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further from the aetheling.
Eventually he was covered with shadows, and stood on the far side
of the room, and such a quiet fell over them that it seemed as if
he truly was gone, after all.
    Aydith got up and dragged her feet toward
her bed. So much crying and fussing had exhausted her. She
collapsed on her knees before even climbing onto her soft sheets,
and folded her hands below her forehead. She closed her eyes and
whispered, so softly that she hoped Hastings could not hear
her.
    “Dear Lord, Father in Heaven, show me what
to do. Teach me humility and give me understanding. Drive the
terrible pagans from Engla-lond. Smite down our enemies with your
Holy power, or show me what I can do in your stead. Amen.”
    It was a prayer she had muttered a few times
before, a prayer she had devised and felt very proud of, but it
seemed even more significant now than it had in the past.
    Feeling somewhat better, she climbed onto
her sheets and drifted promptly to sleep.
    *
    Nightmares prevented her from resting that
night.
    She dreamt of the Vikings making their way
through Engla-lond, burning homes and stabbing children, stealing
food and pissing on what they didn’t want, taking slaves and
killing monks.
    She relived the horrendous scene she had
witnessed when she was four years old. She hid in a church in
Lundenburg when Sweyn Forkbeard and his army attacked the old Roman
city. They burned whatever they could, and even in the big stone
church the smoke stung Aydith’s eyes and filled her chest with a
terrible cough. Then some of them broke in, and one of them stabbed
a monk until his sword came out the other side, and he didn’t even
stop there. His blade opened the monk wide, and even though
Aydith’s maid tried to put a hand over the little girl’s eyes, she
still saw everything, spilling onto the church floor.
    Then something strange happened in her
dream. She grew up suddenly and became Aethelfleda. She married the
ealdorman of Mercia and bore him children. But at the same time,
she was already ensuring her role as the Lady of Mercia. She did
this by advising her husband and signing his documents. People
began to call her the Lady of Mercia long before her husband died
and she led armies against the pagans.
    Next she led a fyrd against Sweyn Forkbeard,
even though he had not yet been born in the time of Aethelfleda. He
had fought the men of Hampshire, and killed so many noble men, and
his Viking warriors ran all about burning and destroying. But she,
this new version of Aydith, knew exactly where they were headed
next, and knew how to gather an army there that could stop them.
But she could not gather the fyrd herself. She would have to tell
her husband to do it.
    She woke up trembling and covered with
sweat, but even as she clutched her sticky blankets, a smile
stretched her face.
    “Hastings? Hastings!”
    She sat up, searching for him in the
darkness. Only a few candles remained lit, and the brazier had
faded to the dull red glow of its embers. A shadow moved and she
turned hopefully, but she only saw one of her dim-witted maids,
peering at her with a weary face.
    “He was relieved of duty, my lady.”
    Aydith plopped back down on her sheets,
strangely disappointed, even though Hastings was not the man to
which her dream, and thus God, had directed her.
    She had no husband, of course, and her
father would not listen to her; but she had two older brothers who
were in line to take the throne and could make important decisions.
She knew without a doubt that God wanted her to keep talking to
Aethelstan, just as Aethelfleda had signed her husband’s documents.
She would do so more humbly, next time. Just like Aethelfleda, she
would provide support to those in power, and they would not even
notice what power she obtained for herself, in the meantime.
Besides, power was not the point. The point was to save Engla-lond
from the pagans.
    Her eyes peered heavenward, glittering as if
with holy light, even as her eyelids drifted