Chapter 12: The Anchor Witnesses
The bronze from Lindisfarne had taken on new life in my hands, transformed from religious artifacts into medical instruments that would have impressed surgeons in my previous world. Precise scalpels, delicate forceps, surgical needles that could stitch wounds with unprecedented accuracy—tools that bridged the gap between Viking-era healing and modern medicine.
Athelstan watched me work with the expression of someone trying to solve an impossible puzzle.
"I recognize the shapes," he said quietly, holding up a bronze instrument that had once been part of an ornate censer. "Brother Marcus used tools like these when treating the sick at Lindisfarne. But these are... different. More precise."
"Eastern healing techniques require specific tools," I replied, concentrating on the final adjustments to what would become a surgical probe. "Different problems demand different solutions."
"Eastern techniques." Athelstan's tone carried gentle skepticism. "You speak of your homeland as if it possesses knowledge that surpasses all others. Yet you avoid specific details about this miraculous place."
I paused in my work, meeting his intelligent gaze. Three weeks of careful observation had made it clear that the young monk was far more perceptive than his captors realized. Our growing friendship was built on mutual outsider status, but I could see him cataloging inconsistencies in my cover story with the thoroughness of a trained scholar.
"Some knowledge comes with obligations," I said finally. "Promises made, debts owed, responsibilities that extend beyond personal benefit."
"Ah." Understanding flickered in his eyes. "The burden of secrets. I know something of that weight."
"Do you?"
Athelstan was quiet for a long moment, studying the restored bronze in his hands. "Before the raid, I questioned whether God truly heard our prayers. The monastery felt... isolated. Cut off from divine purpose. Perhaps that's why I survived when holier men perished."
The pain in his voice was raw, genuine. Here was a man of faith struggling with survival guilt, trying to reconcile his beliefs with the random violence that had destroyed his world.
"Survival doesn't require justification," I told him. "Sometimes it's enough to simply be alive when others aren't."
"Spoken like someone who's wrestled with similar questions." His gaze sharpened. "What happened to you, Thanos? Not the story you tell about shipwrecks and eastern travels. What really brought you to that frozen beach?"
The question hung between us like a blade waiting to fall. I'd grown careless around Athelstan, finding comfort in his educated conversation and shared sense of displacement. But comfort bred familiarity, and familiarity led to observations that threatened my carefully constructed identity.
"Death," I said finally, offering truth wrapped in deliberate ambiguity. "Everything I was before ended in violence and chaos. What exists now is... something else. Someone else."
"Death and resurrection." Athelstan nodded slowly. "A powerful theme in Christian theology. Though usually accompanied by more obvious divine intervention."
"Not all miracles announce themselves with trumpets and angels."
"No," he agreed. "Sometimes they manifest as impossible knowledge, supernatural skills, and anchors that float in defiance of natural law."
My blood turned to ice water. "What?"
"The night at the shipyard, three weeks ago. I was praying in the shadow of Floki's boat when you lost concentration. The anchor rose three feet into the air without rope or pulley, held aloft by nothing but your will." His voice remained calm, conversational, as if discussing weather rather than impossible phenomena. "I've been wondering since then whether you're saint, demon, or something else entirely."
For a heartbeat that stretched into eternity, I considered denying everything. The explanation was so impossible that even educated men might dismiss it as fever dream or religious vision. But looking at Athelstan's steady gaze, I realized that lies would only insult his intelligence while providing no real protection.
"Something else entirely," I said quietly. "Neither saint nor demon, just someone with abilities I don't fully understand myself."
"Abilities granted by God?"
"I don't know. Perhaps. Or perhaps by forces beyond divine or infernal categories."
Athelstan was quiet for several minutes, turning my surgical probe over in his hands while he processed this revelation. When he finally spoke, his voice carried wonder rather than fear.
"The theologians teach that God works through mysterious means, using imperfect vessels for divine purposes. If you were granted supernatural abilities, perhaps their source matters less than their application."
"How do you mean?"
"You saved my life when others would have let me die for sport. You've used these powers to heal rather than harm, to create rather than destroy. Saints are known by their fruits, not their origins."
The simple acceptance in his voice nearly broke me. Here was someone who'd witnessed my supernatural abilities and chosen to see blessing rather than curse, protection rather than threat.
"Thank you," I managed.
"Thank me by being careful. Secrets have weight, and some burdens are too heavy for one man to carry alone. When that weight becomes unbearable... find me. A monk's vow includes discretion about confessions received."
Our conversation was interrupted by commotion outside the workshop. Voices raised in alarm, someone calling for help with obvious urgency. I grabbed my medical tools and followed the sound toward the harbor, where a crowd had gathered around a figure lying on the dock.
Magnus the Fisher writhed in obvious agony while blood soaked through crude bandages wrapped around his left arm. The wound was severe—a deep gash full of dirt and splinters where a snapped rope had whipped across his forearm with enough force to tear flesh to the bone.
"Death-rot," pronounced Helga the Healer after examining the injury. "The evil spirits are already spreading through the wound. We'll have to take the arm to save the man."
I pushed through the crowd, kneeling beside the injured fisherman. One look at the wound confirmed my worst fears—infection was already setting in, marked by the angry red lines spreading up his arm and the fever flush on his face.
In my previous world, this would have been a routine emergency room case. Proper cleaning, debridement, antibiotics, and surgical repair. Here, it was a death sentence unless I intervened.
"Let me try eastern healing techniques," I said, opening my tool case. "Before you take drastic measures."
Helga frowned at the challenge to her professional judgment. "Foreign methods won't drive out evil spirits that have already taken hold."
"Perhaps not. But what harm can there be in trying, if the alternative is amputation?"
The logic was unassailable, even if my confidence wasn't entirely justified. But I had advantages that no Viking-era healer possessed—sterile instruments, modern understanding of infection, and surgical techniques that could repair damage beyond their capabilities.
The procedure took two hours of careful work conducted under the watchful eyes of half the settlement. I used my perfectly crafted tools to clean the wound thoroughly, removing every fragment of debris and dead tissue that could harbor infection. Knowledge from my previous life guided antiseptic practices disguised as "eastern wisdom about evil spirits in dirt and foreign materials."
"The spirits hide in corruption," I explained while boiling water and cleaning cloths. "Remove their hiding places, and they cannot take hold."
Stitching the wound required silk thread salvaged from Lindisfarne and needles of my own making, designed for precision that normal Viking tools couldn't achieve. I worked with surgical accuracy that drew gasps from observers, closing the deep gash in layers that would heal with minimal scarring.
"Eastern spirits must be very particular," Helga observed dryly, watching me work with obvious professional interest. "These techniques require more precision than Norse methods."
"Precision serves healing," I replied. "Carelessness invites complications."
The final step involved wrapping the wound in clean cloth soaked with antiseptic solutions I'd prepared from available herbs and honey. Not as effective as modern antibiotics, but better than anything Vikings normally had access to.
"Two weeks," I told Magnus. "Keep the wound clean and dry, change the wrapping daily, return if you notice increased pain or fever. If the eastern spirits favor healing over corruption, you'll keep your arm."
Two weeks later, Magnus returned to demonstrate an arm that moved freely and showed no signs of infection. The wound had healed cleanly, leaving a thin scar where death-rot should have claimed the limb.
Word of the impossible healing spread through Kattegat faster than news of successful raids. Within days, people were calling me "Wayland's Favored"—blessed by the smith-god with abilities that transcended normal craftsmanship. The reputation brought both opportunities and dangers, marking me as someone touched by supernatural forces.
The confrontation I'd been dreading came three nights later.
Floki appeared in my workshop after sunset, his wild hair backlit by forge-glow and his pale eyes bright with religious fervor. He moved through my space like a predator marking territory, touching tools and examining work with the intensity of someone seeking evidence of heresy.
"The gods weave strange patterns," he said without preamble. "Metal that obeys will rather than hammer. Healing that defies natural order. Knowledge that comes from nowhere and changes everything."
"Knowledge comes from many sources," I replied carefully. "Experience, instruction, observation—"
"Not this knowledge." Floki's voice cut through my deflection like an axe through pine. "This knowledge comes from places that shouldn't exist, grants abilities that shouldn't be possible, creates results that challenge the fundamental order of the world."
He picked up one of my hammers, testing its perfect balance with the appreciation of a master craftsman who understood exactly how impossible such precision should be.
"Tell me truthfully, eastern stranger—are you gift from the gods or test of their patience?"
The question demanded honesty that could prove fatal. But looking at Floki's intense gaze, I realized that lies would only insult someone whose spiritual sensitivity had already detected the supernatural nature of my abilities.
"I don't know," I admitted. "I didn't ask for these abilities, don't understand their source, and can't predict their ultimate purpose. I only know that I have them, and that I've tried to use them constructively rather than destructively."
Floki studied me for a long moment, his expression cycling through suspicion, curiosity, and something that might have been pity.
"The natural order demands that metal resist change, that healing require time and pain, that knowledge come slowly through experience and error." His voice carried the weight of deeply held beliefs. "Your presence violates these truths, bends reality around impossibilities, makes the fundamental laws of existence seem... flexible."
"Does that make me evil?"
"It makes you dangerous." Floki set down the hammer with careful precision. "But dangerous to what? To whom? The gods' purposes aren't always comprehensible to mortal minds."
He moved toward the workshop entrance, pausing at the threshold to look back at me.
"Perhaps you're a thread from a different loom, woven into our tapestry for reasons we cannot understand. Neither blessed nor cursed, but simply... other." His manic grin returned. "The gods clearly want me to keep building boats with you, or they would have struck you down already. Who am I to question their wisdom?"
After Floki disappeared into the night, I stood alone in my workshop trying to process the theological acceptance I'd just received. But my solitude was brief—footsteps outside announced another visitor.
Ragnar emerged from the shadows with the silent movement of a predator, settling onto a work stool with casual authority.
"Interesting conversation," he observed. "I've been wondering when Floki would finally voice his concerns directly rather than muttering about divine mysteries and unnatural innovations."
"You were listening?"
"I was ensuring that his religious crisis didn't turn violent." Ragnar's smile held dark amusement. "Floki's faith runs deep, and deep faith can justify extreme actions when challenged."
"And now?"
"Now he's decided you're part of the gods' plan rather than opposition to it. Which is fortunate for all of us." Ragnar leaned forward, his pale eyes fixed on my face with uncomfortable intensity. "Though it raises questions about what kind of plan requires someone with your particular... talents."
The observation hung in the air like a challenge. Ragnar was probing, testing whether I understood the implications of my growing reputation and supernatural abilities.
"Plans change when circumstances change," I said carefully. "Perhaps the gods simply value adaptability."
"Perhaps." His smile widened. "Or perhaps they're preparing for challenges that require tools normal men cannot provide."
He rose to leave, pausing to offer one final observation: "You make people question their certainties, Thanos. That's either the most valuable or most dangerous gift a man can possess. I haven't decided which—but I'm grateful you're on my side rather than Haraldson's."
Alone in my workshop, surrounded by impossible tools and the lingering scent of supernatural innovation, I realized that my secret was no longer entirely secret. The most perceptive members of Kattegat's community had recognized me as something beyond normal human experience.
The question was whether that recognition would prove to be salvation or doom.
Given the political currents swirling around Earl Haraldson's growing resentment and Ragnar's expanding ambitions, I suspected I'd discover the answer sooner than I wanted.
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