The sky was pale and windless above the marshlands of Mercia, the air heavy with the smell of churned mud and steel. Two years had passed since Eadric's marriage to Æthelswith of Wessex, and the banners of East Anglia now flew beside the dragon of Alfred in every field from the Thames to the Trent. England — or what men dared call it — was fighting back.
Alfred rode beside Eadric that morning, cloaked in mail and scripture. His voice was calm as ever, but there was a tremor in it that only Eadric heard. Once, the king of Wessex had seemed carved from iron and faith — the unbreakable soul of a people. Now his cough came more often, red flecks hidden quickly in the folds of his cloak.
"God grants us victory," Alfred said softly, eyes on the distant Norse lines. "But He tests the vessel of His will."
Eadric nodded, though unease gnawed at him. "Then may He find the vessel strong enough to bear it."
They fought that afternoon in a field half-flooded by spring rains. The Norse had chosen the ground well — shallow pits and reed-choked ditches that broke the Saxon charge. But Eadric saw the pattern, the trap, and turned it.
"Hold the left," he shouted to his men, "and let them drown in their cunning!"
When the Norse pressed forward, the ground gave way under their boots. Eadric's flank wheeled like a scythe — archers loosed, spearmen surged, and the line of pagans buckled. Alfred rode at the center, sword lifted high, his voice carrying over the din:
"Christ with us! Drive them from His land!"
The clash was merciless. Men fell screaming, the water red as wine. Eadric moved not as a berserker, but as a conductor — each command struck with precision, each maneuver drawn from memory and instinct. When at last the Norse standard fell, he found Alfred on his knees, clutching his side.
"Your Majesty!" Eadric dropped beside him.
Alfred smiled faintly, breath rattling. "Not… today. God has more work for me."
He was carried from the field, pale as parchment. That night, as fires burned over the corpses of Northmen, Eadric stood alone beneath a torn banner. He had known victory before — in games, in simulations, in lives that were not real. But this triumph felt hollow, fragile.
From the darkness beyond the firelight came a voice — one of his scouts, bloodied and breathless. "My lord, word from the north. Ivar lives. He gathers men beyond the Humber."
Eadric looked toward the horizon.
So did Alfred, perhaps, from his sickbed — each of them sensing the same truth.
England was winning battles.
But the war — the true war — was only just beginning.