75.
75.
The mountain held a sacred power.
That high northern peak had existed before I came into being and would keep standing long after I was gone.
A great snow-capped mountain that always stood there unchanging, looking down upon humanity.
And so the people of Árós, at some point, had taken to entrusting their oaths to that mountain.
Hoping their oaths would remain as unchanging as that mountain.
It was a superstition. But it was a good superstition.
Lovers always wished for the hot and sweet moments to last forever, always sought some solid token of love, and usually the chief items were things that bound them together, like locks or rings.
But as with so many human affairs, the reason for this exchange of oaths and tokens was that if one did not go to such lengths, promises were, in truth, rarely kept.
The act of casting one's oath upon that high and mighty mountain, or the act of linking each other's fingers with a ring as if tying a lock—these could remain a beautiful tale or serve as a cautionary lesson to others, all depending on the will of the people involved.
The great feast of the first summer of 867. Countless people of the North came to Árós.
The great mountain and the sky and sea beyond it.
To witness the rites of six men and women who would pledge eternal love and devotion to one another before the world of men and the world of the gods.
Jarl Hestein reuniting with Jarl Björn after so long. Beside them, Jarl Ivar, who had already left the wedding itself as an afterthought and was deep into his drinking, laughing and carousing with them.
Two sons and a brother staring at this scene with disapproval—Jarl Erik and Refil, and Ubba.
Even the lords of the frontier, Jarl Togeunbaldeu and Rurik, and Haskuldr as well.
A special envoy sent from distant Cherson had also arrived at the last moment and graced the occasion by offering fine wine and the like, but it was only two men who drew the gaze of the honored guests and the people within the hall.
Their names were Halfdan the 'Black King' and Bagsecg of the Jutes.
"A fine day. A fine city... is it not? Halfdan."
Unlike the happy surroundings, the air in this one spot felt different.
Having somehow ended up seated between Halfdan of Kaupang and Bagsecg of Ribe, the expression on Jarl Harald's face was hardening by the moment...
Yet the man did not pay a shred of attention to what expression his young successor was wearing. The Black King who ruled the Skagerrak Strait merely adjusted his pitch-black leather tunic and, with his customary demeanor, accepted Bagsecg's words.
"Unsurpassed weather for three young couples to pledge their futures. I only pray Hel smiles upon them, Konungr Bagsecg."
'I have heard that unsettling words are being exchanged at the Kaupang Thing of late.' Or, 'Have you heard something concerning Olaf of Dublin?'
Words that might provoke this man who had spent so many years alongside him as a Konungr kept surfacing in his mind, but Bagsecg had to swallow them down through sheer effort.
For himself, having no suitable heir, so long as his one and only precious daughter Botilda could be happy with Halfdan Ragnarsson... he could give the rights to the kingdom or whatever else as a dowry to Halfdan, who was truly no different from a son to him.
But with a successor like Harald, whose eyes shone with keen intelligence even at a glance, the Black King must have found the presence of Konungr Helgi, situated right next to Kaupang, suffocating with every passing moment.
'Moreover, Konungr Helgi is... the son of that Ragnar, is he not.'
That Ragnar's father had been a great man as well, but 'Ragnar Loðbrók' had been a man possessed of a mysterious power. A man with a magnetic force that drew people to him.
They had fought the Franks together at the Dane Wall, and had overthrown Konungr Hrørekr who sought to betray the Jutes.
Those days were vivid when he shut his eyes, and yet now he was in the position of giving his late-born daughter in marriage to his son.
'Before it is too late... I too. I too shall prove that I was not left behind by Ragnar, that I also am worthy of entering Valhalla.'
On the journey here, Bagsecg had seen the boulder Konungr Helgi had awakened upon in Uppsala.
The first thought that came to him after seeing it was nothing but pure awe.
It was as when he faced the great power of nature—watching landslides often tumble from that high mountain, witnessing the endless downpour of ten days' rain, cresting the ceaseless surging waves.
That a feeling he had only ever felt when confronting the vast forces of nature could be felt again from the work of a human hand.
And that was when Bagsecg understood.
That his own era was at last drawing to a close.
"The ceremony will soon proceed, so we kindly ask that the honored guests within the hall refrain from drinking for a time and lower their voices! Come now! Put down those cups over there!"
"That fellow..."
"Hrólfr, the Great Warrior of Ragnar. A face I have not seen in a long while."
Though the welcoming face had grown wrinkled, the once-famed warrior still went about admonishing everyone in the hall with a booming voice.
In the course of it, catching sight of the Black King and Bagsecg, and Harald caught between them wearing a pitiful expression, he bowed his head politely with slightly widened eyes before departing to patrol the tables of the unruly Norsemen once more.
'Who could look at that man now and see the warrior who once felled three high-ranking Frankish champions at once? I ask you...'
Feeling a melancholy sentiment stirred by Hrólfr's whitening hair, Bagsecg moved his hand toward the cup on the small table beside him, and suddenly realized there was another hand reaching for a cup at the same time as his.
"..."
"... The wine is truly excellent."
"... So it is. Let us drink a toast to the brides and grooms."
"Let us."
[clink-]
A sweet grape scent gliding smoothly down the throat.
It was deeply laughable, Bagsecg thought—the sight of himself and his old rival grown so old together, just setting the mood.
*****
I was like a runner with the finish line in sight.
As time went on, I felt my mind grow sharper and clearer, but everything else seemed to drift further away from my reality.
Was it because this was my first marriage in both my past and present lives? No, it might also be because a woman like Inga, whom I loved and who loved me, was a first in my entire existence.
They say the first time for anything is hard.
But this felt a little different from hardship.
It was an uneasy yet at the same time strangely elated feeling, something difficult to grasp, stirring in a corner of my chest.
Contrary to how others saw me, I considered myself a man of immense flaws, and my mother, who always comforted me with her gentle smile and devoted love, had one sole moment when she took on a severe demeanor. That moment had been this past week.
Not only I, but our trio of new grooms including Halfdan and Sigurdeu, had not been allowed to go anywhere near the brides.
Halfdan, whose lip had jutted out a full hand's span at that most righteous decree that no impure auras should flow toward the sacred oath, had shot me a look imploring me to do something about it... but.
"Helgi, the gods are all dead—do we really need to follow the taboos and customs of the old gods?"
"Halfdan, I'm telling you this now, but honestly, I don't really know if the gods are dead or alive. I don't much care either...! I just didn't want to see living people hanging from trees anymore."
"You swindler! ...No, well, for a man who can crush boulders, that level of trickery is permissible."
Roughly along those lines, I made sure to impress upon Halfdan that he couldn't so much as peep in protest at our mother.
Of course, while we two brothers were occupied with this, Sigurdeu's back was still being left in tatters under stepmother Áslaug's rigid supervision.
Knowing that once he started his own family, he would grow even more distant, our stepmother's effort to make a proper man of him while the chance remained was enough to bring tears to the eyes.
At any rate, such were the circumstances that left us three brothers kicking our heels in solitude. Yet our longing was but brief, for a Konungr preparing for marriage had no time to entertain such feelings.
Hrólfr, the most experienced and most tried (?) among my retainers, was appointed as the overseer of the wedding, and he immediately began pelting me with all manner of nagging.
From the etiquette of receiving guests to the order of the ceremony, the sequence of dishes, how many jesters and minstrels were needed, how I should greet the citizens after the rites, what attire I should wear, and so on...
I had secretly thought lightly of a 9th-century wedding, but reality proved harsh.
Of course, I understood that plenty of work was inevitable with nearly every lord in the land gathered for the event. Still, things to oversee and matters requiring attention were so numerous that the question naturally arose: isn't this a bit much?
Particularly devastating was the question: 'Since the gods have all been slain, how shall we conduct the rites?' When I said, 'Let's just not bother with such things!', I was met with Hrólfr's deeply weary eyes.
The gaze of a king and the gaze of a farmer are different. Whatever the future might hold, Hrólfr's argument was that right now, troublesome rituals were absolutely necessary for the people's hearts.
So I sought wisdom from my mother, the High Priestess of Hel, and she readily gave her answer.
It was, namely, not to forbid anyone from offering prayers to the realm of whichever gods they wished.
An eminently reasonable statement: 'The gods may be dead, but their realms have not vanished, have they?'
Having swiftly resolved the matter thanks to our wise High Priestess, Hrólfr and I immediately faced another problem: the seating arrangement for the honored guests.
It was astonishing news enough that Hásteinn—Björn's friend from far-off Nantes, the barbarian who had left me with a spectacularly rude first impression and truly looked the part—was coming. But jarls from as far away as the east, including Halfdan's friend Torgenvald of Orkney, had also declared their intent to attend.
The thought flashed through my mind: 'These people, if something should happen in their territories while they're absent, what will they do?' But I reminded myself once more that my own nose was three feet long, trusting they knew their own affairs well enough.
This much was, in truth, understandable. I had, after all, been acclaimed as Konungr of all Norsemen before our father's grave, so jarls with various interests or those wishing to curry my favor might well attend.
I could somehow even accept that the number of jarls gathered in Árós exceeded one hundred, since even jarls from obscure remote regions had expressed their intent to come.
What I could not readily understand, however, was that two konungrs had declared their intent to attend.
Konungr Halfdan of Kaupang, situated to the west of Árós.
Konungr Bagsecg of Ribe, situated south of Árós, across from Roskilde.
Why on earth were these two coming?
Hadn't we, without openly saying so, been in a slightly tense relationship?
I, an untested young Konungr, had been presumptuously acclaimed as Konungr of all Norsemen, while those two were konungrs who had once competed with my father.
To put it bluntly, the time we had each accumulated was vastly different. To them, I would be a greenhorn with no particular ties.
If one strained to find a reason, really, anything could be tacked on.
Black King Halfdan was, for a start, close to me.
My coming and going through the Kattegat, his front yard, as if it were my own house must have been discomfiting. So perhaps he thought he might use this opportunity to see what sort of fellow I was...
Konungr Bagsecg was, for a start, my brother's father-in-law.
And that brother was his heir, too. When you truly got down to the bone of it, this man was not a stranger. Since he was someone who would enter the fold of family, he might likewise be curious about what manner of man his heir would be subordinating himself to.
But such reasons were, literally, the sort of thing one could dream up ten of with just a little thought.
Most likely, the greatest reason was that both men wanted something from me.
It might be a proposal for a new expedition, a request for an alliance or the elimination of a hostile force, or simply an overture of friendship. However it was, the fact was now fixed that I would meet these men.
'I hadn't even expected a honeymoon...'
It now seemed as if I'd have to begin official business straight after the wedding, and my spirits sank a little.
Unaware of my inner state, Halfdan stood beside me in the somewhat dazed groom's waiting line, waving his hand this way and that toward his friend Torgenvald, looking thoroughly delighted.
'Perhaps Halfdan is the true victor? I'm busy, Sigurdeu is being roasted alive, while Halfdan alone is at his own easy leisure...!'
Just as the bundle of spite in one corner of my heart was stealthily beginning to unfurl [sarareuk-], I saw stepmother approach us with Sigurdeu on one arm.
"Helgi, Halfdan. My beloved sons...! You look all the more gallant today!"
Having spent happy mother-son time with Sigurdeu and recovered her healthy color, my stepmother was more beautiful than ever.
Of course, the Sigurdeu beside her stood with eyes grown exceedingly meek, like a sheep beside a dragon, and...
"Mother, you are beautiful today."
"Indeed, Jarl Oleg spoke no lie. The twin flowers of Gotland remain as lovely as ever."
At the barrage of flattery from Halfdan and me, Áslaug seemed pleased, shaking her head gently as she pointed to one side.
"I thank you for your words... but those who are truly beautiful will soon appear."
At her very words, over the heads of the three brothers that snapped around like lightning, Hrólfr's practiced progression followed.
"I ask that all honored guests rise from your seats. Shortly, the protagonists of the day shall appear!"
My brothers in crimson cloaks, and I, draped in purple silk.
Across from us, behind Mother Asta, followed women clothed in pure white.
Inga, Botilda, Æthelthryth.
Among the women stepping forward shyly with cautious, smiling steps, my eyes fixed upon Inga and would not fall away.
The goddess of beauty was still alive, and her name was Inge Eretsdottir.