Chapter Text
“For who could look upon the lions of the foe, terrible with the brightness of gold, who upon the men of metal, menacing with golden face, … who upon the bulls on the ships threatening death, their horns shining with gold, without feeling any fear for the king of such a force?”
- Encomium Emmae Reginae
Charles slowly sips his wine, the great hall empty and dark around him.
Outside the hall he can hear the ambiguous noise of commotion as servants, townspeople, and what remain of the knights gather personal possessions and round up the last of the tribute. Their calls fade to into background as he stares alternately into his cup and the small fire in the hearth, barely illuminating the closest corners of the space.
Sebastian had succumbed to the black fever that winter. It had been a month-long affair and unpleasant, with the dying King barking orders at his physicians and, towards the end, clawing at Charles as his consort came to watch over him, clinging to life.
Charles had watched mostly impassively, his brain whirring with possibilities and plans for the uncertain time to come, and quietly considered the irony: at the height of wartime for a great warlord and military commander to die of a mere illness.
He had allowed himself one moment of emotion as Sebastian’s final breath left his body—all those remnants of feelings that arose from fourteen years of marriage, Charles’ entire adult life, carried away on a death rattle--before he turned his thoughts firmly towards the future.
After Sebastian was buried, there was no time for grieving. Word of his death reached the Danes, and a siege descended on the city. Charles held the city alone for almost two seasons, the chaos and onslaught preventing the election of a new king, while another portion of the Danish army battled Sebastian’s remaining generals around the land.
One by one, the other cities had toppled beneath the assault.
Then, a fortnight ago, word had come of the defeat of Janos. His husband’s guardian of Northumbria was dead, and the Northern cities had fallen. Londres alone remained free from Viking rule, and it, too, would undoubtedly fall.
Despite the best efforts of himself and the remnants of the witan , word spread quickly. Over the next week the last of their allies abandoned the city in droves, fleeing the fearsome Danish horde and its ruthless commander, the Vikings who neared the city every day as Erik Lehnsherr, lion of the North, rejoined the split remainder of his army.
It is during this mad rush to leave that Charles sends his children away.
His thoughts anchored by the chalice-like structure of logs burning in the hearth, he casts his mind back to that day.
---His youngest cries as he hands her up into the saddle to Raven, while her brother maintains a stoic face.
“Charles--,” Raven starts. He stops her with a hand on top of hers, clasping them where they grip the reins.
“I’ll be fine. Take care of them.”
There’s a rustling and a shout, and he steps closer to avoid being flattened as a pair of riders race by, like rats leaving a sinking ship.
Her hands are warm in his, and he squeezes once, firmly before he lets them go, watching to the last moment as they vanish from sight.---
Safe in Raven’s care and hidden by the crush of the mob, they slipped through the South Gate to seek shelter in Normandy. His home, where they have never been—where, if not ensured a warm welcome, they might at least be offered protection.
The city simply isn’t safe any longer.
A sudden flare from the hearth claims another log, and the structure tumbles in, integrity disturbed.
When the call to surrender came, brought by messenger and sealed with red wax, Charles had wasted little time deliberating. If accepted, there was no guarantee the invaders would be merciful, keep to their offer—stories traveled through the surrounding villages of hordes of alphas pillaging and raping; of hostages found without ears or hands—but between a chance at survival and unprecedented slaughter, there was no choice at all.
Which leaves him with tomorrow. The arrival of the new King.
The sounds of commotion outside have gradually fallen away, and in the silence of the great hall Charles thinks he can hear digging.
Some of his best soldiers are hard at work, bundling personal correspondence and important political documents into sackcloth, preparing them for burial in chests. The city’s treasures, on the other hand, golden torques and silver coins, are being heaped in the centre of town for the danegeld. More than a King’s ransom. He hopes it will be enough to appease the invaders. The alternative does not bear thinking about.
The sound of a throat clearing pulls him from his reverie.
“M’lord?”
Charles draws his gaze away from the fire to see that Logan has returned. His most trusted advisor and commander had, until recently, been Sebastian’s stable master. He looks worn out, and dirt covers his clothes, a smudge of it on his face.
He meets the other’s eyes, seeking confirmation.
“It’s done.”
The afterimages of the flames make patterns on the inside of his eyelids as he closes them briefly and nods once, sharply, in acknowledgement.
He can feel Logan hovering behind him as he sits in silence for a moment, not exactly anxious, but watchful--concerned. The severity of the situation has instilled some formality in the gruff man, but he’s no doubt moments away from telling Charles to get some sleep.
Charles blinks. The flames linger still, as though their light has been seared permanently into his retinas, transforming everything he looks at into an inferno.
As though everything is burning.
Charles drains his wooden chalice, but the wine can’t quite wash away the acid taste at the back of his throat.
He gets up, dousing the fire with the last of the wine in the jug, and lets Logan urge him to bed, closing the doors of his great hall behind him for the final time.
.