Chapter 1: Waking the Thrall

The last thing I remembered was the soft glow of my laptop screen, the final chapter of Vikings flickering to black. Then, a prickling sensation. It was like a thousand ants were crawling under my skin, followed by a blinding white light. The next moment, I was on the hard, cold ground, the stench of hay and manure assaulting my nostrils. Groaning, I tried to sit up, a wave of nausea washing over me.

Everything hurt. My head pounded, my arms were like lead weights, and every inch of me screamed in protest. Panic clawed at my throat. Where was I? What happened? My blurry vision adjusted, revealing a scene straight out of a history documentary. Smoke curled from a cluster of wooden longhouses, men and women clad in furs bustled about, their voices a harsh guttural language. My heart hammered against my ribs, a cold dread settling in my stomach.

A rough hand clamped down on my shoulder, hauling me to my feet. A towering figure loomed over me, his face a web of scars etched beneath a tangle of blonde hair. "You're late, thrall," he growled, the words laced with a heavy accent. "Get to your chores before Lagertha has your hide."

Thrall? My head spun. It couldn't be… Was I dreaming? This had to be some elaborate prank. "Hey, what's going on? Who are you?" I stammered in my best attempt at a calm voice. Laughter erupted from the burly man. "Speak like a man, thrall. You answer to Bjorn, understand?"

Bjorn. The name sparked a flicker of recognition. Wasn't that one of the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok? A wave of dizziness washed over me, and the world went dark once more.

When I awoke again, the afternoon sun streamed through a crack in the ramshackle hut I found myself in. The throbbing in my head had subsided, replaced by a dull ache. Tentatively, I sat up and surveyed my surroundings. Simple wooden furniture, a pile of worn furs, and a single flickering torch provided meager comfort. This was my life now?

Memories flickered back, piecing together the impossible. The final chapter, the blinding light… I was no longer Erik, the history buff with a day job. I was Asbjorn, a lowly thrall in Viking-era Kattegat. A wave of despair threatened to engulf me. How did this happen? Where did Erik go? Was there a way back?

Heaving myself onto wobbly legs, I stumbled out of the hut. The crisp air bit at my exposed skin. Bjorn, the overseer, stood by a well, sharpening a hefty axe. He glanced up, a scowl twisting his features. "About time you showed your lazy face, thrall. Get to work fetching water. And don't even think about running off."

There wasn't much room for argument. My body, though battered, obeyed the brute's command. The well was a rickety wooden structure creaking ominously as I lowered the bucket down. My mind raced trying to grasp the situation. As I pulled the bucket back up, a glint of metal caught my eye. Carved into the well's inner wall were a series of strange symbols. For some inexplicable reason, a wave of recognition washed over me. These weren't random markings – they were runes, an ancient Viking alphabet.

An odd calm settled over me. Back in my world, I'd spent countless hours researching Viking lore, including their obscure runic script. Tentatively, I traced the symbols with my finger, a whisper of understanding stirring within. As my fingers brushed against a specific sequence, a jolt of energy surged through me. The symbols glowed faintly, and a new image appeared on the well's surface – a map, intricate and unfamiliar, depicting locations I didn't recognize.

Excitement battled with trepidation. Could this be some remnant of Asbjorn's past life?The map pulsed with an otherworldly light, etching itself into my memory. It depicted a network of rivers and mountains leading to a place marked with a single, imposing rune. My knowledge of runes was limited, but a primal instinct told me this location held significance. But what? And how did Asbjorn, a simple thrall, have any connection to such a map?

Stuffing the memory of the map away, I finished fetching water. The day dragged on, a blur of menial tasks – chopping wood, cleaning stables, and enduring Bjorn's constant barbs. By nightfall, I was utterly exhausted. Huddled in my furs for warmth, I replayed the events of the day. The strange knowledge of runes, the glowing map – were they figments of my imagination, or something more?

Sleep, when it finally came, was troubled by vivid dreams. I found myself standing before a weathered seer, his face obscured by a long beard and a worn hood. He spoke in a voice that seemed to echo through time itself, words I didn't understand, yet somehow grasped. He pointed a gnarled finger at my chest, a single rune glowing on his outstretched palm. Then, the image dissolved, leaving me with a lingering sense of foreboding.

Morning arrived, bringing renewed drudgery. As I hauled a heavy load of firewood, a commotion erupted near the longhouse. A group of warriors, their faces grim, gathered around Lagertha, the shieldmaiden who now ruled Kattegat. Scraps of conversation reached me – whispers of a raiding party, a threat from the east. My stomach clenched. Raids meant violence, death, and potential enslavement.

Later, while cleaning the stables, I overheard two young thralls discussing the impending attack. "They say these raiders are different," one whispered, his voice laced with fear. "They worship dark gods and wield strange magic."

A spark of unease flickered in my chest. Dark gods and magic? Could it be connected to the map I saw in the well? Was there some hidden threat lurking beyond the walls of Kattegat?

Despite my lowly status, a desperate urge to warn Lagertha about the map and the unsettling dream gnawed at me. But how? I was just a thrall, invisible in the hierarchy of Viking society. And even if I could get an audience, would they believe a babbling thrall with outlandish claims?

Desperate for answers, I sought refuge in the longhouse's shadows as night fell. The flickering firelight illuminated weathered faces, hardened by years of hardship. A bard, his voice hoarse with age, sang a melancholic song of war and lost heroes. His words stirred a yearning within me, a longing for something more than a life of servitude. Could this be Asbjorn's spirit stirring? Did he yearn for a more noble purpose?

A sudden commotion jolted me from my reverie. Lagertha strode into the longhouse, her eyes blazing with determination. She announced the impending raid, outlining the defensive strategy. There was a grim acceptance in the room, a deep understanding of the harsh realities of their world.

As she spoke, a single phrase caught my attention. "We must seek guidance from the Völva," Lagertha declared. The Völva – the village seer, the one from my dream! Maybe, just maybe, this was my chance.

With a pounding heart, I formulated a plan, reckless and potentially disastrous. But the thought of the impending raid, the possibility of Kattegat falling to dark forces, fueled my resolve. Tonight, I would seek out the Völva, hoping to unlock the secrets of the map and the knowledge hidden within Asbjorn's mind.