70.
70.
The entire universe exploded inside my head, the earth was born, the sun came into being, my little ones grew tall in the blink of an eye, and I breathed my last in their embrace. Then I was born again and became the sun and the moon together with Inga.
...Things utterly jumbled in sequence and separated by staggering gaps of time whirled through my mind and vanished in an instant. Such was the shock of that first kiss.
Truth be told, it was slightly short of a true kissRagi, more of a peck. But for a pathetic couple who'd barely managed to hold hands, this was staggering progress.
On a scale of human advancement, it ranked somewhere alongside leaving the first footprint on the moon.
We had locked lips, but neither Inga nor I knew how to pull apart, so we stayed like that for a while. And because we did not tire—or so it seemed—the warriors who kept whistling and shouting my name at the top of their lungs drew in the other bystanders loitering nearby, and together they manufactured a scene from some clumsy romantic drama.
If the screen had faded into sepia tones right there and a sweet song started playing, that would have been the end of the chapter, just like that...!
Our lips finally parted only after Inga's face went beyond red and grew so flushed that I wondered if every drop of blood in her body had rushed to her cheeksÖrn.
As if dazed, the slender woman collapsed into my arms, and I held her firm. That moment claimed its place at the very front of the [Helgi's Happy Memories] page inside my head.
All those marriage skeptics I had seen in my previous life? I could now say it with confidence. Every last one of them was a fraud, a swindler, a vile male who wanted all the good things for himself...!
Of course, I knew it was a gamble—a matter of luck, dependent on the person, a bet you place your whole life on...!
Even if what clouded my eyes right now was a severe case of rose-colored blindness, I had no wish to peel it off.
That happy time was brief. Soon enough, busy days destined for the [Helgi's Exhausting Memories] page came looking for me. As the weather steadily thawed, merchants began to stir, and the spring festival preparations, the formation of new villages, military restructuring, mineral surveys—all of it and more—came crashing in at once.
The feedback from all the large-scale projects I had set in motion simultaneously without delay surged over me like a tidal wave. But armed with the power of newfound love and duty, I silently endured it all and led my people onward.
I had a strong conviction—the certainty that the path I walked was the right one. Above all, did I not possess an exact compass? I was a man of the future, born in the 21st century.
And so, every single one of my vassals—led by Björn, who thought himself retired but in my eyes was not, followed by Hrólfr, Leon, Refil, Erik, Seutorolpeu... and all the countless others beneath them—grumbled on the surface that they were worked half to death, but I believed they all felt an immense pride in seeing things change.
...If not, there was nothing I could do about it.
Surprisingly, the area that produced far less feedback than matters of administration, politics, society, economy, or military affairs was the religious reformation.
By now I was the only one still calling it a reformation. The people seemed to have accepted it as HelaTrue—something closer to a new religion with Hel as its chief goddess—and they appeared to be receiving my words, as its prophet, as new doctrine.
Perhaps that was an inevitable result, and also this era's answer to my rash actions.
In an age where faith was one with life itself, could reason and rationality truly find a foothold right away?
Still, this much was a partial success, so I resolved to take the long view. First, I had ordered the priests who were slowly returning to their own homes to forbid defiled live offerings and human sacrifices, to thoroughly account for the population of their respective regions, and to report to me.
I figured that if I repeated the cycle of rewarding obedient priests and punishing disobedient ones, a system would eventually take shape.
Before an administrative organization of the caliber I desired could be established, was it not best to make use of the religious groups that had already taken root in local communities?
I had already observed that particular reference text—Rome—once; I would have to follow its path.
At any rate, the good thing about time is that, since it flows without pause, even hard times eventually pass. And simultaneously, the bad thing about time is that, because it flows without pause, even the good times flow away.
Because Mr. Einstein had gone and observed it, I had become aware of the relativity of time. And in accordance with that, the time spent with Inga ended the moment I closed and opened my eyes, while the hours inside the gloomy office dragged by at a snail's crawling pace.
Before I knew it, the last month of winter had ended.
867 AD. The first month of summer. Harpa. April 18th by the Julian calendar.
The month when a warmth that now flaunted its full presence enveloped the land, when all Norsemen gathered to hold the Great Summer Feast (SigrBlot). The month that honored the war god Odin and prayed for victory, and simultaneously marked the start of the festival celebrating the month of women.
Beneath the tents specially erected outside Árós for the festival, I was watching the feats of all manner of entertainers with Inga, accompanied by a handful of guards, when Refil rushed me an urgent message.
It was news that my brother Sigurdeu was heading to Árós with Æthelthryth, and that my stepmother Áslaug was also hurrying to Árós.
'Sigurdeu. What on earth have you done this time...?'
Even as I healed myself by gazing at Inga's bright, smiling face in profile, anxiety about Sigurdeu—that unpredictable artist who might leap in any direction—stirred in a corner of my chest.
My stepmother Áslaug, who arrived in Árós before Sigurdeu thanks to the shorter distance, seemed to have been suffering from headaches of late. She pressed her hand to her forehead and spoke in a weary voice.
"Helgi. This is sudden, but it seems we must hasten the wedding... I had thought it would be good to hold the ceremony together, since you, Halfdan, and... that rascal Sigurdeu all found your marriage partners at the same time, but..."
"What has happened, Mother?"
My birth mother, who had met with my stepmother beforehand, was covering her face with her palm, unable to hold back her laughter. Inga sat before both my mothers and, with extremely careful movements, poured water for my stepmother.
My stepmother smiled and thanked Inga, then gulped down the water and answered my question.
"It seems Æthelthryth is with child... It would be best to hold the ceremony before she gives birth, before she grows too uncomfortable to move."
"Ah—."
They spoke of a fiery love, but this was enough to burn my mother's insides to a crisp.
Sigurdeu had gone and caused an incident.
*****
In truth, in this era, given the free romantic customs of the North Germanic people, it was no great scandal for a man and a woman to love one another and conceive a child.
As could be seen in my own case, there was little discrimination against illegitimate children, and the distinction between a primary wife and concubines was not particularly rigid either. What truly mattered were the families of the prospective bride and groom. There was no discrimination based on sequence.
Of course, strife between the women was an entirely separate issue, but it could also become a relationship of mutual reliance and care, as was the case between my birth mother and my stepmother.
Therefore, it was difficult to flatly conclude that Sigurdeu had done something wrong.
However, that was a story for when Sigurdeu was an ordinary Norseman A or B.
Sigurdeu was royalty. Moreover, he was a Jarl governing a region with the permission of the reigning king.
He was no ordinary royal, and for someone so close to the current seat of power to decide his own marriage without the permission of the family elders, and even to rush things along so recklessly—it was a clear transgression.
At the very least, he should have given a hint to our stepmother Áslaug, the highest elder of the family, or to our eldest brother Björn. If not them, then at least to me, the Konungr...
No, he had told me, in metaphorical terms—fiery love, the love of a lifetime, and all that. So perhaps that counted as an indirect report?
In any case, for this reason, my stepmother Áslaug was deeply apologetic, saying she could not lift her head before me. And I, in turn, found the sight of her like that so difficult to bear that I had to tell her over and over that I was fine, that this was rather a good thing, was it not?
For the crime of having a guilty brother as her future husband, Inga too had to join in comforting our stepmother... and when our stepmother looked at Inga, she only grew more sorry...
As Sigurdr's back-strike tally accumulated in real time, word finally arrived that Sigurdr and Æthelthryth had set out.
Right on cue, news also came that the Konungr of the Jutes, Bagsecg, along with his daughter, and my brother Halfdan had also boarded a ship bound for Árós. And so, messengers bearing the wedding dates for the three of us brothers fanned out in every direction at once.
The conqueror of the west, Halfdan, and his son Harald. Across the Eastern Sea to my vassals below—Rurik and Haskuldr. And though they could not possibly arrive in time, further below to Damian of Cherson and Michael of Constantinople.
Of course, I sent word to Sigebryht, Uhtred, and Ecgberht in Britain as well, but I told my loyal earls to hold their positions.
Ubba would likely come with Sigurdr, and Ivar said he would be a little late, as he had matters to attend to.
Björn, who had hurried back to Árós to calm our stepmother's wrath, said he would also inform his old friend of the news...
The wedding, set for roughly a month later, had every likelihood of becoming an unprecedented event that would set all the kings and every notable lord of the North in motion.
If this was a talent, was it truly one...? I was nearly in awe of Sigurdr, who had rolled this snowball to such maddening proportions.
Naturally, under the fierce, blazing momentum of the two mothers, most of the previously ongoing projects were halted. Soon, Árós—already in the midst of the summer festival—began to pulse with tremendous energy as it prepared for an even greater feast.
*****
The entire North Sea was stirring.
It could not be otherwise.
Had not the news of the marriage of Helgi Ragnarsson—brother to Halfdan and, of course, to his own younger brother, the great warrior, the half-god—echoed out in all directions?
Fitting for the summer season, Sigurdr's longship moved slowly, riding the wind that had grown considerably milder.
Two hundred Vernika warriors followed as escort. For five longships on the move, it was an exceedingly leisurely pace, but there was a reason for it.
That reason was the red-haired woman nestling in his own embrace.
Æthelthryth. In many ways, an unfortunate woman.
The daughter—and a bastard daughter at that—of Ælla, the Cyning of Northumbria, who had met a painful death at the hands of Helgi: Sigurdr's irreplaceable younger brother, the strongest man whom any Norseman could not help but revere.
A laughable thing, was it not? The father sowed the seed, so why should the child suffer the punishment?
The moment he laid eyes on this woman who had been shut away in a convent, Sigurdr knew that his life would never be the same again.
A cruel father for whom no bond of paternal affection had ever existed, and a powerless daughter.
At first it was curiosity, the second time a powerful pull, and from then on, it was nothing but love. Each moment brought a fresh surge of inspiration; every meeting gave rise to verses and song.
Though she resented him—for he had been directly involved in the war that killed the man who was, after all, her biological father—she agonized over it. In the end, she yielded her heart to his persistent courtship. And from that day forward, the two spent more days together than apart.
Then one day, gazing upon Æthelthryth's face as she slept, Sigurdr thought of marriage. And as if by some spell, the very next day, a change came upon Æthelthryth's body.
There was no turning back now.
At the very least, he must not become the kind of father that Æthelthryth so resented and loathed—a father like Ælla.
Amusingly enough, though he feared asking permission from his own mother Áslaug, Sigurdr had drawn courage from the mere fact that his steadfast brother Helgi—his Konungr, to whom he would give his full loyalty—was there.
'This wouldn't be only bad news for Helgi either.'
"Mm—"
Drawing the endearing creature stirring in his arms closer with one arm, Sigurdr continued his train of thought.
'The world of the North Sea can never go back to what it was before, all because of Helgi's existence. Helgi was now barely nineteen... There were likely still many who did not know, but in the mere half-year since they had come under Helgi's banner, the beasts of Vernika and Dair had grown fat, and those who suffered grave illnesses had vanished.
Cross just the border of the Kingdom of Strathclyde and the Kingdom of Alba, and you could no longer even glimpse the tales you used to hear—tales of those who starved to death, those who froze to death, those torn apart by wild beasts.'
What was Helgi's greatest strength?
Ubba had always told him: his brothers, who cared only for brute strength and despised using their heads, would see only Helgi's physical power. But the truth was, the most important thing lay elsewhere.
"Is that not so, brother?"
He turned his head and abruptly spoke to Ubba, who sat across from him. But the only answer he got was a look that asked what on earth he had eaten that had gone bad.
Haha—
As Sigurdr let out a low laugh, the voice of a warrior—deliberately hushed out of consideration for Æthelthryth, who lay asleep in his arms—reached his ears.
"We are nearing Uppsala, Jarl Sigurdr, Jarl Ubba."
"Is that so."
A land where countless things had changed in the span of a single year, so different from when they had left it.
The land of Helgi and his goddess.
Once again—though Helgi himself might not fully realize it—every Konungr and every Jarl of the North stepping onto this land would have to consider a single matter.
Who, truly, was the rightful king.
"Shall we go see the boulder that the Great Warrior of Hel is said to have split apart with a single fist?"
A preposterous tale. A man, splitting a boulder with his fist...?
The Vernika warriors, who had already served half a year under Sigurdr and fully acknowledged him as their lord, nodded as one. A few of them, brimming with anticipation, had their eyes gleaming.
'Perhaps Helgi does not need us. But we most certainly need Helgi.'
Thinking of his own child, slumbering in the belly of his future wife, a new fervor kindled in Sigurdr's heart—a fervor apart from his passion for art.
Whatever the name of that fervor, or that ambition, one thing was certain: the light that flowed from Sigurdr's serpent-like eyes was profoundly, deeply cold.