Chapter Text
BOOK ONE
darkness was over the surface of the deep
– Genesis 1:2
He had felt a sinister presence the moment their hunting party had entered the hollow and shady path lined by broad trees and dense shrubbery, the hairs on his neck rising. Scanning the forest for something that would betray an imminent threat, he ignored protocol and rode past the ealdorman in front of him, paying no mind to their flustered protests.
They were in Wiltonshire, where Uhtred had been forced to join in the spectacle that was Alfred’s appointment of a new Ealdorman. For all he knew, Wiltonshire should be safe, situated in the heart of Wessex as it was, but Uthred couldn’t shake the feeling of impending doom that had laid its black hand on his shoulder.
If he was looking to ambush a king, he thought anxiously, this would be the time and place he’d chose for it. If there were troops hiding in these dense woods, they had the high ground, and the king had nothing but a handful of servants and a dozen spoiled men, most of them old, all of them slowed by a life of luxury. When he reached Alfred, the king had already turned to look at him, alert to the commotion behind him.
“Uhtred” he said, much less surprised than dismayed. “This isn’t proper, you need to-“
“Shh,” Uhtred gestured for him to be silent as his eyes flickered back towards the trees. His horse had become anxious, and so had the others.
Too quick-witted to remain oblivious, Alfred’s expression changed. “Is something wrong?” he asked, his voice suddenly tense, courtly etiquette forgotten.
Uhtred knew they were coming seconds before they descended on them from the tree lines.
Cold dread seized his heart, a full-grown panic that send a crackling wave of shock into his limbs. This was an impossible position to defend, he knew it, but what was he to do? He grabbed for the handle of his weapon and, for a fraction of a heartbeat, looked at Alfred, who was looking back at him with wide eyes, pale and fragile, clearly unprepared.
Uhtred drew his sword.
“TO YOUR WEAPONS!” he shouted from the depth of his chest. “DEFEND THE KING WITH YOUR LIVES!”
Their attackers had reached them before Uhtred could draw his next breath.
In front of him, a man grabbed for the reins of Alfred’s horse, and Uhtred separated him from his arm. A second later, his own horse cried out in agony as it crumbled beneath him, a lance protruding from its neck, and Uhtred jumped before his horse could crush him, ramming his sword into the chest of the man who was responsible. He slashed another attacker and turned towards Alfred, desperate to get him out somehow, to get him to safety, yet his thoughts of breaking through the onslaught of men, to free the way for Alfred’s escape, were shattered when he saw the man’s steed already on the ground, its white coat bleeding red. For a terrible moment, he thought the king was dead, but then he spotted him, scrambling on the ground, his hands dragging through the autumn leaves as two assailants pulled him back by his cloak.
Uhtred let out a furious roar, killing and maiming his way towards them.
He saw Alfred’s Master of the Hunt, a skilled man by the name of Beorhtweald, defend him with an axe, and when he finally reached them, Beorhtweald had killed one of Alfred's two attackers, but he was heavily bleeding from his neck, and the moment Uhtred plunged his sword through the second man’s back, kicking his corpse towards the dirt-packed ground, Beorhtweald collapsed beside him.
There was no time to help him.
Instead, Uhtred quickly reached for wide-eyed Alfred, who was clearly disorientated, his movements frantic. To control him, Uhtred slung an arm around his neck and pressed the king to his chest, holding him still. With Alfred secured like this, he backed into a tree, trying to give them some form of protection.
By now, the battle had cleared, and what Uhtred saw turned his stomach, made bile rise in his throat. Around them, a dozen Danes were closing in, the lust of battle in their eyes, three Saxon servants dead at their feet. With them lay the ealdormen Leodbriht and Eadbald, noble in their end, but the others were nowhere to be seen, and neither were their horses.
Alfred said it before Uhtred had any chance to think it.
“I have been betrayed,” he whispered, disbelief and pain turning his voice rough with grief.
“I’ll get us out, lord,” Uhtred answered.
Alfred didn’t challenge him, but he made a sound somewhere between a mirthless laugh and a sob.
Uhtred hated that sound.
He didn’t know what else to say.
This couldn't be it. He couldn’t just accept this. If this was to be his fate, then the Gods had played a cruel game. All this fortune, all this progress, for what? And even if it was his fate, it definitely wasn’t Alfred’s. It couldn’t be.
As they watched the men approach, he felt Alfred tense against his chest. The king's head dropped back against his shoulder, as if he was trying to look towards the sky, and the hard metal of his crown bit into Uhtred’s skin. Alfred's hair was soft where it brushed against his jaw, his scent suddenly intimately strong between them, and again, Uhtred knew what was coming.
“I order you to kill me, Ealdorman Uhtred.”
He felt like he was going to vomit, his heart dull and heavy. This could not be his fate.
“I can’t,” he begged.
“I do not ask, it is an order!” Alfred’s tone was firmer now, familiar authority fostering his courage, and the Danes were right in front of them, grinning, reaching, Uhtred pressing his blade to Alfred’s neck, showing them what he would do if they didn’t stand back.
“You have not betrayed me today, Uhtred,” his king urged him, the staccato of his voice strong and demanding, a royal front to his human terror. “Do not betray me now.”
With a pained growl, Uhtred pulled Alfred harder against his chest, heavy blade unsteady at his neck.
“I’ll follow,” he promised, in an attempt to console him, and then he saw Alfred’s eyes close, felt his chest press against his forearm as the man drew in a deep breath.
His last breath.
Before his inner eye, Uhtred could see royal blood spray into the faces of their attackers, could see Alfred sag into him. Cutting a man’s throat wasn’t a pretty death, nor a quick one, and Alfred would suffer. Gurgling on blood, he would reach for the gaping hole in his throat, instinctively struggle against Uhtred's grip, and Uhtred-
Uhtred would have to keep cutting.
He would have to hold him down, fight him until the life left his eyes.
I-
I can't.
He dropped his sword.
