Chapter 9: The Lindisfarne Raid - Part 2
The monastery burned behind us, black smoke rising into the gray sky like an accusation against the gods. I sat among thirty celebrating raiders feeling like a ghost at their feast—present but not truly part of their world of casual violence and easy profit.
The longship rode low in the water, heavy with treasures torn from sacred places. Silver chalices that had held consecrated wine now clinked against golden crucifixes in hemp sacks. Illuminated manuscripts—centuries of patient work by devoted scribes—were valued only for their jeweled covers while the parchment itself was discarded like refuse.
"The Christ-god must be generous indeed," Rollo declared, holding up a silver arm-ring thick as his thumb. "To leave such wealth unguarded by anything more dangerous than praying monks."
Laughter rippled through the crew, but I noticed Athelstan flinch at every mocking reference to his faith. The young monk huddled in the ship's bottom with three other captured thralls, his brown robes torn and stained with ash. Every few minutes his lips moved in what I assumed was silent prayer, though whether for deliverance or forgiveness, I couldn't tell.
"Eastern stranger looks thoughtful," Floki observed from his position at the steering oar. "Perhaps contemplating the gods' favor that brought us safely across unknown waters?"
"Perhaps contemplating what we'll find waiting for us on the beach," I replied, scanning the shoreline we'd left hours earlier. Something felt wrong about our departure—too easy, too clean. Raids this successful usually attracted attention from whoever was supposed to protect these coastal settlements.
My unease proved justified fifteen minutes later.
"Riders on the shore," called the man keeping watch from the bow. "Armed men. Looks like they're planning to give us a farewell gift."
Saxon warriors had indeed arrived to contest our departure—perhaps twenty men on horseback, armed with bows and spears. They'd positioned themselves on the beach where we'd originally landed, clearly hoping to catch us during the vulnerable moment of pushing off.
Unfortunately for them, we were already well offshore and moving steadily seaward.
Unfortunately for us, they had archers.
"Arrows!" Ragnar shouted as the first volley arced toward us across the water.
Most of the shafts fell short, but three were going to find targets. I could see their trajectories with mathematical precision—one aimed at Ragnar's neck, another diving toward Floki's unprotected head, a third seeking the chest of a wounded raider who was too weak to take cover.
Time dilated as my enhanced perception tracked the incoming death. Thirty men I'd sailed with, shared meals with, learned to see as individuals rather than historical abstracts. Good men and killers both, but human beings who deserved better than dying from English arrows on their moment of triumph.
I reached for my metallic manipulation powers without conscious thought.
The arrowhead aimed at Ragnar's throat encountered an invisible force that nudged it six inches left, sending the shaft skittering harmlessly off the ship's rail. The one targeting Floki's eye somehow caught a sudden gust of wind that shouldn't have existed at water level, driving it high into the mast where it stuck quivering in the wood. The third arrow simply lost momentum twenty feet short of its target, dropping into the waves like its string had been cut.
The effort of controlling three projectiles simultaneously while maintaining the appearance of random chance sent lightning through my skull. Blood started flowing from my nose as my powers hit their daily limit and shut down completely. The deck lurched under my feet, and I collapsed against the nearest rowing bench as consciousness threatened to abandon me entirely.
"Thanos!" Ragnar's voice seemed to come from a great distance. "Are you hit?"
"No," I managed, pressing a hand to my streaming nose. "Just... the stress. Combat affects different men differently."
"Blessed by the gods," Floki declared, examining the arrow that had barely missed taking his eye. "Three shots that should have killed, and all three miss by inches. The Norse gods protect those who honor them with proper offerings."
Around me, the crew celebrated their supernatural luck while I fought not to vomit from power exhaustion. Ragnar studied my bleeding face with an expression I couldn't read—concern mixed with something that might have been suspicion.
"Rest," he said finally. "The crossing home will be long enough to recover your strength."
But as I slumped against the ship's side, trying to stop my hands from shaking, the moral weight of what I'd done settled over me like a burial shroud. I'd used supernatural abilities to ensure the success of a raid that had murdered innocent people. However I justified it—protecting individual lives, preventing needless deaths—I'd become an active participant in Viking piracy.
The blood on my hands might be invisible, but it was real.
"You're troubled."
The voice came from beside me, barely above a whisper. Athelstan had somehow moved close enough to speak without the other thralls noticing.
"Combat leaves its marks on everyone," I replied carefully.
"Not combat." His young face held intelligence beyond his years. "Conscience. I saw what happened during the raid—how you protected me, how you avoided participating in the killing. You have the heart of a peaceful man forced into a violent world."
I looked at him more carefully. Despite everything he'd endured, the young monk's eyes held compassion rather than hatred. Here was someone who'd watched his brothers murdered and his life's work destroyed, yet still had room in his heart for understanding.
"What do you know about peaceful men?" I asked.
"I know they suffer when violence is done in their presence. I know they try to preserve life when others would destroy it. I know they carry burdens that warriors never understand."
We sat in silence for a while, watching the English coast disappear behind us. Around us, raiders counted treasure and planned how they'd spend their shares, but neither of us felt much like celebrating.
"Where I come from," I said quietly, "we have writings about a man who said the meek shall inherit the earth. Do you know such teachings?"
Athelstan's eyes widened. "The Sermon on the Mount. But how could you—" He stopped himself, studying my face with new intensity. "What are you, Thanos? You speak of Christ's teachings, yet you sail with pagans. You protect the innocent, yet you enable those who destroy innocence."
"Someone who doesn't belong here," I almost said. Instead, I settled for a different truth: "Someone caught between worlds. Someone trying to do right in a world where right and wrong aren't always clear."
"I understand that feeling," Athelstan said softly. "More than you might think."
Before I could ask what he meant, Rollo's voice boomed across the ship.
"Time to divide the spoils! Every man claims his share of Christ-gold!"
The distribution of loot was a carefully orchestrated ritual that revealed the expedition's hierarchy. Ragnar took first choice as leader, followed by his most trusted warriors, then the regular crew members, with thralls receiving nothing except the promise of continued life.
When my turn came, Ragnar gestured expansively toward the pile of captured treasures.
"The eastern stranger who made our success possible," he announced. "Choose your reward, builder. You've earned a generous share."
I approached the treasure pile while thirty pairs of eyes watched my selection. Golden arm-rings that could buy farms. Silver plates worth more than most Vikings saw in a lifetime. Jeweled weapons that would mark their owner as a man of substance.
And huddled beside the material wealth, five terrified thralls who would be sold in distant markets to live out their days as property.
"I'll take the metal goods," I said, selecting bronze censers, iron fittings, and damaged silver pieces that could be melted down and reworked. "The broken things that need repair."
A murmur ran through the crew. By refusing the most valuable items, I was essentially donating wealth to be redistributed among men who'd already taken their shares.
"You refuse thralls?" Ragnar asked, his voice carefully neutral. "Able-bodied slaves could serve you well, or bring good prices in trade."
"Where I come from, we don't... people aren't property." I kept my voice respectful but firm. "I have no use for slaves."
"Generous," Floki said with approval. "The gods smile on those who share their good fortune."
But Rollo looked suspicious. "What manner of eastern custom refuses profitable thralls? Even Christian kingdoms keep slaves."
"Perhaps," I deflected. "But my family follows older traditions. Some people aren't meant to be owned."
Later, after the formal division was complete and the crew had settled into the routine of a long voyage, Ragnar approached me at the ship's rail.
"That was either very wise or very foolish," he said without preamble. "I haven't decided which."
"How so?"
"Refusing thralls marks you as either a man of unusual principle or unusual ignorance about the world's realities." His pale eyes studied my face. "Principles can be admirable, but they can also be dangerous when they set a man too far apart from his companions."
The warning was subtle but clear. My moral stance had been noted, and it marked me as different in ways that might become problematic.
"I understand," I said. "But a man has to live with his choices. Some compromises cost more than they're worth."
Ragnar nodded slowly. "We'll see. The test of any principle is how well it survives contact with necessity."
As night fell over the North Sea, I found myself thinking about necessity and compromise while Kattegat's lights grew visible on the horizon. We were returning home as successful raiders, our holds full of stolen wealth and our reputation enhanced by supernatural luck.
But success in one world often meant failure in another, and I was no longer sure which world I truly belonged to.
The only certainty was that the man who'd awakened on a frozen beach three months ago was gone forever, replaced by someone harder and more complex—someone who could use supernatural powers to enable violence while still claiming to serve peace.
Whether that made me wise or foolish, I supposed I'd learn soon enough.
Author's Note / Promotion:
Your Reviews and Power Stones are the best way to show support. They help me know what you're enjoying and bring in new readers!
Can't wait for the next chapter of [ Arrowverse: The Survivor's ]?
You don't have to. Get instant access to more content by supporting me on Patreon. I have three options so you can pick how far ahead you want to be:
🪙 Silver Tier ($6): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public site.
👑 Gold Tier ($9): Get 15-20 chapters ahead of the public site.
💎 Platinum Tier ($15): The ultimate experience. Get new chapters the second I finish them (20+ chapters ahead!). No waiting for weekly drops, just pure, instant access.
Your support helps me write more .
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/fanficwriter1