Norway

As the sun rose over the rim of the world, and the dew still clung to the grass like silver threads, birds began to sing their morning verses in the forest beyond. There, near the edge of the great, still lake, a wide clearing opened to the sky.

In that place stood a longhouse, broad and proud, shaped from stout timber and roofed in turf and birchbark. Around it were three smaller houses—kin-dwellings or storehouses—and beyond those, smaller still, the huts of laborers and thralls. The settlement sat like a village cradled in the arms of field and wood.

The land about was well-tended: wide fields of barley and oats, rows of vegetables—carrots pulled from dark earth, onions strung like garlands. Pens of woven wood enclosed the livestock: cattle lowed in one, while pigs rooted in another, and chickens scattered and clucked as they pleased. Smoke curled lazily from a chimney hole, and the scent of boiling meat rode the breeze.

Then came the voice.

“Rollo!” it called—soft at first, like a dream.

“Rollo... Rollo!” it cried again, louder, insistent, breaking the calm like a horn in the stillness.

And there he lay, the young man named Rollo, sleeping atop a haystack beside the barn. His hair was black as ravens’ feathers, his tunic green wool, simple but well-woven. Around his neck hung a Thor’s hammer, carved of iron, tied by a strip of leather. Still, he slept—until that name was cried again, harsh and sharp:

“ROLLO!”

He woke with a gasp, sitting up like one struck by a blade. His eyes darted left and right, wild as a deer. Pain bloomed in his skull, not from the sun, but from within. He clutched his head as visions, not of this place, stormed through his mind.

He saw... towers of glass and steel rising higher than any hall. Wagons without horses that roared like dragons. Small glowing runes—screens, he called them—held in hand and spoken to like seer-stones. Weapons that cast death from afar with fire and thunder.

Then, as if drawn from another life, older memories—less alien, more human. A firelit hearth. A father teaching him to string a bow. A mother with flour on her hands, laughter in her eyes. A table laden with smoked fish and boiled roots. The scent of pine. The weight of a sword. The howl of winter wolves. All this surged and ebbed in his head like a tide.

When the pain passed and the light returned to his eyes, he saw a man standing in the distance, watching.

The figure was plain but familiar. Short black hair. A white wool tunic. Black linen trousers. Leather-bound feet. In his hands, two bows, and a bundle of arrows.

Rollo stood, legs unsure, and approached.

The man gave him one of the bows and said, with a tone both casual and brotherly: “Father bids us hunt deer today.”

And he turned, striding toward the forest. Without thought, Rollo followed. Step after step, he moved as if led by some instinct buried deep within the bones of this body that was—and was not—his own.

As they walked, the stranger’s name rose unbidden from Rollo’s lips: “Egil…” Yes. That was his name—Egil—his brother.

But in the storm of thoughts within his head, a clearer voice rose like a ghost from another time:

My name... is Elijah Petersson. I am a history teacher at Oakfield High School, inCalifornia. I used to wake beside a woman I loved, kissed her belly where a child grew, paid bills for a house I couldn’t afford, and drank too much on the weekends with old friends.

And now I wake in this place... with blood not my own, in a life that belongs to someone else.

A breath caught in his throat.

“Rollo. Son of Halfdan and Inga. Brother to Egil. But I do not know Halfdan. I have never seen Inga. Yet they speak to me as though I were born of them.”

He clenched his fists.

“No, Elijah. Don’t give in. This must be a dream. Play the part, and you will wake tomorrow beneath electric lights and the hum of traffic.”

But as his feet struck the earth, as the wind kissed his cheeks and the scent of roasted meat drifted in the air, the lie of that comfort faltered.

I feel everything, he thought, eyes to the ground—the weight of my limbs, the rhythm of the dirt beneath my soles. I can even smell... stew—spiced and savory. Can dreams be this precise?

He stopped for a moment as Egil moved ahead, bow in hand, unaware of the war raging behind his brother’s eyes.

Then, aloud, Elijah whispered: “No. I will not leap to mad conclusions... not yet. There are truths to uncover first.”

The movement caught his eye. A deer, a young buck, peeked its head from behind a stand of birch trees. In the same instant, an arrow hissed. It struck the buck square in the head. The animal hit the ground with a heavy, final thud.

Egil let out a victorious yell, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

Rollo—no, Elijah—was looking at his own arm, the one that still held his unstrung bow. The shock on his face turned to a terrible certainty. Egil hadn’t shot. Rollo’s bowstring was still vibrating faintly.

There is no doubt about it. This is real, he thought, the shock turning to a sweet, unsettling smile. I have a master’s in history, and I’m standing in a world I only read about. The Viking era. And I just shot a deer without even thinking about it.

Then, the smile hardened into resolve. If this is a second shot at life, I won’t waste it. I will make something of myself.

“Hey, Rollo!” Egil called out, pulling him back to the present. He was signaling for help. “This deer’s fat! We’ll have some nice meat. Let’s start heading home, all right?” Egil hoisted the animal onto his shoulders.

Back at the compound, walking the fields was a man of large build, a fatherly sort. He wore a brown tunic with its sleeves cut and a large white undershirt. A leather belt adorned with a sword encircled his waist. His long, black hair was pulled into an undercut with a man bun.

He was standing over two field workers, speaking with an authoritative air that his voice didn’t quite match. “You two need to hurry up so we aren’t late for dinner,” he said.

“We’ll make sure we finish fast enough so we can enjoy a meal, Hagar,” the two people said simultaneously.

One of the workers, Bjarne, was an older man in torn, dirty clothes, who didn’t seem ashamed of his station.

“Hagar,” Bjarne began without stopping to collect plants. “They say the old man is getting sicker by the day and that they predict he won’t have more than a day or two to live.”

“They speak of Bragi?” Hagar asked.

“Indeed. And does that mean it’s true?” Bjarne asked, dropping his voice. “He plans to leave everything to your son, Rollo?”

“It is true,” Hagar confirmed, before bursting out laughing.

“I understand why Rollo would be picked as the heir to the earldom, but his mother still fears he is too young,” Bjarne said.

“Jorunn has always been protective of her family,” Hagar said calmly. “Nonetheless, I will support my son unconditionally.”

“I think you should gain his opinion on the matter,” Bjarne suggested.

“Hmm, you’re right,” Hagar said, stroking his beard. “I’ll mention it during tonight’s meal.”

Rollo and Egil were walking back toward the longhouse when the distant sound of dozens of horses and loud, thumping footsteps reached them. Rollo, and then Hagar and Bjarne, looked toward the forest path in shock.

From the path, a man on horseback emerged. Everyone felt a wave of relief seeing him; he was clearly one of their own. The man dismounted, and soon everyone was gathered around him.

Rollo looked shocked, Bjarne and the unknown man had serious expressions, and Egil looked scared.

If I’m correct on my standpoint, I traveled back to the Viking Era, and I’m a history teacher inhabiting the body of an Earl’s son, Rollo thought, frantically. Earls are basically Norse lords who rule over a small territory.

Bjarne broke the tense silence. “Now that old man Bragi is dead, that means Rollo has to become earl. Something’s wrong. They wouldn’t send someone like you to announce Rollo’s rise to earldom. Am I right, Halstein?”

Halstein, the man on horseback, looked down and sighed. “You’re right. Ælfflæd has already somehow found out the news of Bragi’s death and has started mobilizing his army. He will be marching from the east in a week or two.”

Bjarne’s face hardened. “Goddamn Christians,” he spat onto the ground.

“What are we to do?” Egil asked, now panicking.

Rollo, the history teacher, felt a cold calm settle over him. Ælfflæd, a prominent Anglo-Saxon Christian lord... this is a war for territory and faith.

“Mobilize every single man who can fight and have them set up camp at the eastern border,” Rollo said. His voice was steady and clear.

Halstein smirked, impressed. No wonder he was chosen as the next Earl, and not Bragi’s kids. His quick, calm response to such an event would worry most, but he seems without fear.

Rollo stood up from the bench he had been sitting on. “Egil, stay here and tell mother that Father and I are heading to Norwíc.”

The scene shifted to a large encampment. Soldiers were yelling, some singing, some even dancing. Hundreds of small tents were set up, but one stood out: it was larger and taller, and most of the other tents seemed to be built around it.

Inside, Ælfflæd sat at a table. He wore a long chainmail shirt over a white cotton shirt, a black leather chest plate, and a black cloak. The man had a brown combover haircut and a medium-length brown beard. On the table, alongside his papers, a golden cross and a Bible lay next to a burning candle.

A priest entered. “So, how are we going to go about this campaign?”

Ælfflæd put down his papers. “I plan on conquering Norwíc, then sailing east to raid and conquer more land. It’s about time we show these pagans that we Christians, we followers of God, are truly in charge. Ever since the Great War, everyone has gone soft. I will bring Christian rule to this accursed land,” Ælfflæd declared with fanatic resolve.

Meanwhile, Rollo sat in the center seat at the head of his own Viking hall. Halstein and Bjarne stood next to him. Multiple voices were overlapping in the hall, a chaotic debate over the best course of action.

“Enough!” Halstein commanded. The large hall fell silent. The only sound was the crackling of fire.

“Rollo has already set a plan into action,” Halstein announced. Everyone looked at Rollo with surprise.

“Gather every single man and woman who can fight and encamp at the east border,” Rollo said, his voice cutting through the silent room.

“Is that all of your plan?” one man called out from the crowd. Whispers of agreement were heard.

“We will ambush them and then—” Rollo stopped mid-sentence. A flicker of light lit in his eyes, and his expression turned deadly serious.

“We Conquer.”