard them fighting before I saw them, even over the sound of a muttering crowd. It wasn’t a large crowd, thankfully, but a few dozen observed the frenzied duel with expressions of astonishment. 

Scáthach and Aife favored the spear, but they could wield swords and shields with as much grace. It was the latter they chose as weapons, and thankfully, the swords were made of wood. My eldest daughters, in a few words, didn’t need a reason to fight. They barely needed an excuse. They had, and often did, fight for reasons as nebulous as ‘she took my dessert, or she was breathing too loud.’ 

Because of it, the pair fought in a graceful, almost rehearsed manner, as the result of ten thousand duels. They knew exactly where the other’s reach ended. They knew exactly how fast and strong the other was. And they knew exactly what kind of risks they would take, thus how they would fight. The result was an impressive display where they swung their weapons with all their strength, dodging by millimeters before countering, and countering when their counters were countered. 

There was a difference between them. It was a subtle thing. Both of my daughters were immensely talented, trained relentlessly to fully realize that talent, and they had the drive to improve. Their hands were not of a soft lady, but covered in as many calluses as mine were. Yet, there was one undeniable difference between them, no matter how desperately Aife tried to deny it. 

Scáthach was the more talented of the two. Her half-hearted effort matched Aife’s wholehearted one, and Scáthach wasn’t one to do anything half-heartedly in the first place. Aife was able to keep up with genuinely awe inspiring amounts of pure effort, yet-

Aife’s expression tightened as a warning of what was coming. She didn’t overreact. She just tried to fight harder, move a little faster, and that’s what decided the bout. 

Scáthach was patient. Relaxed, almost. She knew the opportunity was coming because it always eventually did, and the moment it arrived, Scáthach pounced. She stepped forward, hooking her heel behind Aife’s foot as she drove her shoulder into her sister’s shield. Aife overextended the barest amount, trying to counter even as she fell, but Scáthach was well prepared for it as well. 

 The fight ended with Scáthach smacking away Aife’s wooden sword before pressing hers to Aife’s throat. A decisive ending to the fight. As always, Aife scowled, Scáthach gave her smug expression. Only this time Aife’s expression pinched before she smacked away the wooden sword. 

She said nothing to her sister as she got to her feet, stomping away with her shoulders hunched and an expression that made the crowd part for her. Scáthach wavered ever so slightly, her brow furrowing as she realized Aife was seemingly upset. More than she usually was after a loss. 

I sighed at the sight, unable to keep it down. All the more so when Scáthach seemed to shrug off her sister’s plight before turning to the boy who started this entire mess. He was… fine, I suppose. I wasn’t particularly adept at judging a man’s beauty, but he seemed very much like a teenager to me.

A teenager whose blood steadily began to drain from his face when Scáthach approached him, prompting her to follow his gaze. Our eyes met, and she understood in that moment. Scáthach made a show of rolling her eyes hard enough that they just about fell out of her head, but seeing as the boy was thoroughly cowed by my mere presence, she abruptly lost any and all interest in him. 

Not out of any particular respect for me, I imagine. More she didn’t respect anyone who didn’t have a spine or a willingness to take what they wanted. 

“I should go to her,” I started, my gaze following the direction Aife was going but Haldur stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. His expression was solemn when he shook his head. 

“Forgive me, brother, but this… I don’t believe this is a problem you’ll be able to help her with. I’ll speak to my niece,” he offered. I opened my mouth to deny him- she was my daughter after all, but then the admission registered. In the end… I was closer to Scáthach than I was Aife. It felt shameful to admit I couldn’t help her with how she was feeling at the moment. 

All the same, I offered a small nod, thanking him for it. He was my elder brother, but one who was long since cast into my shadow. Even back when we were children, he hadn’t been able to escape it. 

Haldur patted my shoulder before following after Aife. I watched him, feeling uniquely useless in that moment until Mother patted my hand. “You aren’t perfect, Siegfried. Nor are you the right man for every task,” she added. She was right, I knew, but that didn’t make it any easier to admit. “Nor for this next talk. Leave Scáthach to me, Siegfried. I have far more experience wrangling teenage daughters than you.”

I thought of my own sisters -- Helga and Solveig. They got along most of the time, which made the times they didn’t… memorable. 

Nodding wordlessly, Mother chuckled as she gave my hand a squeeze and she moved to collect Scáthach. Scáthach’s expression pinched, knowing she was in for a talking to, but she didn’t resist. I watched them go, leaving me along with my thoughts, just for a moment. 

Ragnar and Magnus both had Blessings. Scáthach and Aife were also worthy of a Blessing, but they had the exact opposite relationship from my eldest sons. They fought like a pair of cats in a bag. I had no ability to control what Blessings they would receive, nor did I know with certainty how the Blessings were chosen. 

Things were… not great between the twins, but they could absolutely be worse. If Scáthach received two Martial Blessings, and Aife received none… it would destroy Aife. She fought so hard to keep up with her sister, training until her hands bled, in the cold or sweltering heat. Likewise, if Aife received two Marital Blessings and Scáthach none, or even one, thus letting her younger twin close the gap between them… Scáthach could be resentful. Aife could feel cheated. 

Ideally, they would both receive Marital Blessings, and the differences between them were minimal. Not the same, but in the same vein as Ragnar’s Battle Precongition. They would encourage their strengths, cover their weaknesses, but put them on equal footing. 

“I need to speak to Morrigan,” I reasoned, my lips thinning. Only then did I catch a flash of movement in my expanded vision. Turning to face them, I kept my expression blank when I saw it was Pepin. He wore a costume of motley, and for one with such an affliction, he was remarkably light-footed. 

He looked up at me with cutting eyes before dropping into a bow that felt decidedly sarcastic. “Alvaldr,” Pepin greeted me. 

I looked down at him for a moment, curious as to why he approached me. “Prince Pepin,” I greeted him in turn. 

“I see where your son gets his politeness from. Twice I have been acknowledged as a prince, even if I’m hardly dressed as one,” Pepin returned. And it would seem Magnus had met Pepin at some point. Likely during the tour of the grounds, which had been more to give him and Thusnelda a private moment. 

“Is that why you have approached me? Acknowledgment?” I questioned, making Pepin rise from his bow. His expression offered nothing. 

“Far from it, Alvaldr,” Pepin replied smoothly. “I am a humble fool, and that was quite the heavy expression you wore. Is it not my place to entertain?” He questioned, offering a humorless smile. 

I wonder, did he resent me for his position? No- that was foolish. Of course he resented me. My raid had led to his capture, and my lack of interference had my brother to turn him into a fool to provoke a reaction from Charlemagne. An attempt to force him into ransoming Pepin, else staining his legacy. 

But it would seem Charlemagne was convinced he had scrubbed Pepin’s name clean from the tapestry of his saga. 

“And how would you intend to do that?” I asked him, making his humorless smile grew. 

“Why, what lightens the heart more than learning about the misfortunes of one's enemies? Both abroad… and much closer to home,” Pepin added softly in a voice just above a whisper. My expression tightened and my gaze lingered on him for a moment. He seemed to be honest, but that just worried me more. 

“And in exchange, I suppose you will want your freedom?” I ventured, making Pepin laugh. It was a harsh and mocking sound. 

His lips pulled back into something resembling a snarl. “I am a hunchback, a fool, and an exiled prince.” He practically spat the words out with as much civility as the action would allow.  “Yet, I possess my own pride, Alvaldr.  If my fortunes are to change, then they will be by my own hand. Not yours. Not my father’s. And not God’s either.” 

His eyes burned with an uncompromising intensity as he spoke, glaring up at me as if to dare me to suggest otherwise. 

It was rather unfortunate. I think I liked Pepin. If nothing else, I respected him more. 

“I see,” I acknowledged, offering a slight inclination of my head to him. “Then speak.”

Pepin did. And I learned more about my brother’s schemes than I wanted to.