4,795The King's Sword
A/N
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To walk the lands where Kings and Gods roam, the gift of the lady must be returned to whence it had been gifted to the one true king…
For months the words had haunted him, had left him in a state of contemplation that little could pull him from. Had he not witnessed the wonders he had thus far, he would have dismissed such folly out of hand.
For centuries, muggles and wizards alike had sought the mythical blade wielded by Arthur as he fought to rid his lands of the Saxon invaders. None, neither magical nor not, had succeeded.
Harry had no reason to believe his endeavours would be any more fruitful other than a strange sensation that overcame him when he spoke the words on the worn parchment aloud.
There was magic in the script. An incantation? An Enchantment? He knew not, but there something that led him, like countless others before, on a seemingly endless pursuit to obtain the unobtainable.
He shook his head.
Believed by many muggles to be little more than myth, the deeds of Arthur and Merlin still enthralled many a child as their stories were told and retold with each passing generation. Though the essence remained the same, the tales had become obscured, the feats ever more fantastical and ultimately, less believable to the pragmatic people.
For those of magical blood, it was not so mythical. The saga had remained as it had been penned so many years prior by those that had witnessed the power of Merlin, the fall of Arthur at Camlann and a nation in mourning for the one that had led them from the shadows into the light.
However, accounts of the blade he wielded in his final throes of life differed. Some claimed he was bereft of the sword that had slain any who brought arms against him, others, that it was unceremoniously taken from his lifeless body when the battle had concluded.
To Harry, it mattered not. What mattered was that he was compelled to locate the sword. Not to keep it for himself but return it to where it belonged. If his thoughts and feelings were correct, it did not belong here amongst the living.
Never would he have believed his pursuit would lead him on such a journey and as he looked upon the unassuming, unmarked grave, he could only shake his head, what he had sought so tirelessly now within touching distance.
Flashback
For months he had ignored the urge to begin his search, had done all he could to silence the voice that seemed to whisper in the back of his mind, to no avail. The urge became more persistent as did the niggling voice, like an itch that could not be scratched.
Eventually, when he knew there would be no reprieve, he began the arduous task. He slowly gathered all he could find on the writings of the fallen King, of Merlin and even the sword. Still, he found nothing that would lead him to what he sought, and he began delving into anything he could lay his hands on from around the period, and just after, that King Arthur had walked the land.
His latest venture had become something of an obsession. He would dream of pulling the sword from a stone, of voices that spoke to him in words he could not hear, and even two cloaked figures that watched him from afar, their faces hidden by the shadows that surrounded them. All he could remember of one was that he was missing an eye and that both had Ravens sat atop their shoulders.
He would wake in a cold sweat, his short sleep disturbed and a rather irritable wife who did not take kindly to her own slumber being intruded upon.
He had told her of his undertaking. The woman had offered him a smirk before kissing him gently on the cheek.
"If you say you will find it, then I believe you, but do it quickly, Harry. You're getting on my bloody nerves."
He had chuckled, shrugging in the absence of an apology that she did not want to hear. She knew him better than any, knew of how easily he could be consumed by what many would deem to be impossible. She had seen him prove those who doubted him wrong at every turn.
To her, he was still something of a hero who would one day have his own deeds spoken of in the same awe that those of Arthur and Merlin elicited.
He found such a thought amusing. He was no man of myth nor wizened wizard. He was Harry Potter, a husband and father that only wished to live a life of peace.
It wasn't until he had stumbled across a diary written by a druid that had not had not shared his name some centuries prior that he found a thread he could follow, and only a thread it was.
Today, we make the ultimate sacrifice; our lives for the protection of our kingdom. The sword of the king shall be laid to rest a short distance from where we pray, in a place that only those touched by the gods themselves may hope to happen upon. The magic there is strong, strong enough that our efforts should bear the desired fruit.
Eleven stones and eleven souls, for our king and for the people he fought so valiantly to preserve.
Should our work come undone, it will be only by the will of the gods.
The words had given him pause. Were they to hold truth, then there was none that could hope to find the fabled blade.
Still, even days after he had reached his conclusion, the odd whispering continued, as did the dreams that plagued him in the night. Again, he did all he could to ignore them, to push aside the compulsion he felt to persevere in his pursuit of what he could never claim.
Once more, he found himself acting upon the urge, if only to prove that what he was being pushed to gather was unreachable. Perhaps then, the voice would fall silent and he could sleep soundly.
Such thoughts of a peaceful life remained merely that as he dived into the rabbit hole that had already swallowed many.
It did not take him long to decipher the location that was mentioned in the diary. The was only one place known where men of this kind dwelled, prayed and practiced their magic throughout history, though it was seldom seen now.
He'd arrived at Stonehenge, expecting to find nothing but ambient magic of days gone by. What he had found had been more; a trail of sorts that held the same compulsion as the voice.
Having followed it, he had arrived at a cave only a short distance away, hidden in a forest. The magic here was stronger, as welcoming as it was foreboding though did not feel threatening. It allowed him to pass as though the protections in place did not exist and he pondered the ease in which he had discovered it.
His thoughts turned to the words that led him on this venture and he frowned.
He was no god. He stood merely a man, one that had achieved what some would consider to be extraordinary things, but a man, nonetheless. He had defeated an exceedingly powerful Dark Lord, had even been greeted by death…
His frown deepened as his mind wandered to that experience and the items he had in his possession.
Was Death considered a god?
He knew not but had little doubt that in some cultures across the world, it would be seen as such. If the Hallows meant he was the master of death, did that somehow grant him a status of sorts amongst the deities?
He shook his head of those thoughts. No, there must be another reason he had been led here, had been granted access, though no other could he fathom.
Again, not willing to be bogged down by ridiculous notions, he navigated his way through the cave, an underwater cavern, and emerged in the centre where another path took him to a room larger than the Great Hall of Hogwarts.
In the very centre, surrounded by debris where time had ravaged what had once been an exceptional construct, stood eleven pillars and his blood ran cold.
Was it possible the text had spoken true, that the sword so many had spent their lives searching for rested here?
He groaned in frustration when he reached the centre of the semi-circle the pillars formed. Undoubtedly, it had once been here, but no longer was. Someone had come before him and laid claim to the blade, someone that had gone to much work to do so.
Each pillar contained a runestone, stones that he could not believe would have been hidden together if the person tasked with doing so had even a modicum of intelligence. No, it was likely they had been separated and the person who liberated the blade had searched long and hard to reunite them.
The stones themselves each carried a single etching, each different from the last. Much to his surprise, they illuminated as he ran a finger over the carving, the magic here having withstood much better than the crumbling and collapsed stone around him.
He made a pass over each one, his eyes closed and in deep focus. All were connected by the same archaic magic that led to a steel fitting where the sword had been placed, locked and unable to be moved without all eleven stones to free it from its binds.
This was old magic indeed, magic that reeked of sacrifice and was the work of many. It was not flawless, however, as proven by the one that had been its undoing.
He paused as he reached the centre and ran his hand over where the blade had been taken, his breath hitching as he felt the presence of another. It was not a familiar magical presence but a presence nonetheless, one of a different nature.
He frowned as he drew his wand. If no other had found this place other than him and whomever had initially…
Shaking his head, he took a deep breath and began muttering under his breath as he waved his wand, taking a step back as a shadowy figure materialised in front of him, one he somewhat recognised.
Though he had not seen the faces of the two men that had plagued some of his dreams, this was undoubtedly one of them. He was mostly shrouded by a raised hood, but the skin that was visible on his left cheek was heavily scarred.
He watched as the man went through the motions of placing the stones in the pillars, each illuminating as it found its home, before returning to where he had formed and releasing an enormous sword.
It glowed brightly, almost blindingly and the figure was brought to light with it for a moment before he faded along with the sword, his retrieval having been his final act here.
Although the sword had been impressive, it was not what had drawn Harry's attention. It had been the man garbed in an assortment of armour with a Nordic symbol engraved into the breast plate; a raven. It had been a Viking that found this place and had done so centuries prior.
He frowned at the thought. If Excalibur had been found by a foreign invader, why was it not documented? Had the man not boasted of his find? Had he not taken it into battle?
The sword he had seen was not inconspicuous. Someone would have taken note of it, however, he was out of his depth. He understood Nordic runes but little else of the Viking invasions.
He needed knowledge, he needed to sate his curiosity and then perhaps whatever was compelling him so would leave him be.
(Break)
Once more he found himself frustrated. Having depleted the very limited offerings of the wizarding world in only a few weeks, he found himself having to branch further afield. As it happened, even during the upheaval caused by the arrival of the Vikings, the magical community had not involved themselves in the affairs of the muggles. As such, there was very little interaction between magical Britain and the invaders.
The few incidences that had been noted had ended poorly for the latter, with none being left alive after they had happened upon a magical settlement. Still, he had found no mention of the raven symbol and knew not how prolific it had been, if at all, but it was all he had to go on.
Drawing a blank and with only one other option left, he began exploring the alternative and delved into the muggle archives, which he found to be much more exhaustive.
There were books aplenty, museums dedicated to the period and even television documentaries; enough material that could take years to trawl through before he found even a mention of his only lead.
He needed help, and for that, he needed an expert.
Hesitantly, he had begun another search for such and came across perhaps the most likely place that would have someone with the knowledge he sought.
He arrived at the JORVIK Viking Centre in York, immediately questioning his decision to come here. There was a plethora of artefacts, but it seemed little more than a tourist attraction where the staff dressed in what appeared to be Viking outfits, carrying replica weapons and giving tours of the exhibitions.
He was readying himself to take his leave when he was accosted by a woman carrying a tray filed with small goblets.
"Can I interest you in a sample of our authentically brewed mead?"
It was not often he would indulge in drinking, but he politely accepted one of the goblets and drained the small amount of liquid within. It was surprisingly refreshing, earthy but with a hint of sweetness about it.
"That's not bad," he commented.
The woman smiled.
"Myself and my husband make it. It takes a lot of work but it's worth it."
Harry nodded his agreement. It was much better than the mead that was on offer at The Three Broomsticks.
"Sorry, I was just wondering if there was anyone here who could help me? I have some questions about Vikings that I'm having difficulty finding answers to."
"Then you'll want to speak to Marion, she's the curator and there's not much she won't be able to tell you. Ask for her at reception," she advised, pointing to a desk in the adjoining room.
"Thank you," Harry replied before making his way to the appointed area and getting the attention of the man who was filling in some rather dull-looking paperwork.
"Ah, good morning, sir, how can I help you?" he asked jovially.
"I was hoping to speak to Marion. The lady with the mead said she would be able to answer some questions I have."
"Of course, of course, I'm sure she will be happy to see you. She's always happy to speak to anyone that shows an interest in Vikings," he huffed good-naturedly. "Just give me a mo. and I'll see if I can get hold of her."
He picked up the phone receiver next to him and pressed a single key. His call was answered shortly afterwards by a feminine voice on the other end.
"Marion, I have a gentleman here who has some questions for you, are you able to meet with him?"
Harry could not hear the response of the woman, but the man nodded as she spoke.
"Excellent, cheers, Marion," he replied before hanging up. "She will be with you in a moment. You can take a seat if you like," he offered, gesturing towards a seating area.
Harry nodded gratefully and sat.
It was only a few minutes later that a woman entered the room, her blonde hair tied in a tight bun and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. Were she a redhead, he would immediately think she was the female version of Percy Weasley he had known so many years ago.
"Hello, I'm Marion," she greeted him as she approached. "I understand that you have some questions for me."
Harry nodded as he removed a piece of muggle paper from his pocket and handed it to her.
"I was wondering what you could tell me about this."
Her eyes widened at the sketch of the Raven symbol he had hastily drawn.
"Where did you learn of this?" she asked, her countenance becoming guarded though he had evidently piqued her curiosity.
"I really don't know but it has been bothering me for some time."
The woman looked at him disbelievingly but probed no further. For a moment, she simply stared at him before deflating somewhat.
"Are you here to mock me?"
Harry frowned, taken aback by the question.
"Why would I mock you?"
"The others do. They think them to be nothing but stories, but I know there is more to it."
"I'm sorry, I really don't know what you mean," Harry replied, confused.
Marion looked at him speculatively before coming to a decision.
"You're really not one of them, one of the other scholars?"
Harry shook his head.
"I can assure you, I'm not. My knowledge on Vikings is very limited, that is why I came to you."
She relaxed somewhat and gestured for him to follow.
He did so and she led him through the door from which she had emerged.
"I'm sorry but I thought…never mind. I am curious as to how you came across this symbol when there are so few who know of it, and those that do, are not so flattering towards what it pertains to. Mythical, they call it, a fool's errand to waste time on such things."
"I'm really not following."
"Of course not," Marion huffed irritably, "why would you? Sorry," she offered once more, "I have spent years being ridiculed for my work."
"And your work involves this symbol?"
She nodded as she opened a door and led him inside a room that was filled with an assortment of artefacts that she was evidently working her way through. She ignored them and took a seat behind a desk that was full of papers stacked haphazardly.
"You'll have to excuse the mess, I'm usually much more organised than this."
Harry waved her off. Often, his own desk at home was in no better state, something that Bellatrix continuously chided him for.
"What do you know about this?" she asked.
"Not a thing," Harry answered honestly to the disappointment of the woman.
"I see. Well, I will share what I know and see if any of it makes sense to you."
Harry nodded and leaned forward in his chair in anticipation, hoping that what he learned would put the episode to rest.
"This symbol is that of the Raven Clan, a group of Vikings that, from what I can gather, arrived in England some time in the mid to late ninth century. They were led by a fearsome warrior named Sigurd Styrbjornsson, their Jarl, something akin to a Lord at the time."
"From what you can gather?"
Marion nodded reluctantly.
"The only evidence that exists of them is this account written by a Saxon man claiming to have joined them," she explained as she withdrew a very old journal from the top drawer of her desk and handed it to him.
Carefully he opened it, the already cracked leather protesting as he eased the cover away from the first page.
"Hunwald of Lincolnshire," he muttered, reading the name of the author aloud.
"According to Hunwald, he married a Norse woman and lived amongst them at their settlement, though he does not mention where that was. Within those pages, he documents the fantastical feats of the clan under Styrbjornsson, but it is not the Jarl at the centre of his tales. It is another he speaks of, one he identifies as Eivor, or the wolf-kissed and sometimes even Raven-feeder."
"Who was this, Eivor?"
Marion shrugged.
"It is something I have been unable to figure out," she said disappointedly. "According to Hunwald, he was a warrior of great renown across the land. He was equally feared and respected. He would raid towns and cities with hammer, bow, spear and sword, but there seems to be little consistency in the tales. That is why they are not believed, not to mention what Hunwald claims Eivor accomplished. I suppose the others see him as we look upon Arthur, the great king that never was."
"What does Hunwald say he did?"
"What didn't he do would be more accurate," Marion snorted. "Hunwald wrote that he could slay an entire army, that it was he who was the deciding factor in many a battle and that the Lords of the land called on him in their hour of need. Eivor would come and their problems would be solved."
"And you don't believe these stories?"
"It is difficult to," Marion mused aloud, "but I do believe such a man existed. That he was touched by the gods, as Hunwald claims, not so much."
Harry coughed to cover the gasp that escaped him. Her words resonated with him, the cave and what he had seen there.
"Does Hunwald say what Eivor looked like?"
Marion nodded as she reached over the desk and turned a few pages of the book before pointing to a small section of writing.
Tall, he is not, but he has the strength of a hundred men. The mere sight of the scar adorning his cheek where the wolves had bestowed their kiss is enough to send his enemies fleeing, for they know the Raven-feeder has come to deliver them to Helheim where they will sup at Odin's table, if proven worthy.
The scar. The man he saw in the cave had to be this Eivor, the Wolf-Kissed.
"What happened to him?"
"I do not know," Marion replied with a shrug. "In Hunwald's final passage, he speaks of a battle to come. I can only assume he did not survive to share his account."
"What about Eivor?"
"There is much obscurity about him. He allegedly came here from Norway and perhaps returned. Hunwald writes of tensions between Eivor and Sigurd and he may have left."
"You are not convinced he did?"
"No, I think he did leave but not to Norway. There are accounts from Vinland of a scarred man who visited a tribe there. Etchings were found in a cave on the east coast where Leif Erikson was first rumoured to have landed. They depict a man matching Eivor's description slaying another and ridding the land of him," she explained. "Hunwald also spoke of Eivor visiting there who in turn spoke of his fondness."
"Vinland?" Harry asked, enthralled by the story the woman was weaving.
"The east coast of Canada. That is where the cave is, inside a waterfall. It can be found quite easily, but nothing else remains."
"It doesn't make sense," he muttered. "Just because he visited there it doesn't mean he returned."
"It does if he had no other place to go," Marion countered. "Hunwald wrote that Sigurd and Eivor left Norway in disgrace having disagreed with Sigurd's father's decision to cede his title in favour of following another who named himself king. Eivor would not have been welcomed back, and if he no longer wished to be in England, Vinland would be the only other land he was familiar with."
"Ah, I didn't know that."
Marion grinned smugly.
"That is why you came to me, is it not?"
He conceded the point with a nod.
"So, if he did leave, then it would have been to Vinland?"
"That's the only thing that makes sense to me," Marion sighed.
"Why have you not looked into it further?" he probed.
Marion laughed and shook her head.
"Investigating these things requires funding. None of the societies here are willing to part with their money for this. To them, it is to big a risk with very little chance of reward. I can't say I don't blame them, even if I am certain I know where their settlement once was."
Harry nodded thoughtfully. He didn't know how much he believed the tales of Hunwald, but he did believe the clan were once here and that Hunwald was not merely a bard.
"You have given me much to think about," he said as he stood. "Thank you, Marion. If I learn of anything else, you will be the first to know."
"I won't hold my breath," she replied, not unkindly. "You will find very few willing to even entertain this," she added, gesturing to her stacks of notes.
"Well, for what it is worth, I believe you."
She offered him a grateful smile.
"Thank you. Sorry, I didn't catch your name."
"It's Harry, Harry Potter," he introduced himself. "Maybe one day someone will see sense, Marion and you will get your opportunity."
"I can always hope, Harry. Let me show you out."
He nodded and gave a subtle flick of his wand, freezing her in place. He made a copy of the journal and undid his spell, the woman none-the-wise to what had happened. He returned Hunwald's diary to her before gesturing for her to lead the way.
He hadn't gotten the answers he had sought, had gained more questions if nothing else, but he did have another lead to follow. One he hoped would bring him the closure he needed.
End Flashback
Much to his relief, the etching Marion had mentioned had been well documented, though little interest seemed to have been shown beyond recognition of it. However, according to one article he had read in a muggle history magazine, there were plans for a team to investigate the area at an undisclosed time in the future.
The revelation was a welcome one. At the very least, he would not have to have much, if any involvement with muggle archaeologists whilst he carried out his own work.
The area he had found himself in may very well have once been a settlement of sorts. It made sense with the higher ground and unending supply of fresh water. There was also a feeling of ambient magic about the place but whatever magic had been here, was no longer so. Whoever had once resided here had taken it with them.
The cave within the waterfall on the other hand was not so faint and he knew immediately he was onto something. The very presence he had felt in England in the chamber of pillars was here, stronger and more distinct.
Again, it did not feel like any magic he knew of nor did it truly feel like magic at all, but something else entirely. It was almost as though Eivor left an essence of himself wherever he went, a footprint that could not be seen.
Harry knew of no mere man that could do such. The presence of others would fade over time, yet the Wolf-Kissed remained. He may not have been a wizard, but he had been more than a muggle, of that, he had no doubt.
Had he not felt him here, the image of him slaying an unknown enemy would have proven to be rather anti-climactic. He knew not who had carved the design, but it had not been done by an expert. The lines were jagged, uneven and barely intelligible in places. What he did note, however, was the scar that Hunwald had mentioned and that he too had seen when the figure had removed the sword from where it had been placed.
Along with this, was a crude carving of the raven symbol on his chest plate, the very same he was now familiar with. It gave him hope that his own venture was coming to an end.
Having found nothing else within the cave, he had taken his leave in favour of seeking the presence elsewhere. If Eivor had indeed returned here when he left England, it would not have been to spend the remainder of his days within the hollow of a waterfall.
He had left the settlement behind him when he found more traces of the man leading away, growing in strength once more and trailing up a hill on the opposite side of the river. Slowly but surely, it grew still until it became almost overwhelming in a clearing where little seemed to grow.
Where the trees were thick in the surrounding area, here, life was scant, the ground beneath his feet bereft of plants. Only a few dead leaves marred the soil, yet it was here he felt it stronger than anywhere else, that essence that had been his latest obsession, had haunted him until he had followed it.
Carefully, he began removing sections of dirt, questioning as to why one with such a legacy found himself in an unmarked grave so far from home, a world away from where he had forged his path.
He paused momentarily as he spotted the tip of a golden spear protruding from the ground before setting back to work until he looked upon not only what he came for, but what had been left of the man.
He had been buried in his full set of armour, the symbol of his clan displayed proudly on his chest with his weapons of choice laid around him; a spear, a shield, a bow and the large sword. In his right hand, he held an intricate short axe carved with several Norse runes engraved into the head and handle.
Harry was no expert, but it appeared that Eivor had not been a young man when he died and had gone on to live a long life when he had departed from England. To him, it was fitting that such a man would do so.
After all he had done, had achieved, he had earned his years of peace.
"You've been a bloody pain in my arse for months," he muttered amusedly, the sense of relief he felt drowning out the presence of the fallen man. "I will leave you to your rest, I just need this."
As his hand closed around the hilt of the sword, it burst into life, almost blinding him with the light it exuded. For a moment, he thought that it had destroyed his vision.
The world around him had darkened considerably, swallowing him within a cold shadow, his only light source being the sword he still held.
He flicked his wand into his hand, his ability as a swordsman equating to nothing more than a few swings and a not so fortunate thrust at a giant snake when he was twelve. He was much more comfortable with the former.
"A drengr's right to rest peacefully is sacrosanct. Why have you disturbed this place?" an accented voice asked, garnering his undivided attention.
"I came to retrieve a sword that does not belong here," Harry answered, his eyes searching for the source of where it had come from.
"A Saxon? It has been some time since I have heard such a lilt. You are far from home. Come, explain to me the importance of the sword that you would come all this way to retrieve it."
In front of him, a large table materialised. Seated at the head was one of the cloaked figures he had seen in his dreams, this one with both eyes intact.
"Eivor?" he questioned.
The man smiled and offered him a nod, gesturing for him to take a seat.
"So, you know of me, but I do not find you familiar."
"He is a drengr, a warrior,the same as you and one that shares many similarities," another voice broke in.
The second cloaked figure emerged from the shadows and stood at the far end of the table, his one eye staring at him speculatively.
"He too witnessed the murder of his parents at the hands of a tyrant and he too avenged their death. His name is whispered across England as yours once was, with respect and awe in equal measure."
Harry frowned at the odd man but did not interrupt. He was curious to see what else he had to say.
"As you have been blessed with my gifts, he has been gifted his own by Hel herself. His galdr is strong."
"I have killed many who claim such…"
"Not of his kind," the one-eyed man interrupted. "No, this one is not like any you have met, Eivor. This one is different. You share more than you would believe; two drengrs of two eras in this place together. It is a momentous occasion.
Eivor frowned but nodded.
"I will defer to your expertise, Odin."
Harry balked at the given name.
"Odin, as in the Viking god?" he blurted.
The one-eyed man merely nodded.
"You have convened with Hel and now, me."
"You mean Death?"
"She is one and the same, known by many a moniker. To you she is Death, to us, Hel."
Harry nodded his understanding.
"I believe that you were going to tell Eivor here of your interest in the blade?"
"Well, it belonged to Arthur, a king that lived long before you invaded Britain and it is to be returned to where it was gifted to him. One of his knights had been tasked with doing so, but never did and the Druids of the time sealed it in the cave where you took it from."
"My sword once belonged to a king?"
"It did," Harry confirmed.
"Did you know of this?" Eivor asked his companion.
"I did, but you never asked of its origins. Arthur was a beacon to the Britons when the Saxons invaded, and his sword is just as famous as he. It stands still as a symbol of hope to many, a legend in its own right."
Eivor shook his head.
"I knew it was a special blade; the way it sung, the way it cleaved through even the thickest of armour as a knife would butter, never once losing its edge," he muttered. "Then it should be returned to its people, Saxon. You may leave here with my blessing."
"Did you really not know what it was? You went to a lot of effort to get it," Harry pointed out.
Eivor shrugged.
"I suppose it could be considered a series of events that led me to it. I found each of those strange tablets as I journeyed across the kingdoms, eight in obscure caves and three in the possession of Zealots I killed."
"Zealots?"
"Godly fanatics of an ancient order tasked to protect them, strong men and able warriors," Eivor explained. "You could say that it was a fortunate accident I had all eleven when I discovered the cave that housed the sword."
Harry snorted.
"That is quite the coincidence, perhaps you were destined to carry it for a while."
"A path already forged that we as men may merely bear witness to. Seidr," he spat.
"Our friend here would know of such galdr. He too once walked a path not of his making. He overcame it and now controls his own destiny."
"Then he has done better than I," Eivor acknowledged. "You are fortunate your gods are not so incessant. All that remains of me is the legacy I left behind. Tell me, how has my reputation fared?"
"There are very few that believe you existed," Harry answered honestly. "Your deeds, as great as they are, were forgotten long ago. Only one account of them remain and they read as a story of a fictional hero. Hunwald of Lincolnshire was very flattering."
He had read the offerings many times, each time the disbelief he felt at the mentioned deeds growing considerably.
Eivor sighed disappointedly.
"Hunwald was a good man, a fool in many ways but was kind and gentle. I mourned his loss when he died," he mumbled. "So, all I fought for was for nothing? Not even a whisper is uttered on the lips?"
Harry shook his head feeling sorry for the man.
"There is one lady who believes firmly in you and has spent much of her life trying to prove your existence to the naysayers. She is the reason I was able to find where you were buried."
A smile tugged at the corner of Eivor's lips.
"Then she should be rewarded," he declared. "I would have you gift her my spear in gratitude."
"She would like that, even more so if she knew where your settlement in England once was. Through her, your legacy could be reborn, and you could gain the recognition you deserve for your deeds."
Eivor laughed openly as he shook his head.
"Never did I believe the day would come that a Saxon would wish to help a pagan so much. If it can be done, my gratitude would span eternity."
"From what I have read, you lived quite the eventful life. It would be a shame for you to be forgotten."
Eivor nodded appreciatively.
"Ravensthorpe can be found in the south of Ledecestrescire on the bank of the river Avon. I do not know what happened to my people there, they stayed whilst I left."
"Why did you leave?"
Eivor released a deep breath.
"It is a very long story, one that still pains me even here."
Harry nodded his understanding. He would not press the man to speak of things he did not wish to.
"How do I get out of here? Where even are we?"
"You are within my hall," Odin answered. "It is here that fallen warriors come to feast and drink their fill, the battles they fought, won and lost granting them a place among us. Perhaps one day, you will deign us with your presence, drengr. Now, however, is not the time. You have many years ahead of you yet."
"I hope so. My wife would probably dig me up just to kill me again if I didn't come home," Harry chuckled. "She has suffered me these past months as I looked for you."
"Then you should go and do so with our gratitude and blessing. It has been an honour to make you acquaintance, Harry Potter."
"And for me," Harry returned sincerely.
"My spear, drengr," Eivor reminded him. "I hope that your remaining years are kind and that it is not to soon that we share a horn of mead."
"I look forward to it, when the time is right."
With his parting words spoken, the shadows faded, and he once more found himself standing over what remained of the man in this world.
As promised, he retrieved the spear also and buried the body once more, adding a few charms to keep any other from stumbling upon this place. The Wolf-Kissed had earned his rest, had been very much like him in many ways and Harry would not appreciate his own burial site being disturbed.
With a final look and nod, he disapparated with no intention of ever returning here. His work was all but done.
(Break)
It had been a busy day and she had spent most of it poring over requisition requests from other museums who wished to display some of the wares she had accumulated over the years. She didn't mind much. It was better for them to be enjoyed by others than gathering dust in her archives.
With a flourish, she signed the last of the forms and leaned back in her rickety chair. Her office was a mess and she would need to do something about that soon.
She was pulled from her observations by a knock on the door.
"Come in," she instructed with a frown, having not expected anyone to remain almost two hours after they had closed to the public.
Her eyes widened in surprise as the man entered, one she had not expected to see nor hear from again. It had been months without word, and she believed like those before him, he had thought her a fool.
"Harry, what brings you here?" she asked, attempting to straighten the paperwork strewn across her desk.
He seemed to pay no attention to her efforts as he simply held out a long package to her.
"What's this?"
"Open it and find out."
She took the offering, the weight of it surprising her and she placed it on the desk before removing the wrappings.
Her breath hitched in her chest as she took in the beauty of the spear, the engraved raven on the handle almost causing her to collapse from shock.
"Y-you found him?"
Harry nodded.
"Thanks to you, I did," he confirmed, his smile wide.
"B-but how?"
"That doesn't matter," he said dismissively, "just know that it would not have been possible without your help. You were right all along, Eivor was real."
Marion shook her head in disbelief.
"I think I need a drink," she mumbled as she returned to her seat on shaking legs.
She proceeded to pour herself a generous measure from a bottle of vodka she removed from one of her drawers and drained the glass, her eyes never leaving the spear he had presented her with.
"I can't accept this. You found him, it should be yours…"
Harry waved off her words easily.
"You have spent years working on this, you have earned it. I never would have found him without you."
She stared at him for a moment, not knowing what to say.
"If you're sure…"
"I am," he insisted. "There is something else too."
"You have already given me too much," she replied with a shake of her head.
"No, I haven't," he countered as he slid a piece of paper towards her.
She opened it and frowned at the modern map of Leicestershire where a red 'x' had been marked in the south.
"That is where you will be able to find Ravensthorpe."
Marion nodded.
"It is exactly where I thought, the only place that made sense from Hunwald's journal," she sighed.
"Then you should find it and prove everyone else wrong. After everything you have done, you deserve it."
"I appreciate the sentiment, Harry, truly I do, but it is not so simple. Excavations are expensive and the museum does not have the funding for it. I certainly do not either."
"I know," Harry replied holding up a hand to silence her protests. "I'm not an expert in this kind of thing, but how much does it cost?"
Marion chuckled as she shrugged.
"It could be hundreds of thousands."
"Then I would like to fund it."
"You?" she asked, surprised by the bold declaration.
Harry nodded resolutely.
"I am not short on money. I have made more than I or several generations of my family will ever spend. I am making a serious offer to you that I would like you to accept."
Marion swallowed audibly.
"I don't know what to say."
"Just say yes and get one with it."
"Of course, I will accept, but why?"
Harry deflated slightly.
"Because you deserve the success it will bring you. I too had a dream that even I didn't believe in until it came true. I would like nothing more than for you to prove everyone wrong and reap the rewards of your hard work. You deserve it, Marion, and Eivor deserves to be remembered by all for what he achieved. His legacy should live on, as should yours."
Marion was lost for words. Never had any shown such belief in her work nor had they supported her endeavours. She poured and drained another measure from the bottle.
"You're serious, aren't you?"
He fought both the smirk and urge to make the very same joke his godfather would have as he nodded.
"Completely," he assured her. "All I ask is that you allow me to visit the site and see what you uncover. Everything there is yours to display as you see fit."
"Well, I already have my main attraction," she said, nodding towards the spear.
"I'm sure Eivor would approve," he replied knowingly as he stood. "I would lay off the vodka, you have a lot of work to do. I will return in a week to check your progress and we can work out the financial side of things."
"I will begin immediately."
Harry snorted.
"I didn't expect anything less," he muttered as he took his leave, pleased by what he had done and excited for what yet was.
He still had a sword to return, after all.