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TW: Canon typical violence, cussing, readers a bit dumb (understandably at this point)
A/N: Research has been done on brittle bone disease, "Osteogenesis imperfecta" however in as many cases as possible have stuck to canon depictions, while trying to be respectful to the lifestyle differences and challenges of the disabled community. Opinions expressed by characters do not reflect the feelings of the author.
Modern Mercy - Part 1
The forest floor crunched beneath your hiking boots as you navigated the winding trail, autumn leaves painting the world in shades of amber and crimson. You'd chosen this secluded path specifically to escape the chaos of daily life—no crowds, no noise, just you and the wilderness. The kind of solitude that made your soul feel lighter with each step, your favorite playlist humming softly through your earbuds as you lost yourself in the rhythm of walking.
But now, three hours into what should have been a simple loop trail, that peaceful solitude was beginning to feel more like isolation. The marked trail had seemingly vanished somewhere behind you, leaving you surrounded by towering pines and unfamiliar terrain that all looked frustratingly similar. The GPS app had been spinning uselessly for the last twenty minutes, showing nothing but a blank gray screen where your location should be.
"Come on," you muttered, pulling your phone from your jacket pocket with hands that trembled slightly from both cold and growing anxiety.
"Just show me where I am. Please don't tell me I'm going to be one of those people who gets rescued by a helicopter because they took a wrong turn."
The device felt oddly warm against your palm, warmer than it should be considering the crisp air. You'd been using it for photos all morning, but the battery should still be at sixty percent. The screen flickered to life, but instead of your usual GPS app, strange patterns danced across the display—pixels shifting and rearranging themselves in ways that made your eyes water to follow. Colors bled into each other, creating an almost hypnotic swirl of light that seemed to pulse with its own rhythm.
"What the actual fuck ?" You stopped walking entirely, holding the phone closer to and then further from your face, with forrowed brows. The screen continued its bizarre light show, completely unresponsive to your increasingly frantic taps and swipes.
"This is so not the time for you to die on me. I literally just updated you last week!"
You tried the power button, the volume keys, even that trick where you hold multiple buttons at once that usually fixed everything—nothing worked. A high-pitched whining sound emanated from the device, so sharp it made your teeth ache and forced you to pull out your earbuds.
"Great. Just great. My phone's having a seizure in the middle of nowhere." Frustrated and more than a little unnerved, you lifted your foot to take another step forward, but your boot caught on something hidden beneath the fallen leaves. Your ankle twisted painfully as you pitched forward, arms windmilling desperately for balance.
The phone flew from your grasp, its bizarre light show spinning through the air like a demented firefly before disappearing into the undergrowth.
You hit the ground hard, damp earth cushioning your fall but doing nothing for your dignity. Pain shot through your palms where they'd scraped against rough bark, and your knee throbbed where it had connected with what felt like a particularly vindictive rock.
"Perfect," you groaned, rolling onto your back and staring up at the canopy above. "Just perfect. Lost in the woods with a dead phone. Nature's determined to kill me."
By the time you'd accessed yourself mentally for injuries and decided to drag your arse out of the dirt, it looked like rhe light filtering through the leaves had changed, taking on a golden quality that spoke of late afternoon rather than the mid-morning sun you remembered, shit had you hit your head harder then you thought ?
You pushed yourself up on your elbows, scanning the ground for your phone among the scattered leaves and debris. Instead, your eyes found two pairs of worn leather boots, planted firmly in the earth not three feet from where you lay.
Your gaze traveled upward—past rough-woven pants and leather armor that looked hand-crafted rather than costume-department perfect, past fur-trimmed cloaks with intricate brooches, past metalwork that bore the patina of actual use—until you found yourself staring into two pairs of eyes that definitely didn't belong to fellow hikers.
The men were tall, broad-shouldered, with long hair braided in patterns you'd only seen in history books and, more recently, your favorite television show. Scars crossed their visible skin—they looked like real scars that told stories of violence and survival. And pointed directly at your throat were two swords that looked very, very real.
Your heart began to race, but not from fear. These costumes were incredible. The attention to detail was beyond anything you'd seen outside of major film productions. The weapons looked authentically forged, the leather was properly weathered, and the men themselves had the kind of rugged authenticity that spoke of serious commitment to their craft.
The men exchanged a look that seemed equal parts confusion and concern, speaking in a way that sounded familiar and made your pulse quicken with recognition. The rolling vowels, the harsh consonants—you'd heard this accent before, week after week for seasons.
"Oh wow," you breathed, temporarily forgetting your precarious position as excitement bubbled up in your chest. "Are you guys filming something? Please tell me this is for Vikings. Are you filming near here? Is Travis here? What about Alex?"
"This is incredible," you continued, struggling to sit up properly while trying not to make any sudden movements toward the very real-looking weapons. "The authenticity is amazing. I mean, I've been to Renaissance fairs, but this is next level. You guys even smell authentic—like, actually smell like you've been living rough. Method acting much?"
One of them gestured toward you with his sword, the meaning clear even without translation. The other spoke again, his words carrying an authority that made your stomach flutter with a mixture of nerves and starstruck excitement.
"Get up."
Your legs felt like water as you struggled to your feet, hyper-aware of how the weapons followed your every movement. But even as a rational part of your brain registered the potential danger, a larger part was busy cataloging every detail of their appearance, trying to place which characters they might be playing or if they were new additions to the cast.
"Seriously though," you said as one of them grasped your arm with a grip that was definitely firmer than you'd expect from actors worried about liability, "when does this air? Because I have literally seen every episode of Vikings at least three times. I have so many questions about the next season."
But as they began to march you through terrain that bore no resemblance to the hiking trail you'd been following, a chill ran down your spine that had nothing to do with the weather. The grip on your arm was too strong, too real. These men moved with the kind of casual violence that spoke of lives lived on the edge of survival.
The journey that followed felt like stepping into the most immersive historical experience imaginable. The two warriors—because what else could you call them—flanked you as they marched through terrain that looked like it had been untouched by modern civilization. Rolling hills stretched in every direction, dotted with clusters of buildings that looked like they'd been pulled straight from historical dramas.
"This is unreal," you murmured, your eyes drinking in every detail. "The production value must be insane. How did they find a location this perfect? There's no power lines, no modern buildings in the background, nothing."
Your mind raced with possibilities. Maybe this was one of those immersive experiences for super fans ? Maybe you'd somehow stumbled onto the world's most elaborate filming location ? Maybe this was some kind of historical recreation site that you'd never heard of, despite your obsessive consumption of anything Viking-related.
But even as you tried to rationalize what you were seeing, something nagged at you. The smells were—not the sanitized version you'd expect from even the most elaborate theme park, but the real thing. Wood smoke mixed with less pleasant odors of a world without modern plumbing, animals, and unwashed bodies. The sounds too were wrong for any kind of production, no generators humming in the background, no modern voices calling directions, no anachronistic equipment hidden just out of frame.
The settlement that came into view made your breath catch in your throat, and for a moment, your steps faltered entirely.
"No way," you whispered, your voice barely audible.
"No fucking way."
It was Kattegat.
Not a representation of it.
Not inspired by it.
It was exactly as you'd seen it on screen, down to the specific arrangement of buildings around the natural harbor.
The great hall dominated the settlement, its distinctive architecture immediately recognizable. Smoke rose from countless chimneys, carrying scents that were somehow both foreign and familiar from years of watching your favorite characters navigate these same streets.
"This is..." You struggled for words, your inner fangirl warring with growing confusion. "This is perfect. Like, scary perfect. How do you create it so exactly?"
The warriors guided you through streets that seemed to pulse with authentic life. Children ran between the buildings, their laughter mixing with the sounds of craftsmen at work—the ring of metal on metal, the rhythmic thud of looms, the calls of merchants hawking their wares. Women tended to various tasks, some weaving, others preparing food, all of them dressed in clothing that looked lived-in rather than costume-perfect.
And they all stared at you with expressions that made your skin crawl.
Your modern hiking clothes—the synthetic fabrics, the bright colors, the strange cut and style of your Jacket—marked you as an outsider as clearly as if you'd been wearing a neon sign. But it wasn't just curiosity in their faces. There was wariness, suspicion, and in some cases, outright hostility.
"Okay, this is getting a little too real," you muttered, your earlier excitement beginning to curdle into something approaching fear. "Like, I get that you're going for authenticity, but the staring is kind of intense guys."
Your escorts didn't pause.
The great hall that loomed ahead was exactly what you'd expect from years of watching Vikings, but somehow more imposing in person. Massive wooden beams supported a structure that seemed to reach toward the sky itself, and intricate carvings—the carvings you recognized from countless episodes.
The doors swung open at their approach with a groan that you felt in your bones, revealing an interior that stole what little breath you had left.
The hall was vast, filled with long wooden tables and benches. Tapestries hung from the walls, depicting scenes of battle and conquest in threads that seemed to glow in the firelight. The air was thick with smoke and the scent of meat, mead, and too many bodies in close proximity.
And on a raised dais that you'd seen in your dreams, sat a figure that made your heart stop entirely.
"Holy shit," you breathed, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "Holy actual shit."
Queen Aslaug.
She was exactly as you remembered from the show—ethereally beautiful in a way that seemed almost otherworldly, with long blonde hair that caught the firelight and eyes that seemed to hold secrets older than time itself. The same regal bearing, the same sense of mystical wisdom that had made her such a compelling character.
But seeing her in person, breathing and real and looking directly at you, was like having your favorite fictional character step out of the screen.
And surrounding her, arranged in a semicircle that spoke of both protection and presentation, were her sons.
Your knees nearly gave out.
Ubbe sat to her right, tall and golden-haired, with the kind of steady, thoughtful presence that had always made him your second favorite character. The strong jaw, the intelligent eyes, the way he held himself with quiet authority—it was all exactly as you remembered, but somehow more vivid, more real.
Hvitserk lounged in his chair with the same restless energy you'd watched, his dark hair falling in a way that made your fangirl heart skip. Even seated, you could see the lean strength in his frame, the quick intelligence in his eyes as they tracked your movement across the hall.
Sigurd sat with his characteristic smirk, the one that had always made you simultaneously want to slap him and appreciate his particular brand of cruel charisma. His snake-eye studied you with an intensity that made your skin crawl, but in a way that was thrilling rather than truly frightening—because this was Sigurd, and you knew his character inside and out.
And Ivar.
Your breath caught in your throat as your eyes found him. He sat in his chaur with his legs positioned in front of him, his piercing blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made the rest of the room fade away. Even motionless, he commanded attention in a way that was utterly terrifying. The sharp intelligence in his face, the cruel curve of his mouth, the way his fingers drummed against the arm of his chair—everything was exactly as you'd memorized from countless hours of screen time.
"This is insane," you whispered, your eyes darting between faces that belonged to your favorite show. "You guys are incredible. Like, scary incredible. The resemblance is perfect. Are you the actual actors? Please tell me you're the actual actors because I have been obsessed with this show and meeting the cast would literally make my entire life."
But even as the words left your mouth, something cold began to settle in your stomach. The resemblance wasn't just uncanny—it was perfect. Too perfect. And the way they sat, the way they moved, the casual interactions between them... there was no sense of people stepping in and out of character, no modern tells breaking through their performances.
"Bring her forward," Aslaug commanded, and her voice was exactly as you remembered—melodious, authoritative, with that distinctive accent that had always given you chills.
The guards propelled you past people who had stopped their conversations to watch this unexpected entertainment. Your footsteps echoed loudly in the sudden quiet, each step bringing you closer to people you'd spent years analyzing, theorizing about.
When you finally stood before the royal family, close enough to see the individual details of their clothing, the very real looking scars on their skin, the way their eyes tracked your every movement with predatory interest, your rational explanations began to crumble.
"Okay," you said, your voice coming out smaller than you intended. "I'm seriously confused right now. Are you guys method acting? Because this is either the most incredible immersive experience ever created, or..." You trailed off, unwilling to voice the impossible thought forming in your mind.
"What manner of creature is this?" Sigurd spoke first, and hearing that familiar mocking tone directed at you sent shivers down your spine. But it wasn't the good kind of shivers anymore. His voice carried an edge of genuine disdain that no actor playing a role would direct at a fan.
Aslaug leaned forward slightly, her mystical eyes studying you with an intensity that felt like being examined by a particularly beautiful predator. "Your garments are unlike any I have seen," she observed, her English clear but heavily accented in a way that made each word feel deliberate. "The colors are... strange. Unnatural. And the material..." She gestured vaguely at your outfit.
"Oh, um," you stammered, suddenly very aware of how out of place your moisture-wicking jacket looked in this setting. "It's just, you know, synthetic fabric? Like, polyester blend? For hiking?"
The words felt wrong the moment they left your mouth. Your casual speaking pattern clashing horribly with their formal, structured way of communication.
Hvitserk tilted his head, studying you like you were a puzzle he was trying to solve. "She speaks strangely," he commented to his brothers, his voice carrying the same warm tone you'd fallen in love with on screen. "The words are familiar in part, but the manner in which she forms them..."
"Like no Saxon I have encountered," Ubbe agreed, his brow furrowed in genuine concentration. "The rhythm is wrong. The choice of words... peculiar."
Ivar had remained silent during this exchange, but you could feel his gaze like a physical weight. When he finally spoke, his voice cut through his brothers' observations with razor-sharp precision.
"Tell us" he said, and the familiar candance made your heart race for all the wrong reasons, "where is it that you come from?"
The interest in his words hit you like a physical blow. You'd heard him and you knew that in the show—usually he spoke right before doing something terrifying to whoever had caught his interest. But hearing it directed at you, seeing the way his eyes glittered with curiosity and something much darker, made you realize just how much danger you might actually be in.
If this was real.
If they were real.
"I'm from..." You paused, your mind racing. How did you explain twenty-first century America to people who lived in a world where that continent wasn't supposed to exist yet? "I'm from really far away? Like, really, really far?"
Your voice rose at the end, turning your statement into a question in that distinctly modern way that made you cringe even as you said it.
"How far?" Aslaug pressed, and there was something in her voice that suggested she might understand more than she was letting on. "Beyond the great sea?"
"Um, yeah," you nodded eagerly, latching onto anything that might make sense to them. "Way beyond that. Like, super beyond that."
Sigurd snorted, a sound of pure derision. "Super beyond? What manner of word is 'super'?"
Your cheeks burned with embarrassment. The casual slang that peppered your everyday speech sounded ridiculous in this formal setting, childish and strange.
"I just mean... very far," you corrected yourself, trying to adopt their more formal speech patterns and failing miserably. "Like, an incredible distance. More than you could possibly... um... imagine?"
The brothers exchanged glances, and you saw Hvitserk suppress what might have been a smile at your awkward attempts to sound more formal.
"She speaks like a child," Sigurd observed, his cruel smile widening. "Using simple words in simple ways...is that it ... are you simple ?"
"I'm not simple!" The response burst out of you before you could stop it, defensive and sharp in a way that immediately made you regret speaking. "I've been to university."
Ivar's eyes glittered with amusement at your outburst. "Such fire," he murmured, and the approval in his voice was somehow more terrifying than if he'd been angry. "Tell me, what is this 'university' of which you speak?"
"It's..." You struggled to find words they might understand. "It's like... a place of learning? Where you go to study... things?"
"Things," Hvitserk repeated, and now he wasn't bothering to hide his smile. "How illuminating."
Your face burned hotter. Everything you said made you sound either crazy or stupid, and you were beginning to suspect both might be true.
"She is either touched by the gods or touched in the head," Sigurd declared, earning chuckles from some of the watching crowd.
"I'm not crazy," you protested weakly, but even as you said it, doubt crept in. Maybe you were. Maybe you'd hit your head and all of this was some elaborate hallucination brought on by a concussion.
But the ache in your scraped palms felt real. The smoke in the air made your eyes water in a very real way. And the expressions on the faces around you carried a weight that no dream or hallucination could match.
"Then explain," Aslaug commanded, her voice carrying absolute authority. "Explain your strange garments, your peculiar speech, your claim to come from a place beyond our knowledge."
You opened your mouth, then closed it again. How could you explain that you came from a world over a thousand years in their future? That you knew their names, their personalities, their fates because you'd watched them portrayed on a television show? That you had their pictures saved on your phone?
Your phone. Which was lying somewhere in a forest that apparently didn't exist anymore.
"I..." you started, then stopped. Your throat felt tight, and for the first time since this nightmare began, tears threatened at the corners of your eyes. "I don't think you'd believe me if I told you."
"Try" Ivar suggested, and his voice carried a silky threat that made your blood run cold.
Because suddenly, impossibly, you were beginning to understand that this wasn't a film set or an immersive experience or an elaborate prank. The smells were too real, the sounds too authentic, the weight of history too heavy in the air around you.
These weren't actors playing characters.
These were the actual characters.
Which meant you were standing in Queen Aslaug's hall, facing Ivar the Boneless himself, in a world where the things you'd watched him do on screen weren't fictional plot points but actual memories.
The hall suddenly felt very cold indeed.
"I think," you whispered, your voice barely audible, "I think I'm in a lot of trouble."
The silence that followed stretched on forever, broken only by the crackling of fires and the distant sounds of life continuing outside the hall. You could feel the weight of dozens of eyes upon you, studying your every reaction, cataloging your fear.
Finally, Aslaug spoke, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "Children" she said, addressing her sons, "what think you of this strange girl?"
"She is clearly foreign," Ubbe said thoughtfully, his voice carrying the same measured tone you'd always admired on screen. "But from where, I cannot say. Her manner of dress suggests wealth of a sort, but the materials are unknown to me."
"Perhaps she is a sorceress," Sigurd suggested, his voice carrying the same cruel amusement it always had on the show. "Sent by our enemies to bewitch us with her strange appearance."
"I'm not a sorceress!" you protested, then immediately regretted drawing more attention to yourself. "I mean... I'm not... I don't know magic or anything like that."
Ivar had been silent during his brothers' discussion, but now he spoke, his voice carrying a authority that immediately silenced everyone else. "Mother," he said, never taking his eyes off you, "what do your visions tell you of this creature?"
Aslaug's mystical gaze seemed to look right through you, and for a long moment, she said nothing. When she finally spoke, her words sent chills down your spine.
"The gods whisper of displacement," she said slowly. "Of things torn from their proper place. She carries the scent of otherworldly knowledge."
Your heart hammered against your ribs. How could she possibly know?
"Otherworldly knowledge?" Ubbe questioned. "What manner of knowledge?"
Aslaug's eyes never left your face. "Tell me, strange girl, do you know of things yet to come?"
The question hit you like a physical blow. Did you know things yet to come? You knew everything that was supposed to happen to these people to date. You'd watched their stories unfold, knew their triumphs and failures, their loves and losses.
"I..." you stammered, unsure how to answer without making everything worse.
"She hesitates," Hvitserk observed. "That is answer enough."
"What do you know?" Ivar demanded, his voice sharp with sudden interest. "What visions plague your mind ?"
You looked around the hall desperately, at faces that belonged to people whose fates you knew by heart. How could you tell them that you'd watched Sigurd die? That you knew how Ivar's cruelty would escalate.
"I can't," you whispered. "I can't tell you."
"Cannot?" Sigurd laughed harshly. "Or will not?"
"Both," you admitted, and immediately knew it was the wrong thing to say.
Ivar's eyes glittered dangerously. "How interesting," he murmured. "Knowledge she possesses but will not share. Perhaps she requires... encouragement."
The threat in his voice was unmistakable, and suddenly you were terrified in a way that went bone-deep. This wasn't the sanitized violence of television anymore. This was real, and these people had no modern concepts of human rights or due process to protect you.
"Wait," you said quickly, raising your hands in a gesture of surrender. "Please, I'm not trying to be difficult. It's just... complicated."
"Uncomplicate it," Aslaug commanded.
You took a shaky breath, trying to find words that might make sense to them without revealing the impossible truth. "Where I come from, we have... stories ... Sagas ... About people like you. About this place. About things that might happen."
"Stories," Ubbe repeated slowly. "What sort of stories?"
"Stories about great warriors," you said carefully. "About raids and battles and... and of Ragnar Lothbrok."
The effect of Ragnar's name was immediate and electric. All four brothers straightened, their attention focusing on you with laser intensity.
"You know of our father?" Hvitserk demanded.
"Everyone knows of Ragnar," you said, which was true enough. "His fame ... his fame reaches very far."
You'd almost said "will reach," catching yourself just in time.
"And what do these stories say?" Ivar asked, his voice deceptively soft.
You looked at him, this man who would evolve into someone capable of such beautiful and terrible things, and felt your heart break a little.
"They say you're destined for greatness," you whispered. "All of you. That your names will be remembered long after..."
You stopped, unable to finish the sentence. Long after you're all dead, you'd been about to say.
"After what?" Sigurd pressed.
"After the world changes," you finished lamely.
The brothers exchanged glances, some unspoken communication passing between them.
"She speaks in riddles," Hvitserk said. "Like a völur."
"Or like a spy," Sigurd countered. "Sent to learn our secrets and report back to our enemies."
"What enemies?" you asked, confused. "I don't work for anyone. I don't even know where I am, exactly. I mean, I think this is Kattegat, but..."
"You know the name of our home," Ubbe observed. "Yet claim to be lost."
You realized your mistake too late. Of course they'd find it suspicious that you knew where you were.
"The stories," you said weakly. "I told you, there are stories..."
"Convenient stories," Sigurd sneered. "That tell you exactly what you need to know."
Aslaug held up a hand, silencing her sons. "Enough," she said. "The girl is clearly far from home, whatever her true origins. The question now is what to do with her."
Your stomach dropped. In the show, strangers who couldn't account for themselves rarely fared well.
"She could be useful," Ivar said thoughtfully, and something in his tone made your skin crawl. "If she truly possesses knowledge of the future, she might prove... valuable."
"And if she is a spy?" Sigurd challenged.
Ivar's smile was razor-sharp. "Then she will tell us everything she knows before she dies."
You felt the blood drain from your face. Was this Ivar at his most dangerous ?—calculating, intelligent, and utterly without mercy. You'd watched him torture people on screen, had been simultaneously horrified and fascinated by his methods, but when where you now ? What season ?
Being on the receiving end of his attention was pure nightmare, but where exactly where you in the seasons.
God you sounded nuts, which episode did the stranger fall through time ... your probably unconscious in a forest having a fever-dream.
"Please," you said, your voice small and shaking. "I'm not a spy. I'm just... lost. I fell in the woods and when I got up, I was here. I don't understand it any more than you do."
"The woods?" Ubbe questioned. "What woods?"
"I..." You struggled to explain. "There was a hiking trail. Trees. I was trying to find my way with my... with a device that shows directions. But it broke, and I fell, and then..."
"A device that shows directions?" Hvitserk leaned forward with interest. "What manner of device?"
You realized you'd painted yourself into another corner. How did you explain GPS to medieval Vikings?
"It's... it was like a... a map?" you tried desperately. "But small and it showed lots of maps?"
"Lots of Maps," Sigurd repeated mockingly. "How convenient that this miraculous map is lost."
"But perhaps," Aslaug said slowly, "not so convenient for her."
All eyes turned to the Queen, waiting for her to elaborate.
"If she speaks truth," Aslaug continued, "if she is indeed displaced from her proper place, then she is as lost as she claims. A stranger in a strange land, with no way to return home."
The sympathy in her voice gave you a brief moment of hope, but it was quickly dashed by her next words.
"Which makes her our responsibility. And our property."
Your heart stopped. Property. The word hung in the air like a death sentence.
"She will need to earn her place among us," Aslaug continued. "Prove her worth through service."
"What manner of service?" Ubbe asked, though his tone suggested he already knew where this was heading.
Aslaug's gaze moved between her sons, considering. "She claims knowledge of the future. If true, this makes her valuable. But also dangerous, if that knowledge falls into the wrong hands."
"She should be closely watched," Hvitserk agreed.
"Very closely," Ivar added, and there was something in his voice that made your blood freeze.
"Then it is decided," Aslaug declared. "The strange girl will serve as a slave in our household. She will be given to..."
Your heart hammered as her gaze moved between her sons. Please not Ivar, you thought desperately. Oh shit not Sigurd either.
Ubbe, in your mind was the most reasonable.
"My youngest son Ivar," she finished.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Of all the possible outcomes, this felt like the worst. You'd watched Ivar on screen, had seen what he did to people who displeased him. His intelligence made him unpredictable, his disability made him cruel, and his curiosity made him dangerous.
And now you belonged to him.
"An excellent choice, Mother," Ivar said, his voice carrying a satisfaction that made your skin crawl. "I shall take very good care of our mysterious little guest."
The promise in his words was anything but comforting.
You stood frozen in the center of the hall, surrounded by people whose stories you knew by heart, facing a future that terrified you beyond measure. Because you knew exactly what Ivar was capable of.
And now you were going to find out firsthand.
