Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The phrase ‘rude awakening’ doesn’t fully cover the experience of being woken from a sound sleep at 8am in the morning after a ten hour flight, not to mention the two hour car ride, by having one’s warm, cozy comforter ripped from over one’s body while on vacation.

Under such circumstances, one might be excused for responding by flailing wildly and cussing at one’s own mother.

She is the sort of woman who has never fully grasped the concept of sitting back and doing nothing, even on vacation. Family trips are carefully planned and always located in places where every day can be filled with new and interesting activities. Any desire for idleness is treated with anything from suspicion to outright horror.

Even then, someone who knows her well would notice a certain urgency, a tension in her that is not usually present as she ushers her only daughter out of bed and into the bathroom to get ready for the morning. Breakfast is going to be at the inn down nearby, and then they are going to take a walk over to see the medieval parish church, perhaps visit the museum after, and wouldn’t it be lovely to take a drive around the countryside later? Oh, also Mormor called and – what is that look supposed to mean? You like Mormor. No, she didn’t mention her neighbor’s lovely grandsons, and while imitation may be flattery mimicry is rude and uncalled for. Yes, you have met them before, several times. I don’t know why you can never remember them. Just give her a call when you get the chance, won’t you?

Her daughter gives her a pained look over her toothbrush despite the soothing noises she makes about ‘no awkward questions’ and ‘want you to come stay with her in Norway for a few weeks’. She responds by flashing the ‘OK’ sign. Her mother finally leaves, reminding her to hurry up.

Catching her reflection in the mirror set into the door of a beautiful old wardrobe, the girl finds herself frozen in thought for a moment before she shakes her head roughly, dark hair flying about her face. That is her problem, really, thinking too much. You wouldn’t think it could be possible, but when your mind is almost invariably drawn to dark, ouroboros loops that twist around and strangle everything else, the only defense sometimes seems to be to do your best not to think of anything at all.

She dresses quickly, remembering that her parents are waiting for her. She smooths her hair down one last time in front of the mirror and practices a bright smile and cheerful ‘good morning’ before opening the door to her room and stepping down the hallway.

Her hiking boots must be quieter than she would have thought on the wood floorboards. Her parents don’t hear her approach through the cracked open door to their bedroom.

Too caught up in work to see.

Too blind until it was almost too late.

Not the man I married anymore.

Can’t tell her about the divorce yet.

Still too unstable.

Something that feels like a rock lodges in her throat. She races past the door, yelling that she is going on a walk by the river. Paying no attention to her mother calling to her about missing breakfast, she grabs her jacket from the coat rack in the entryway and runs down the stairs half-blinded by the sting behind her eyes.

There is a park within walking distance from the quaint old cottage they are staying in. The Michaels family has never been the sort to flaunt their connections, but they have never shrunk from using them either, especially if it means staying in an authentic English cottage while old friends are away.

She is briefly grateful her mother woke her up so early. There are few others on the streets, and it seems like she won’t be disturbed on her walk. She passes through the town, past the ancient church, and through the entrance to the small, wooded park. She hunches her shoulders and digs her hands in her pockets against the early morning chill. There are small paths throughout, and she finds herself taking one at random, ending up standing before a brook.

It is clear and peaceful. The sound of the water soothes her racing heart and she takes a breath for what seemed like the first time since she fled. She has to admit to herself that’s what she’s done. Was it cowardly of her? Or was her father right? Is she just too unstable to confront her parents about what she heard?

Something glints in the water, pulling her from her thoughts. Later, she won’t be able to say what about it caught and held her attention, or why she feels such a strong urge to step forward and get a closer look. All she will know is that as she steps forward something shifts suddenly. She must have step on something that is still slippery from the morning dew or last night’s rain, or perhaps her bad leg gives out beneath her, because her foot comes out from under her and she finds herself falling forward.

The water isn’t far below her, and the brook itself should barely reach her knees at its deepest, but somehow she feels as if she is falling a much greater distance, or maybe it’s that time itself has slow down. The impact with the water seems harder than it should be. The water that engulfs her is dark, almost black, and she looks up to see that there is almost no light shining in above her, despite the seeming clarity she saw before. As she begins to struggle to swim upwards she finds that her feet have yet to touch riverbed. She begins to move in earnest, but she feels strange and sluggish. Her mind is quickly going foggy. Something seems to twine and tug around her ankles.

She finally begins to panic as everything burns from breathing water, and she desperately fights against whatever ghostly thing is now pulling her down. Her vision begins to go black. The one bright point of light she can see begins to grow dim, smaller, before vanishing completely.

The last clear thought she has before losing consciousness is the great irony of a former member of the swim team dying by drowning in nature’s kiddie pool, and that she hopes her parents will believe it was an accident.

* * *

Hey Ed,

Guess where I am right now? Well, if you guessed London then you are WRONG. At this very moment, I am on a plane flying to London. It was all planned pretty short notice, but I guess everyone thought I could do with a “change of scenery.”

How are you doing? I hope they let you get mail over there, unless you’re in some sort of solitary confinement. Is that where you are right now? Do they have solitary in rehab? If not, they’re probably going to have to invent it just for you, hahaha. Seriously though, I hope you’re okay.

Anyway, I imagine you’ve heard about my epic crash and burn. I just wanted to let you know that you don’t need to worry about me. It was really all quite disappointingly unexciting, no strait jackets, not even an involuntary committal. So don’t even think about busting out to come support me, or something equally as stupidly heroic (Heroically stupid?). If you do, I will find you, and I will kill you. Just promise me you will stay put and see this through, no matter what, okay? Focus on getting better. I will too.

That’s pretty much it for now. I’ll have to find a way to mail this once we land. There should be something at the airport, hence the London postmark. We’ll be driving and staying in some little village. It’s not terribly exciting, but it does have some unusual history, so there might be enough to keep me occupied for the week.

Love you and really, really miss you.

Your Rowan

Chapter Text

Rowan awakes one summer morning to the realization that it has been two years to the day since the strange accident that brought her here. The sun is only just peeking through the window and, as usual, she’s the only one awake. The other girls she shares the room with sleep as late as the can, especially when the King is away. Rowan, on the other hand, is up as early as possible. Time has become a precious commodity. She slips out of her cot, wincing as her bare feet touch the cold stone floor.

The water she pours into a basin feels like ice, and it shocks the last traces of sleep from her eyes. The reflection that looks back at her every morning is both strange and familiar at the same time. It’s like looking at a younger sister who bears an uncanny resemblance to herself. She thinks this must be what celebrities feel when they see their own professional doubles. If she were to compare this face to a picture of herself as a preteen, even she might have trouble telling the difference.

She does a little dance for warmth as she opens the chest that sits at the foot of her small bed. Her possessions are few. The clothing of the women in Wessex is simple, a short-sleeved underdress of wool and a long-sleeved underdress of linen, belted at the waist.

She loosens her hair from the braid she wears at night and puts it up with one of the only precious things she owns, a bronze hairpin with a raven on one end that had belonged to the mother of the body she now inhabits. Unmarried girls are expected to wear their hair free, and married women wear two long braids, both styles designed to show off the length of their hair. Rowan, however, prefers to use the pin to pull her hair up into a secure bun, disguising the scar that crosses her scalp vertically from the center of her head to behind her right ear.

The only other thing she values lies at the bottom of the chest, and she runs her fingers over the large, leather bound book. Perhaps tonight she will find the time to write in it, in modern English, with the smallest, most cramped writing she can possibly manage. It is one of only two places where she can really speak freely.

Speaking of which, she hurries to close the chest and finish dressing herself. Oddune is waiting for her, and the old priest is crotchety enough when she hasn’t done anything, admittedly usually on purpose, to annoy him.

The stone halls of the royal ville are still quiet as she goes to the kitchens to get an apple, a piece of yesterday’s bread, and some cheese. Finally, she stops by the weaving house to retrieve her basket of work. Most of the people she passes pay her little attention. She is only Bothild, the poor orphan girl who hit her head while playing with the youngest prince and nearly drowned in the river, causing her to lose her memory. It is an image she has carefully protected and cultivated. More leeway is given to the potentially mentally damaged girl when it comes to strange behavior than would be given to a normal, healthy person.

It’s this freedom that allows her to go to the archives every day for a few hours. Oddune is already there, as usual, and he greets her with a grunt. Rowan only smiles in response, sitting at her usual spot at on a stool. She sets her distaff into the crook of one arm and begins to spin a smooth, fine strand of wool as Oddune begins a lecture on verb tenses.

He has never told her exactly where or when he came from. All she knows is that when she woke with a screaming headache and a bad case of tinnitus, he was there. Even though he couldn’t explain the exact how or why, he was at least able to tell her that she had awoken in the kingdom of Wessex in the Dark Ages, and that the same thing had happened to him some sixty years ago. Since then, he had been teaching her what she needed to know to survive in this new life, at least language-wise.

“What do you miss most about your old life?”

It is a question she asks often. Oddune used to complain that it was masochistic to dwell, but he seemed to recognize that it was important to her. In this life where she was most often working from sunup to sundown, her memories seemed to fade at an alarming rate. The massive cranial trauma probably didn’t help, although the only obviously remaining sign was a vertical scar from the very center of her scalp to behind her right ear.

“It’s your game,” Oddune replies. His modern English has a noticeable German accent. “You tell me.”

“Coffee.” Rowan begins. “Chocolate. Potable water. Project Gutenberg. Metallica. Bicycles. Cat memes.”

He gives her a distinctly judgmental look. Rowan only responds with a grin and continues. “Louis Vuitton. A mail service. Long hand letters with Ed.”

She smiles at the memory for a moment, but the familiar pang of pain hits her square in the chest and the smile fades. Oddune straightens from the manuscript he’s been looking at. He says nothing, watching her carefully.

“Learning to spin and weave with Mormor.” She continues. “Reading books with dad. Shopping with mom. Going on long walks in the woods. My hiking boots.”

They are both silent for a moment. He doesn’t try to comfort her. He of all people knows that there is nothing he can say or do to make up for what she has lost, only listen patiently when her heart is breaking.

“It was two years ago.”

“I know.” He nods softly.

Rowan purses her lips and frowns at her work for a moment before speaking slowly, tentatively, choosing each word with care.

“My parents had a fight. That morning, I mean. They were breaking up. I never even knew it was that bad. They were always so careful not to fight in front of us. But it was my fault.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.” He objects.

“Maybe not completely, but I was probably the straw that broke the camel’s back. My whole breakdown and everything. After everything else that happened they just couldn’t handle their other kid falling apart like that.” She sniffles and wipes a tear away with a forced laugh. “Add antidepressants to my list, those were pretty nice too.”

Oddune pats her hands awkwardly before she waves him away, signaling that she’ll be alright and that they should both go back to their work.

Rowan is grateful for it, and for Oddune’s droning voice as he goes back to his favorite topic, words. She’s allowed to spend an unusual amount of time here with him because of his knowledge of language. He had volunteered early on to teach her how to speak their language. Only he had gotten an odd glint in his eye when he had learned that her father had been a scholar of ancient manuscripts, and it had quickly morphed into a general tutoring on speaking, reading, and writing the ancient languages he knew. He had been the one to give her the blank book, one that he had personally made himself.

“How much Norse did my – I mean, Bothild’s – mother teach you?” Rowan interrupts him.

“Not much more than I’ve taught you.” He replies with a shrug. “King Ecbert wanted her to teach me, but she didn’t have much time. She was very busy caring for Bothild and working. She didn’t have much help from the other women.”

“Even though she converted?”

“They were mistrustful. Many doubted the sincerity of her faith.”

Rowan is silent for a time, before asking, “What about you? Do you think she was sincere?”

Oddune puts down his quill with a sigh and turns to her. “Hildegunn was perhaps unusual in the strength of her belief. The average person here has neither the time nor the inclination to put into the amount of study she did before she asked to be baptized.” He smirks. “She also had the unusual tendency to practice the commandments of Christ instead of simply repeating them.”

“I wish I could’ve met her.” Rowan smiles.

“She loved her daughter dearly. I think she would have found you…” He pauses. “Interesting.”

She laughs. “Oh, gee, thanks! High praise, that!”

“Never mind. It is time for you to be off now, little tree.” He orders her, flicking the feather of his pen in her general direction.

He’s right, as usual. She gathers her things back into their basket, but is halted midstride when Oddune breaks out into a body-shaking fit of coughing. She hurries to his side to pour him a cup of weak and rub his back until it passes. When he finally takes a few deep breathes in a row, he mumbles his thanks to her and shoos her away once more. Despite her concern, she obeys, and leaves him with the apple and a quick peck on one weathered cheek.

~…~

The other women have gathered in the weaving house by now, and Rowan finds herself hurrying back through the winding halls, now busy with all manner of people going about their daily business. While the King is not in residence, away on some other part of his perpetual tour of the kingdom, his son and his family are. With three growing boys in the royal household, the women are never at a loss for work making various items of clothing.

They pay little attention as Rowan slips in and starts working at her spinning again. She has become skilled at becoming a shadow in a corner. After two years of practice, it is now easy for her to spin while listening in on the gossip and songs of the women around her.

The songs. If anything is good about her new life, it is the chance to hear and learn ballads older than any ever recorded. The time passes quickly as they sing of faeries, betrayed lovers and, more often than not, murder.

Today, though, she has difficulty paying enough attention to the voices around her to decipher their words. Her thoughts dwell on Oddune and his cough. It wasn’t new, growing steadily worse and more frequent since she had known him. This latest episode had been the worse yet, and her gut is still clenched in an unpleasant knot from it.

Her gloomy thoughts are interrupted by a commotion outside. Everyone in the room turns to the open doorway, craning their necks to see if they can see anything. Willa, the matronly woman who rules the weaving house with an iron fist, snaps for them all to get back to their work and never mind what is going on outside. Rowan imagines that the second coming of Christ himself would not stop Willa from making sure that the little princes’ new trousers were finished before they outgrew their old ones. God forbid their royal posteriors wear slightly-too-small garments for even a second.

Still, she can’t control curiosity, and the topic of the day quickly becomes what might be going on outside. The noise had been coming from the outer courtyard, and had eventually approached and then passed by in the direction of the prison cells. Rowan begins to feel a familiar itch. The urge to snoop. When Willa announces that they may go to midday meal, she instantly crumbles before the temptation.

One benefit of being so small is that it greatly improves her ability to sneak. The halls are filled with soldiers talking amongst themselves, but they are talking much too quickly for Rowan to decipher anything useful. She does manage to learn that there are, as she suspected, two new prisoners. From the excitement around her, it seems that they are something pretty special as well. She slips through the halls unnoticed, or possibly not worthy of notice, down to the underground cells.

There are more soldiers, and Rowan has to roll her eyes at herself for even trying to see over tall, armor-clad shoulders by standing on her tippy toes. They are mostly centered in front of one huge wooden door that is already closed and barred, but she notices another cell door at the opposite end of the hall that is still open. Target acquired, she ducks low and manages to slip in between and through until she can get past the crowd and take a peek into the room.

At first, all she sees is a group of three guards clustered in front of the rickety cot on one side of the room. They seem to be debating what measures to take with their prisoner. It seems that this one doesn’t inspire quite the same level of precaution as the other. They finally shrug and turn to leave, and as they part, Rowan is able to lean over and catch her first glimpse of the prisoner.

He is young, more a boy than a man really. Rowan barely notices that he is dressed in rough but sturdy clothing, meant for long travelling, or that his hands are covered with strange leather bracers that she’s never seen before.

What she does see is that he is angry. It’s in every line of his face, in the twist of his mouth. In the downward tilt of his chin, and in the burning fire in his bright blue eyes. He is possibly the angriest person Rowan has ever seen, and that’s a remarkable accomplishment.

And that terrible glare is currently looking directly at her.

Self-preservation is a largely foreign instinct for Rowan, having long ago lost a war of attrition against the overwhelming force of her depression. Yet, in this moment, something sparks in her. A forgotten glimmer of something deeply instinctual.

She turns.

She runs.

* * *

Oddune just gave me this book. He says that it would be good for me to write anything I can’t say to him. Seems like a good idea. If I write in very, very small letters, it could probably last the rest of my life. Probably took him ages to make. Kind of awesome.

Where to begin? First, a Connecticut Yankee wouldn’t have had a damn clue what anyone was saying, because these people don’t speak English. Actually makes me wish I’d payed more attention to Dad’s lectures on the evolution of the language. As it is, I’m pretty much learning from scratch. Oddune did a good job covering for me. Amnesia from a head injury is even plausible to me. Speaking of which, OW.

As for ‘my’ new history, here are the facts as far as I’ve been able to figure them out. Bothild (you have to be f**king kidding me) is an orphan. Technically, her guardian is her uncle, who shall heretofore be referred to as Lord Cat-Butt-Face, but he’s a personal soldier for the king, so he’s away most of the time. Her mother was from a Viking (yeah, yeah, not technically the right word and blah-blah-blah moving on) settlement. At some point she was seduced by a Saxon man, Lord Cat-Butt-Face’s older brother. Her family found out and was about to commit bloody murder, but for the timely intervention of both the King of Wessex and the woman who was the leader of the settlers.

So the Saxon, Botwine, and the Viking, Hildigunn got married. She converted to Christianity, and eventually gave birth to a baby girl, Bothild. She died a few years later from a sickness, and he died not long after of a wound. Lord Cat-Butt-Face isn’t too happy about the whole thing, what with mother being a pagan and all, so he sort of fobbed the kid off on the royal ville here, which is sort of attached to the village where she was raised.

So here I am, living in a little room with a couple of other single girls. When I’m more recovered, my main job will be helping with the spinning and weaving. At least I have a pretty good idea of how to do that, so, yeah, thanks Mormor! Bet you never thought that skill would turn out to be literally necessary for my life!

In hindsight, waking up for the first time was strikingly similar to a scene from Freaky Friday (This isn’t mine. These aren’t mine. *Grabs chest* Gasp! Those definitely aren’t mine!). If it wasn’t bad enough I’m over a thousand years into the past, I had also ended up in the body of an extremely small twelve-year-old. Puberty, round two, here I come!

~…~

Already sick of lacing up my dress. It’s fiddly, and it’s obnoxious. Seriously thinking of f***king with archaeologists and inventing the button. Then I remember Mark Twain and think I should maybe take the warning and avoid any potential unforeseen consequences. But then I remember that Mark Twain never actually travelled and time and had to deal with this BS because he lived in the 20^th century and HAD F***KING BUTTONS.

The only other alternative is brooches, and as Lord Cat Butt Face holds the purse strings and I would probably have to invent the Jaws of Life to get him to open those, I’m stuck with lacing s**t up every day.

~…~

This bitch has a better voice than I do. Feeling slightly pleased that she’s dead.

~…~

Didn’t mean that. Totally uncalled for. Just feeling generally pissed about life in general.

~…~

Shockingly cold at night here. May have to make some mittens or else lose my fingers to frostbite.

~…~

Knitting not invented yet. Will soon perish. This will likely be my last entry.

~…~

Started swimming in the river when able. This skinny bitch has no muscle mass. Been such a long time. 7+ years now? Forgot how good it feels. Still not going near horses. F**k that noise.

~…~

King and family arrived today. One year anniversary of ‘my’ a.k.a Bothild’s accident. Alfred remembered and gave me a sweet bread. Said thank you for saving him again and sorry you slipped and fell in instead, how’s the head feel? It’s fine, I told him. People seem pretty tolerant of me wearing my hair up to hide the scar.

His mother also asked me how I was and if there was anything I needed. Haven’t grown in past year and clothes not worn out, so no, not really. She said I was a very sweet girl and she was happy Alfred had someone close to his age to play with when they’re here. Lord Cat-Butt-Face royally cat-butt-faced and spent the rest of the time they were here ignoring me. I bite my tongue and don’t tell him what I really think of him. Not really a point in the long run.

~…~

Beginning to translate modern songs I remember into ancient languages to pass time. Nerdiness lvl approaching critical. Something interesting needs to happen around here before irreversible damage done to coolness.

~…~

Yeah, Row, you really wrote that. Juuust contemplate that for a hot second.

Dumb bitch.

Chapter Text

She turns.

She runs.

She collides directly with Oddune.

She finds herself hissing out between her teeth, “There is a Viking in there!” in much the same tone that one might use to warn someone that the sea they’re swimming in contains sharks

Oddune raises an eyebrow, hands still holding her shoulders after catching her mid-sprint, looking thoroughly unamused to find her here.

“He looked like he wanted to eat me!” Rowan’s voice comes on in a squeaky whisper.

His other eyebrow goes up, his version of a complete eye roll. “Don’t be ridiculous. There is no evidence that the Northmen practice cannibalism.”

“Oh, that makes me feel so much better! So when he escapes and you find my nice, clean white bones somewhere, you’ll be able to record an unprecedented historical event.”

“Oddune! What is this?”

Rowan looks over Oddune’s shoulder to see a tall, powerfully built man in armor approaches them.

“It is nothing, My Lord Aethelwulf.” Oddune replies. Prince Aethelwulf, the king’s son and heir, steps up beside him. She blanches and shuffles to the side, instinctively trying to disappear behind the old man and cover her embarrassment over being discovered where she is absolutely not supposed to be.

“You are named Bothild, are you not? You saved my son some years ago.” His tone commands a reply, but is not unkind. She nods in response, glancing between the two men to try and ascertain just how much trouble she’s in.

Oddune narrows his eyes at her. He’s had some sort of thought come to him, and Rowan swallows nervously. It usually takes him at least a day to think of suitable retribution for her moments of impudence, and that look has a tendency of leading to a lot of work for her. One particularly memorable time it led to her having to catalogue his entire archive using, of course, perfect Gothic penmanship. She flexes her hand instinctively at the remembered ache of what he will never be able to convince her wasn’t a near case of Carpal Tunnel Syndrome.

“If I may make a suggestion, My Lord?” At the Prince’s nod he continues. “Bothild knows as much of the pagan’s language as I do.”

Aethelwulf’s eyebrows raise at this. He’s obviously caught on to Oddune’s line of thought, and seems absolutely delighted. Rowan’s heart sinks as her one hope for deliverance fades.

“I see. She would also perhaps be more,” He pauses for a moment, choosing his word carefully. “Appealing company than you. No offence meant.”

“Not taken, sire.”

“I have a task for you, Bothild. The boy in that cell came here with his father, Ragnar Lothbrok.”

Ragnar Lothbrok? Rowan vaguely remembers hearing that name before, both in her past and present lives. If he is the prisoner in the closed cell, she’s beginning to understand the general kerfuffle around her. Even the normally reserved Aethelwulf is nearly vibrating with suppressed energy as he speaks to her.

“He claims that he is here alone, but I do I do not believe it. Nor do I believe that he would allow himself to be captured so easily without a purpose. You are to go and collect supplies and tend to any wounds the boy has. If he says anything, you will report it to me.”

Rowan swallows hard. “I speak only very little of the language, my lord. I may not understand him.”

The prince bends low with a smile and pats her on the head patronizingly. “I am sure that you will do your best. Word has been sent to the king, but it will be several days before he arrives. We may learn something of use in the meantime.”

“But he has some sort of injuries?”

“Yes. Ragnar Lothbrok claims they were in a shipwreck.”

A spark of hope returns. “With respect sir, I am no healer. If that is true he must surely have injuries which I have no proficiency in treating.”

Aethelwulf’s smile stiffened. “You have spent much time with Oddune. I am sure that whatever you have learned from him will suffice. After all, tending to his wounds is merely to be a pretext to draw him out.

She can see that he is not going to accept any argument, although his logic seems slightly questionable. In the end she bows her head in deference and hurries away, casting one final look at Oddune over her shoulder. He looks a little concerned, but not excessively, and she doesn’t think he would have suggested the idea if he felt that she was going into real danger. So she squares her shoulders and prepares to enter the lion’s den.

~…~

The boy looks up when the guard opens the door to let Rowan in. She is just barely managing to balance a washbasin, full pitcher of water, healing salve, and bandages in her arms, so she does her best to not look at him. A guard sets down a small table for her.

“Thank you, Litwin.”

“Be careful.” The young man grins at her. “Perhaps you should give me your hairpin for safekeeping.”

“So you can turn around and give it to Acha?” Rowan gives him a wry smile. Litwin is one of the few people who she’s long ago given up trying to fool with her play at being dumb. Her acting skills weren’t bad, but his perception was far better.

His grin falls and he shrugs. “Perhaps I heard her mention that she admires it.”

“She can admire it all she likes. Now don’t you have something to do?”

Litwin frowns. “I would not leave you alone with this heathen.”

That wouldn’t do. The prince wanted the boy to talk, and it seemed less likely that he would do that with an armed soldier hovering. “Your concern is appreciated, but think of it this way. If he strangles me with my own washcloth, you can give Acha my hairpin.”

The man’s face almost lights up at the idea. “That is true. I will be right outside the door if you need me. I will, of course, have to lock the door.”

Rowan looks at the boy and then back at Litwin. It is only now that she has noticed the odd way he is sitting on his cot, or the way his legs are tied together with a dirty strip of cloth.

“I somehow think that an escape is unlikely.”

“Still.” Litwin says, scurrying for the door. “It is best to be safe.”

The door closes, the bar sliding into place with a decidedly final sound. Rowan begins to think that this is not her most brilliant idea ever, but it seems highly unlikely to her that the boy would speak to her while being hovered over by an armed guard.

She continues to avoid the prisoner’s gaze while removing the various items she has carried in the basin and filling it with clean water from the pitcher. It is fresh from the well and still chilly. After soaking a cloth and wringing out the excess she rubs it between her hands for a moment to try to warm it up. It also helps to disguise the shaking of her hands as she finally turns to face the boy properly.

Rowan’s not sure what disturbs her more, the incredible level of anger that radiates out from him, or that it is coming from someone who seems so young. Even though she’s never been particularly good at guessing ages, she knows he can’t be much older than Bothild. She gives him a tentative smile, raising both hands and approaching slowly. For a moment, she is back over nine years ago, approaching another defensive, wild creature with open palms, trying to gain its trust.

The boy’s body language is still stiff, but his glare falls. Now he looks openly curious, and he doesn’t move when she begins to carefully wipe his face, removing the grime that’s built up over the course of his journey. It’s easier to remain calm now, almost clinical as she uses her other hand to tip his face this way and that, looking for any sign of injury.

There are no real open wounds or abrasions on his face, but Rowan dabs salve on anything she finds anyway just in case. It also gives her the chance to study him for the first time. His features are impressively well-proportioned, and she muses that his would be the kind of face that an artist could devote a lifetime to studying.

He says something to her. She’s so startled by the sound after the long silence that she jumps and doesn’t even begin to register what he might have actually said. His body begins to relax as he smirks at her, apparently amused by her wide-eyed surprise. It’s strange how chatty he becomes as soon as he sees her show a sign of weakness. She makes the split second decision to take advantage of this and keep her face blank, not letting on that she understands anything he’s saying.

Finished with his face, she moves on to his hands. Dirt and what she suspects is blood is caked under his nails. Her stomach churns but she ignores it and does her best to decipher what he’s saying without looking like she is. It would be a simpler task if she weren’t simultaneously trying to figure out the ridiculous amount of buckles on his gloves, with absolutely no help from him. Instead he just relaxes even more, as if he is used to this sort of treatment. He settles into a loose slouch as his expression becomes distinctly smug and continues speaking.

None of it is particularly complimentary.

There are a lot of words that Rowan doesn’t know, but from the context and the tone she understands just enough to have to struggle to control her expression as he elaborates on his low opinion of Christian women. At one point he calls her a something-something-thrall. Apparently, her performing the duties of a lowly servant doesn’t help her status in his eyes.

Vikings seem to have a very different concept of personal space from the rest of humanity. He’s started to lean his face uncomfortably close to hers, and he only laughs as she blushes and comments that it seems she finds him handsome. In reality it’s because she’s beginning to go steadily mad trying to control herself as he makes some creative suggestions about her parentage.

The ungrateful little brat. The Little Prince has a pretty high opinion of himself for someone who’s nothing more than a common bully. At least she can hide her fists by gathering her skirts as she kneels down, giving up on the gloves and turning her attention to tending to his legs so that she can try to hide her face. From what she’s seen her best guess is some kind of severe fracture, and the thought gives her a little thrill of schadenfreude.

He says something along the lines of how good she looks on her knees, and that Christian something-or-others of the female persuasion should keep to that position.

Rowan begins to worry that she’ll crack a tooth. She takes a deep breath to try and calm herself before reaching forward to try and untie the filthy piece of cloth that binds his legs.

His reaction is instantaneous and violent. The next thing Rowan knows she’s lying flat on her back a surprising distance away. It takes a moment for her mind to even register what’s happened or the pain in the top of her sternum where his palm collided. She has to sit up carefully to make sure that she’s not really injured before looking up at him. The expression on his face is a mixture of anger, surprise, and alarm.

Rowan slowly stands up, and he remains frozen except for his eyes following her. She slowly and deliberately steps forward. With deceptive calm she takes the full washbasin in her hands and dumps it over his head.

At that moment, Rowan would have given her entire Breyer horse collection to have a camera to record the look on the little bastard’s face. His mouth opens with an instinctive gasp of shock as the ice cold water hits him and pours down around him. Rowan takes a moment to appreciate just how good he looks with his big, blue eyes staring at her in astonishment and his pretty mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ as he pants for breath.

“Ekki at þakka” She says, and feels a rush of vindication when his eyes widen even more, before turning and marching to the door.

Litwin opens it after a single bang of her fist and she leaves without a backwards glance. It isn’t until she was halfway down the hallway that she realizes she’s still holding the washbasin. It isn’t until she reaches the library that she realizes that she’s possibly made a very, very big mistake.

~…~

“Nothing to thank? You said, ‘You’re welcome?” Oddune had only just recovered from another coughing fit that sounded oddly like laughter.

“It was a moment of weakness!” Rowan raises her head and wails before burying her face back in her arms.

“Really? I have never known you to lose your temper. He must have truly offended you.”

Was that amusement she detected in his voice? She squints up over one arm in suspicion. Yes, there is a definite twinkle in the eye.

“It’s not funny. Prince Aethelwulf is going to be furious with me when he hears about this! I was supposed to spy on the little snot, not piss him off even more!”

“Well, at least no one can say that you haven’t made an impression.” He’s not even trying to hide it anymore.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me!” Rowan protests. “I don’t do things like that. I’ve dealt with entitled bullies and assholes for years without stooping to their level. I went to a private school, for Chrissake!”

Oddune continues to be generally heartless, even though he at least made suitably sympathetic noises when she mentions that the boy did hit her first.

“I’m afraid that Prince Aethelwulf is determined in his plan. You will just have to think of some way to apologize.”

Rowan grimaces at the thought. “The obnoxious twat doesn’t deserve an apology.”

“Really?” He raises his eyebrows. “The boy whom Prince Aethelwulf has explicitly tasked you with, asking you to gain his confidence doesn’t deserve an apology?”

She glared defiantly. Suddenly Oddune is smiling at her softly, leaning over her and speaking with affectionate chiding.

“The boy who, I might add, is currently imprisoned far from home by strangers who would like nothing more than to see both him and his father dead.” He enunciates each of his next words clearly and pointedly. “Alone, separated from his family, and surrounded by foreign people with a foreign culture and a foreign tongue.”

Rowan freezes. How does the old man always do that? How does he always know exactly what buttons to push with her? She narrows her eyes at him.

“Goddamit.” She mutters in defeat.

~…~

It is late, but whether it is his orders or the stormy look on her face, Litwin lets Rowan in with only a silent look of concern and a muttered comment that he will be right outside should she need him.

The obnoxious, ungrateful, snotty little wounded dove is still sitting on his cot, looking surprisingly calm as she steps in. He’s apparently done his best to dry off, spreading his short leather coat on the floor to one side, but his hair and pants are still obviously damp. The pathetic excuse for a cot is also wet, and Rowan winces at the thought of him trying to sleep there tonight with the subterranean chill that fills the room.

She holds The Washbasin tightly against her chest, and he gazes at it with slight trepidation when she moves to set it down and refill it from the pitcher. Does he really think she came here to soak him again? And why isn’t he raging at her? Granted, she doesn’t know him, but he doesn’t seem like the sort to be cowed easily.

Taking a deep breath, she squares her shoulders and looks him level in the eyes.

“Fyrirgef mik.” She says, careful to pronounce each sound properly.

The boy is obviously surprised by this. It amazes Rowan how open his expressions are. It suddenly occurs to her that, in a strange way, this boy is possibly the most honest person she’s met here.

He’s silent for a moment, processing her request for forgiveness and studying her face intently. Slowly, deliberately, he begins to unfasten the buckles on his gloves. One at a time he removes them and sets each on the bed beside him before holding his bare hands out to her, palms up.

It takes Rowan a second to realize what he means by the gesture. When she finally does, she can’t help but let out a burst of relieved laughter that makes him jump. She takes a clean washrag and begins to gently clean the grime from his fingers. Underneath it, she finds dozens of tiny cuts that he’s gathered over the course of several days.

An odd silence sets in between them as she dabs salve onto his hands, smiling apologetically at him for the sting she knows she’s causing. For some reason he has begun to radiate an awkward energy, which then makes Rowan feel awkward herself and just results in the both of them sitting and standing there making brief, awkward eye contact and trading awkward little self-conscious smiles back and forth.

“Ívarr.”

It isn’t until he interrupts her that she realizes she’s been humming softly out of habit. She’s just finished with his right hand and he uses it to gesture at himself.

“Hm?” She’s been taken by surprise again, looking up and make a questioning noise for him to repeat himself.

“Ívarr.” He enunciated slowly and clearly. “My name.”

Her hands still as her mind races. A name. He’ll expect her to respond with a name. But which one?

“Rowan.” She finally replies.

“Rowan.” The boy, Ivar, repeats carefully, and she likes how it sounds in his accent, with a rolled ‘r’ and a rounded, emphasized ‘o’. It reminds her of her Mormor.

“Tree.” She finds herself explaining unnecessarily. “Rowan a tree.”

He cocks his head to the side in a way that reminds her of some kind of bird. Probably a carrion, like a crow.

“My name too. A tree.” Ivar frowns at her. “You speak Norse?”

“Yes. My mother.” She replies.

“Your mother?”

Here she struggles. The dialect of Old Norse he speaks is similar enough to the Old English she’s learned that with concentration and time she could probably understand him quite well, but her own vocabulary is frustratingly limited. All she can do is give a general motion towards him and simply say, “Northman.”

“Your mother was one of my people?”

She nods.

“How is that possible?” He frowns, obviously disturbed by this thought.

There is no way she can explain at this point and she tries to convey this to him with a shrug and a sheepish smile. If it weren’t so late she could probably manage with enough expressive - and probably awkward - hand gestures thrown in.

He seems to understand and lets the line of questioning go, but now that he knows that she’s willing to communicate with him he’s eager for one particular piece of information.

“The man that was brought with me. Have you seen him?”

She replies in the negative. No one but the prince has been allowed anywhere near the cell that holds the Viking king.

“Your father?” She asks, and Ivar sticks his chin out proudly.

“Yes, my father. Ragnar Lothbrok.”

He seems puzzled when she only nods distractedly as she finishes wrapping bandages around each of his fingers so that the salve doesn’t get rubbed off. With that done she’s finished with his hands and prepares to tackle the more pressing issue of his legs once again. This time she is more careful, kneeling and reaching forward slowly so that he can see exactly what she’s going to do.

Once again his hand shoots out to stop her, but this time he only grabs her own hand with a firm, “No.”

Rowan restrains herself from huffing and rolling her eyes. Instead she looks at him carefully. Now that she knows that his face tells so much she tries to read it, trying to figure out why he’s so particularly sensitive about this. What she sees there is all too familiar to her.

Vulnerability.

Something about this injury makes him desperately anxious in a deep, primal way. There is something more going on, but Rowan finds herself once again at a loss for the words that might ease his discomfort.

They appear to be at an impasse with her determined to discover the extent of his injuries and do whatever she can for them, and Ivar just being an immovable object.

She gently tugs her hand out of grasp and points at his legs, then puts her fists together and tilts them sharply down in what she hopes is the universal sign for ‘break’, with an added sound from the corner of her teeth for graphic effect.

Thankfully, he understands and nods. Frustrated, Rowan ends up flailing her hands in a series of gestures that all end up generally meaning the same thing. So what the hell’s your problem?

“Not now.” Ivar clarifies. “When I was born. They’ve always been like this.”

Oh? Oh! Rowan sits back on her heels. That certainly clears a few things up. And, conversely, raises a whole series of related questions that burst into her mind, racing through and fizzle out on the tip of her tongue. How? Why didn’t they heal? What sorts of treatments has he tried? Is it paralysis and, if so, how extensive is it?

It’s his eyes that pulls her back to the reality before her. There is still the vulnerability she’d seen before. On top of that is an apprehension that she realizes is probably because she hasn’t actually responded to what is likely an extremely difficult admission for him.

She doesn’t rush to a reaction, carefully considering before finally coming to a decision. Ivar watches her closely as she very slowly reaches up to grasp the pin that holds her hair in place. Her long, dark hair falls to her waist as she gently lays the bronze raven in his hand, but he doesn’t even glance down.

His gaze has become fixed on the artificial part that is revealed, showing the long mass of hypertrophic scarring that runs down her scalp and sticks out like someone has drawn a length of knotted yarn beneath her skin.

* * *

Dear God, if I wake up tomorrow in my own bed I swear I will never again complain about my leg.

~…~

Dear God, if I wake up tomorrow in my own bed I swear I will give up my entire shoe collection and donate the entire proceeds to Doctors Without Borders.

~…~

Dear God, if I wake up tomorrow in my own bed I swear I will never again call Ed a lying, weasel-faced addict with delusions of humanity.

~…~

Dear God, if I wake up tomorrow in my own bed I swear I will join a convent and take a vow of silence, dedicating the rest of my life to helping the needy.

~…~

No? Oh well, I figured it was worth a shot.

~…~

I’ve always believed that people get back what they give. So when I see that level of, frankly, unpleasant frankness, how am I supposed to respond? I want so badly not to have to lie to him, not about anything. Besides, it’s hardly a risk. Who is he going to talk to?

Scars. My life has become punctuated with scars. Unfortunately they’ve all been periods and exclamation points so far. Once in a while I’d like to have a comma, or maybe even a semi-colon. Such a severely underused and underappreciated thing, semi-colons.

But really, those eyes. If I were an artist I could draw them. If I were a poet I could write a thousand words on the depth and breadth of the pain there. But I’m not, and I can’t. And I can’t fix it either, all I could think to do is maybe, in some way, be there with him in it.

See? I want to tell him. It’s okay. I’ve been broken too.

Chapter Text

The general reactions so far to Rowan’s scar had all been mostly the same, shock and disgust, the level of obviousness varied depending on the individual’s politeness and ability to control themselves. In a society where illness and healing was often considered to be sent directly from God, not to mention the justifiable paranoia over infectious disease, the excessive scarring she had developed seemed to trigger an instinctive fear in all who saw it. It was simpler for her to just keep it covered at all times.

Ivar, too, seems surprised at first, then he leans forward to look at it closer.

“How did this happen?” He asks her.

“I fell.”

“Say it was in battle.” His joking tone surprises her, and she realizes that he is teasing her now. It’s familiar, and she feels herself relax. Of course, scars would hardly be any more shocking to him than a disability was to her.

“With a bear.” She deadpans. When he realizes that she’s being sarcastic, Ivar snickers and leans his forearms on his knees. The heavy atmosphere that had invaded the room begins to lift. Noticing the pin in his hand for the first time, he slowly spins it around, admiring it from all sides.

“I know this work.” He sounds surprised. “It was made by a man from my village.”

Rowan nods. “Yes. My mother. Her village too.”

He looks up, eyebrows raised. “Is that so? How did she come to be here?”

“Her father, her mother farmers, come here.” She replies.

Ivar winces and says nothing more. He must have heard about how King Ecbert had given land for some of the Vikings to settle, and had subsequently had them all exterminated. According to Oddune, Bothild’s mother had only been spared because she had already married a Saxon and was living outside the settlement. She was also pregnant, and likely hadn’t dared to try to raise a hand against the people who had killed her family to protect her unborn child.

Now that she knows there is nothing she can do for his legs, Rowan sits back and looks him over. There are no tears in his clothing, so it seems unlikely that he has any cuts anywhere that she can’t see. His linen shirt, however is both dirty from his journey and still damp from his impromptu shower.

“Give me.” She orders, tugging on his sleeve. The young man pulls back, giving her a surprised and slightly shocked look.

Sighing and rolling her eyes, Rowan tries to reassure him by making a scrubbing motion between her hands to show that she wants to clean it for him. He may be stubborn, but she’ll be damned if she just goes her own way now that she has an idea of what she can do to make him more comfortable.

Still looking slightly mistrustful, he slowly reaches down and pulls the shirt over his head. There isn’t much time before Rowan has to leave for the night, and her patience is wearing thin again. Finally she just snatches it from his hands and sets it aside before retrieving the blanket she brought.

A few hours before, she had gone to her room after speaking with Oddune. It had felt wrong to be idle for even a few minutes during the day, but she had needed the quiet to figure out how to try and get back in Ivar’s good graces. As she was leaving, her eyes had briefly fallen on the thick woolen blanket that lay at the foot of her bed. Its summer, and she tends to overheat easily, so it is of little use to her for now. On a whim she’d grabbed it and taken it with her back down to the dungeons.

Now she briskly unfolds it with a snap and wraps it around his shoulders, mindful of the chill that is only growing deeper now that dusk is falling.

It’s disconcerting, but she finds herself uncontrollably aware of Ivar’s body. After being on the swim team, she thought become pretty much immune to the well-built male form. As Rowan tucks the blanket around him, she can’t help but name the easily visible muscles, biceps brachii, pectoralis majors, and deltoids. Each is fantastically defined, probably due to the fact that he’s had to rely on his upper body more than the average person.

“Rowan!” Ivar snaps her name and she realizes that in her distracted state she’s been turning him into a burrito, effectively pinning his arms to himself. Trying to regain her composure, she steps back with a muttered apology so he can wriggle his arms loose from their cocoon on his own as he frowns at her.

“Late.” She waves to the window where only a sliver of sunlight is still visible. “I leave.”

“You must?” Despite his puzzlement at her strange behavior, he actually sounds a little disappointed. It occurs to Rowan that with the communal nature of Norse homes, he’s likely not used to being alone at night. She nods.

He asks if she’ll do something as he returns her hairpin, but she doesn’t know the word he uses. When he sees that she doesn’t understand he points to the door saying, “You will go.”

She nods, and he then points to where she’s standing and says, “Will you come here?”

“Tomorrow?”

At his affirmative, she realizes that he’d been asking if she would return. Even though she’s finished with her ‘cover’ job, she knows that Prince Aethelwulf will want her to return, and she replies that she will. The guards will let her in without an argument. No, the real obstacle would be getting Willa to let her out of work in the weaving room.

~…~

Rowan stays up late washing Ivar’s shirt and hanging it by the fire. While she waits for it to dry she tries to stay awake by writing, and ends up waking the next morning to find that she’s fallen asleep at the small table in her shared bedroom.

To top off the pain in her neck and back, the precious stub of a candle she’d managed to pilfer is completely gone, burnt out sometime during the night. There’s nothing she can do about it now, so she releases her disappointment with a huff and packs her writing materials back at the bottom of her trunk. She’ll have to try to find time to write during daylight hours until she can find another.

For now, though, a lack of light is the least of her concerns. Her mind was racing all night and she’d finally decided that it would be best to update Aethelwulf on her progress and hope that he would handle her mistress himself. After all, the whole thing was his idea in the first place.

Rowan smiles with satisfaction and sets off with a spring in her step. It feels good to finally have a plan, especially one involving shoving difficult encounters off on other people.

Aethelwulf is easy to find in the great hall, surrounded by various soldiers and sycophants all crowing triumphantly about the capture of the great Ragnar Lothbrok, as if the man hadn’t literally walked into their midst and given himself up.

No one could say he isn’t an observant man. He notices her quickly as she waits in the doorway to be recognized, and waves for her to approach.

“You have done what I asked?” He asks after taking her to one side where they cannot be overheard.

“Yes, lord.” She replies.

“And? Has the boy said anything?”

“Nothing repeatable in polite company.” She says dryly, but hastens to add that he seems to have warmed up to her after learning that she speaks a little of his language. “If I may be allowed to return today, I believe he will be more forthcoming.”

The prince doesn’t look pleased, but agrees that she can try again. Rowan promises to do her best to get more information out of him and crosses her fingers behind her back. Honestly, she lost any desire to go along with his scheme the moment she had seen Ivar’s blue eyes look at her with apprehension and anxiety.

~…~

It turns out that the best excuse for her to return is that they actually do want someone to keep any eye on the cripple while they wait for the King to arrive. She really, really hopes that Ivar doesn’t ask, because she’s fairly certain he wouldn’t appreciate the suggestion that he can’t go a day without some kind of supervision. But it gets her where she wants to be, so she bites her tongue and retrieves her spinning to keep her hands busy while they, hopefully, talk.

She has to hide her smile when she enters his cell and he immediately arranges his face into what he probably believes is the most casual, unconcerned expression possible. The look just screams, “Oh? It’s you?”

Really, the boy has no chill.

“You’re back?”

Okay, now it’s just embarrassing. Taking pity on him, Rowan shows him that she’s brought him something to drink. Aethelwulf had refused her request to bring food, but had agreed that she could give him a little of the weak ale that everyone drinks instead of water. Since Ivar and his father had arrived with no provisions, it seems likely to her that he hasn’t had anything to drink since they were shipwrecked.

Ivar gulps the single cup down and hands it back to her with only a burp as thanks, and Rowan wonders if the lack of manners is a cultural thing or a more personal trait. Either way something tells her that she should get used to karma being her only reward if she’s going to keep doing things for Prince Snowflake.

Luckily, his shirt hadn’t burst into flames while she’d slept and she’s able to return it to him, clean and dry. He doesn’t thank her for that either, and merely puts it back on while she keeps her eyes busy with getting her spinning started.

“You are staying?” Ivar asks.

“Yes. I want –mm- more words.” She says, glad that she’s not in a rush and can spend more time trying to make herself understood.

“You want to learn more Norse? Why didn’t your mother teach you?” Despite his disapproving tone, he makes himself comfortable draped across the cot, back against the stone wall.

Rowan gestures towards the scar on her head, now covered again by her hairstyle. “When I hurt, I lose her.”

It’s not even a lie, the accident really had caused her to lose her mother. With some back and forth, Ivar is finally able to supply the word for ‘memories’. He is still curious about her history, though, and presses her with questions until he is able to piece things together.

“So your mother lay with a Christian, and then married him?” As usual, he doesn’t even try to hide his disgust. “I would become an outcast before I married a Christian.”

“That is… nice?” Rowan says, with a bemused smile. Ivar glares at her, displeased by her benign reaction. She keeps smiling and restrains the urge to pinch his cheeks.

“You are not afraid of me?” He asks suddenly.

“No.”

“But you were?”

“Yes.” She admits. His expression is difficult for her to read. There is some amount of confusion, but he is oddly ardent too and his tone becomes more intense, almost eager.

“Why? What changed?”

Rowan smiles wryly. “You speak. I see you are child.”

She knows the statement is likely to set the boy off even before she makes it, and she’s not disappointed. He shoots straight up on the bed, stopping just short of fully lunging at her. Her muscles don’t even twitch in response as she keeps her eyes on her work, smiling placidly as he fumes.

“I am not a child!” Ivar hisses between clenched teeth.

“Mm-hm.” She nods in mock agreement.

Like a fire denied oxygen, his anger cools as quickly as it springs up. Instead he takes on a patronizing tone, looking down his nose at her as he states, “I am sixteen years of age. I have pledged my arm ring and I have gone Viking with my father. I am a man.” He smirks in a way that suggests he knows he’s about to gain the upper hand. “How old are you?”

Damn, and he’s right. For a moment she almost tells him the truth. That would certainly shut him up. It also wouldn’t make a lick of sense.

“Not fifteen.” Technically, fourteen-and-a-half. Bothild was born in the early winter. It is still the beginning of summer.

Ivar settles back, pleased to once again feel superior. Rowan lets it go with reluctance, deciding that a smug Ivar is a happy Ivar, and a happy Ivar seems to be more patient and agreeable to helping her muddle her way through the Norse language.

She tries to ask him questions now, about his home and family. It’s a topic he seems happy to go on about, aside from when he mentions his brothers. It’s obvious there is tension there, and she steers the conversation away as soon as she sees his jaw begin to tense. Ivar’s mother, on the other hand, he almost waxes poetic about. He describes, in detail, the legends of her parents, the story of how she matched wits with his father when they first met, and how she herself has the power to see the future.

“My mother is a volva.” He tells her proudly.

“My mother’s a corporate advisor.” Rowan mutters under her breath, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

At the very least she picks up a lot from him, and he doesn’t seem to mind when she interrupts him to clarify the meaning of something.

“I know.” She finally stops him in the midst of evangelizing about the glories of his Gods with all the zeal of a Baptist preacher. He seems to have decided that it’s his duty to fill in the knowledge she lacks of her mother’s people, and while she can’t help but admire the incredible pride he has in his culture there is a point where she just can’t feign ignorance any longer.

“About what?” He asks, frowning in confusion.

Rowan gives an all-encompassing gesture. “Valhalla, Yggdrasil, Odin. I know all.”

“How?”

“I read.” She states dryly.

“You have writings about my Gods?” Ivar doesn’t seem to believe her, and he’s right. There are no books or scrolls on Norse mythology in Oddune’s archives. At one time, however, her Google-Fu had been second to none, and besides that she’s spent half of her life in libraries.

But he really didn’t need to know that.

~…~

For two days their conversations continue like this, each taking turns quizzing the other on their lives. He tells her of his village and of his mentor, a shipbuilder. She makes him break down with laughter when she describes Lord Cat Butt Face.

The first day Rowan sits on a little stool as she spins. The second day she comes in, kicks over the stool, and joins Ivar on the comparatively comfortable cot, backs against the stone wall and legs dangling over the side. He protests at first, but doesn’t try to remove her.

The afternoon of the third day finds them pressed shoulder to shoulder while he watches her embroider the edges of a shirt. Somehow, and neither of them could really say how, they’ve been having an hour long conversation on the obnoxiousness of older siblings when they are interrupted by sounds from outside.

They crane their necks backwards simultaneously towards the window above their heads. A voice call out that the King has arrived. When she tells Ivar, it’s like a soap bubble popping Ivar’s expression goes dark and he becomes silent from that moment on, all warmth gone.

Litwin enters with another guard, the sudden presence of another person only further shattering the illusion they’ve built in their shared isolation. Rowan translates for Ivar as the other man explains that the King has ordered that the boy be brought to him. He only nods in acknowledgment but allows them to pick him up, one arm over the shoulders of each guard, so they can carry him out of the room.

There has been no mention of her, but Rowan finds herself hurrying after the trio, scolding when she feels that they are too rough with him.

It must be a welcome relief for Ivar to finally be above ground after days in the dark, damp dungeon. Even Rowan takes a deep breath of the relatively cleaner air. He is carried straight to the King’s dining hall, where they stand outside the door briefly before being ushered in by another guard. As if there is an invisible tether linking them, she follows them without a second thought.

King Ecbert sits at one end of a long table. At the other end, in a cage so small that he can’t quite stand straight, is an old man in tattered garments. This is Ragnar Lothbrok.

He is older than she expected, the lines in his face telling a story of the life he has led. His icy blue eyes light up at the sight of his son, and he leans forward eagerly as Ivar is brought into the room and sat down in a chair at one side of the table.

As the older man asks if he has been treated well, Rowan is shocked to see the change that comes over the usually arrogant, prickly boy. He is deferent before this haggard creature in his subtle way. Even when he is snarky and replies that he’s at least been treated better than his father by the looks of it, his voice is soft. Before she’s seen a spoiled prince and a man-child filled with bravado. Now she is shaken to see a sixteen-year-old boy, facing a beloved parent in chains and likely facing death.

Ragnar insists that he will not eat until his son does, and Ecbert replies that Ivar is his guest as well, offering him his own plate of food. Following his father’s urging, he takes a piece of meat and begins to eat while Ecbert assures his captive that his son will be well taken care of. He then gestures to the guards to remove him, and Ivar has no choice but to go along with it, looking faintly confused over what is happening.

Of course he is, Rowan realizes, he doesn’t speak Saxon. He calls something back over his shoulder to his father that she doesn’t quite catch, because as she moves to follow after them she notices that she’s getting twin looks of puzzlement from the two Kings. She realizes with a wince how she must look to them, like an anxious hen scrabbling after her chick. There’s no time to worry about her dignity, however, as the guards carry Ivar off down the halls.

~…~

They don’t take him back to the dungeons. Instead they bring him to a guest room within the villa. Ivar is still clinging to his rib when they set him on a chair before a table that is already set with food and drink. Rowan has to urge him not to eat too quickly after his long fast so he doesn’t make himself sick. She knows she’s fussing over him, but she can’t seem to stop herself, and he seems too overwhelmed to care.

After eating a little, Ivar finally notices her, fluttering about the room like a trapped bird as she straightens the already straightened, and snaps at her to come sit down. When she takes the chair across from him, he tells her to eat. It’s true, she’s been missing meals since she’s been spending so much time with him, and she’s grateful for the food.

As they eat, she explains the new situation while Ivar takes in the room around them. It’s modest, but it at least has a comfortable bed and a window set with real glass that lets in the warmth from the noonday sun. The food is also of a high quality, far better than what she’s ever been given.

When they’re finished, Rowan gathers the dishes and brings them to the door where she finds Litwin. The King may have proclaimed Ivar a ‘guest’, but he is not a guest who is free to leave.

“What is that?” Ivar asks her, gesturing to a game board that sits on the table.

“Tæfl.”

“Tafl?” His expression brightens for the first time since they heard King Ecbert’s arrival. “We have this game as well. Do you play?”

“No.” Rowan replies flatly. Alfred had tried to teach her several variations of the game. Her father had tried teaching her chess when she was little. They had both had equal success. None.

Ivar’s face goes tense. “You’re King has said that I am a guest, and I want to play Hnefatafl.”

“Well I don’t.” She stands taller, sensing that his mood is shifting again and preparing to put her foot down if he becomes belligerent.

“You are a servant. You will do as I say.”

“I am not a servant, and I will leave if you are unpleasant.” She warns him.

His mouth twists with contempt. “Oh, you will leave? Done amusing yourself playing nursemaid to the poor cripple? I do not need your pity.”

The last word his spit out like something foul he’s tasted, and hits Rowan like a poison arrow. It’s obvious to Rowan that he is working himself into a temper, and she has no patience for it. She leans forward like he’s so fond of doing, forcing eye contact and enunciating clearly so that he can’t possibly misunderstand.

“It is not what I do for pity, Ivar. It is what I do for a friend.”

With that she turns her back to him and knocks on the door for Litwin to let her out.

As the door closes behind her, she hears a crash as something collides with the other side.

~…~

It’s raining outside, as if the skies themselves are reflecting her mood. Rowan has to run through thick mud as she wishes she had a shawl to cover her head. She hurries towards Oddune’s library, hopeful that he will once again sooth her irritation, but she stops short as she sees Aethelwulf standing outside the gates with another, smaller figure.

It’s Magnus, his ward. While his own sons go where their mother goes, and Princess Judith is most often with the King, Magnus is the warrior’s constant shadow.

Now that she thinks of it, she had heard that Ragnar Lothbrok, the very man who now sits in a cage in the dining hall, had fathered Magnus with the deceased Queen of Mercia.

It’s this thought that makes Rowan stop short and watch in confusion as Magnus tries to cling to the Prince, only to be roughly pushed away. The boy is tearful as he turns and walks away from the villa, his adoptive father watching him go. It’s painfully clear what is happening.

She wants to run to them, to try and intervene, but she knows that there is nothing that she can do. If anything, her presence might make things worse considering Aethelwulf is probably absolutely livid that she failed in her mission.

Oddune in his usual place, bent over a manuscript that he is trying to translate. He looks up with a frown when Rowan bursts in, but his face clears as soon as he sees the look on her face.

“What has happened?” He asks.

“Aethelwulf is sending Magnus away.”

Oddune looks surprised for a moment, then sad. “Ah, I might have guessed he would.”

“Why?” Rowan steps towards him, heedless of the puddles she’s trailing behind her. “What’s going on?”

“Ragnar has denied that Magnus is his son. The boy is no longer of use to the King.”

“But the King wouldn’t hurt Magnus.” Rowan protests. “Even if he can’t use him for whatever, he knows that Aethelwulf loves him.”

Oddune raises his eyebrows, silently challenging her. Of course he’s right. Ecbert is ruthless and wouldn’t hesitate to dispose of a teenager who is no longer important to his scheming.

Rowan drops onto a bench, feeling suddenly exhausted. “So the Prince had to banish him, to save him.”

The priest nods. Despite his blunt speech, she knows him well enough to see that he’s also disturbed by the whole situation.

“This place is cruel.” It feels like an obvious statement, but it also feels like it needs to be said. “These people are cruel.”

“This whole time,” He gently reminds her, “is cruel.”

* * *

I met one of Alfred’s brothers today. His name is Magnus. He was nice, and asked me how I was doing. Sorry, I don’t remember jack. Felt sad when I told him that. He honestly looked disappointed.

~…~

Correction, Magnus is not Alfred’s brother. He’s the son of some Queen and a Northman, Ragnar Lothbrok. Yeah, apparently he actually does exist. Go figure.

From the gossip, Aethelwulf was ‘fond’ of Magnus’ mother, so he’s been raising him like one of his own since he was a baby. Mother is deceased.

He asked me what I know about the Northmen. Honestly, not much, but I tried to tell him what I could. He seems to like the stories. Said he would like to hear more another time. Did not tell him Lothbrok means Shaggy-pants. What a byname. Just… yeah, no idea.

Apparently, he’s only one or two months older than Bothild. He hasn’t said anything, but I wonder how well they knew each other before?

~…~

Why do I always think of myself as 22+2? As if these past two years have only been borrowed, and don’t really count toward my age.

Everything feels different, and I don’t know why. A part of me wonders if it’s because the structure of Bothild’s brain is different from mine, that whatever physiological and/or genetic component that contributed to my depression isn’t there anymore.

It’s still there, but it’s easier to manage. I don’t get overwhelmed the way I used to. Even with everything that’s happened, I haven’t had a breakdown again like the one I had before.

~…~

Thinking about Ivar. Blue sclera. Bones broken at birth. Signs of OI? Low collagen production causes easier fractures, muscle issues, pain etc.

Trey at Camp PT had Type I, blue sclera, but it’s a milder form, prenatal bone less likely. More seen with something like type III, but usually white sclera and more deformities, short stature, etc. Hard to tell since I’ve only seen him sitting, but Ivar seems of average height?

Also, didn’t sound like he had too many fractures in childhood. If more severe type, would be more like, snap, crack, pop (Rice krispies!) Possibly fewer fractures because mother seems very protective.

Seen him put weight on legs, swing from hips. Not paralysis? Possibly problems are from disuse. Again, mother didn’t encourage activity early on.

Trying not to sound too excited when asking questions. Been told it comes off as creepy… by Ed, so what does he know? But Cranky McCranky-brok doesn’t like to talk about it much, so probably best not to pry too much.

~…~

Don’t particularly resent Ivar his tantrums. God knows, probably wouldn’t be any better in his situation. Just heard it on good authority that a disability is no excuse for bad behavior. Apparently, I’m not very good at learning for myself, but am excellent at telling others how they should behave.

Not bad company when he’s calm. Very clever. Probably prettier than me. Snarky as hell. Actually kind of funny. Seems to like that I laugh and don’t get offended. Still tries to shock me, though. Little does he know, I once had Internet access. Nothing will ever be shocking again.

Oddune asked why I talk to him. Good question. Better question is why he talks to me. Like to think it’s my winning personality. More likely just desperate.

Hasn’t talked about his father or why they’re here. I approve, denial has always been my favorite reaction to stress. I haven’t asked him either. So we sail down The Nile River together.

Chapter Text

Rowan’s sleep is fitful that night, plagued by dreams of Magnus, alone and frightened. She awakes, bleary-eyed and unrefreshed to find that she has overslept. In a panic, she splashes water on her face and races through dressing before sprinting to the kitchens to retrieve Ivar’s breakfast.

She hopes he won’t realize that she’s running late, but all of the servants refused to enter the room with him. Cripple or no, they were loath to be too close to a Northman, as if just being near him might somehow do them some harm. So she had foolishly volunteered to continue taking care of him. Of course, that was before their most recent disagreement.

Bread, meat, and fruit is piled onto a large serving dish. A servant offers to carry the pitcher of ale, as long as she doesn’t have to go into the room. Rowan smiles and thanks her. Despite her tendency to avoid or ignore the unpleasant, she wants to get him everything as soon as possible, and the help will save her a trip.

Timeliness doesn’t seem to be the order of the day. They are stopped on their way by Prince Alfred, smiling angelically with his hands clasped behind his back. He and Aethelred had arrived with their mother the day before, a few hours after the King himself.

“Good morning, Bothild. Where are you going?”

Rowan narrows her eyes in suspicion. “I am bringing Prince Ivar his breakfast, my lord.”

He continues to smile, obviously not surprised by her response. “Oh? I will go with you. Here, give me that pitcher.”

The servant has no choice but to hand it to him, despite obviously sharing Rowan’s doubts about whether this whole situation was entirely kosher.

“Perhaps you should speak to His Majesty first?” She suggests. God forbid something should happen to the Golden Child while in her presence.

“That’s not necessary. He has already introduced me to King Ragnar. He won’t mind me meeting his son.”

For a boy who often looks more like a cherub than a real thirteen-year-old, he’s always surprised Rowan with the depths of his cunning. Not willing to waste any more time, and secretly grateful for the buffer, she can only agree and urge him to hurry with her.

Litwin has been given some time off to rest, but his replacement snaps to attention as soon as he sees the youngest Prince. He opens the door without argument, although he reminds them that he will have to bar the door behind them.

Ivar is sitting at the table and looks up when they enter. It seems that he managed to find the Tæfl pieces and has set it up, although the board itself looks suspiciously dented since the last time she saw it.

“This is Ivar Aetheling, my lord.” She turns to Ivar and switches to Norse. “Ivar, this is Alfred Buthlungr. He ask to come.”

Whether it’s the sight of food or an unexpected third party, Ivar appears disarmed. He and Alfred trade nods of greeting while Rowan sets down the food.

“He knows how to play Tæfl?” Alfred asks, and Rowan explains about the Northmen having a similar game. The boy is excited to hear this, and asks for her to translate for him and see if Ivar would be willing to play.

She looks to Ivar, whose expressive face is openly curious about the conversation happening in front of him even while steadily shoveling food into his mouth.

“Prince Alfred ask, will you play Tafl?”

Ivar smirks at her. “You brought me another partner to make up for yesterday. How pleasant of you.”

It’s a real pity she probably can’t get away with cuffing him upside the head with Alfred there. She has to be content with giving him a dirty look.

“Is that a yes?” It’s really a talent that she is able to keep her tone polite while speaking through her front teeth.

“Yes.” Ivar smiles back at her, looking impressively pleasant for being the Spawn of Satan.

Alfred is delighted to hear this and happily sits down across from Ivar and starts to set up the game. Rowan begins translating as Alfred tries to confirm that they both know the same rules. At first Ivar is tense, and he glances between them with a frown, as if trying to figure something out. After only a little while he relaxes and begins to offer suggestions.

They try to have a conversation on various strategies through Rowan, but quickly give up in favor of ignoring her and her unrestrained whimpers and complaints of boredom. Her presence is largely superfluous anyway, as they manage to communicate their feelings through shared looks of amused annoyance. The reason for her lack of ability in the game is readily apparent as she wiggles around in her seat like a small child forced to sit still in church.

All three are almost equally relieved when the guard opens the door and calls for Bothild. After confirming that the two of them will be fine without a translator, Rowan fairly skips for freedom. She stops short outside when she sees who is waiting for her outside.

Lord Cat Butt Face.

He must have come with Judith and the princes. Rowan hasn’t seen him for some time, and her whole body stiffens at the sight of his somber face. He looks her up and down, his face inscrutable.

“Good day, uncle.” She murmurs respectfully.

“Niece.” His tone is equally blank. “You are well, I trust?”

“Yes, uncle.”

“Good. You are to come with me.” He says, suddenly turning on his heel, his duties as her guardian apparently done to his satisfaction.

He leads her to a room she hasn’t seen before. It’s a sort of above-ground cell. Far more pleasant than the lower dungeons with a real window letting in light, but still bare of furniture.

Ragnar sits on his haunches at the far end of the room, free from the cage but still chained. Rowan stops short when she sees him, looking to the man beside her with confusion.

“The King ordered that you be brought here. The Northman asked to speak with you.” He explains, his voice tight with displeasure.

For a moment Rowan thinks he wants to say something to Ragnar, but he only glares at him and then leaves. The door closes behind him, and she is left alone with England’s Most Wanted.

They are both silent, Rowan unwilling to speak first, and he taking the time to look her over carefully. His eyes are even more disturbing than Ivar’s, tinged with a sort of frantic madness that is only barely controlled beneath the surface.

“You are called Bothild?”

She’d been too distracted worrying about Ivar the day before to take much notice of his father. Now she is surprised by how soft his voice his, how warm. He speaks the Saxon language with perhaps greater ease than Rowan herself.

“Yes, your maj-my lo-sire.” She stumbles, unsure over the proper way to address an imprisoned Viking king. He smiles and chuckles at her awkwardness.

“You might as well call me Ragnar. This hardly seems the place for such titles.” He says, gesturing with his gaze to the room around them. Rowan’s not entirely sure about this, but she supposes that a man in his situation has a certain right to be called whatever he wants.

“I have been told that your mother was one of my people.”

“I’ve been told that as well.”

“Indeed?” His relaxed manner shows no surprise at her statement.

“I was injured two years ago.” She replies, pointing to her scar. “I do not remember my parents.”

Ragnar turns his head to one side and looks at her carefully. “That must be very difficult for you.” Something in his tone suggests that he doesn’t entirely believe her, and Rowan shuffles her feet nervously. With that gaze, if he told her he had x-ray vision and was a telepath, she would probably believe him.

“I also understand that you have been keeping my son company.” He says. “I wanted to thank you for that.”

She shrugs awkwardly.

“I am curious as to why you have taken such an interest in him.”

Is this how guys feel when they meet their girlfriend’s fathers for the first time? Because Rowan feels oddly like she’s being assessed in some way.

At first, she opens her mouth to give some dismissive response, but stops. Would it really hurt to try to answer him honestly? After all, she might as well be speaking to a dead man.

“Perhaps,” She begins hesitantly, trying to formulate into words something she’s barely thought about consciously. “Perhaps I’m trying to do for him something I wish someone had once done for me.”

Ragnar cocks his head, inviting her to continue, and Rowan finds herself stepping forward and sitting cross-legged in front of him without really intending to.

“I’m not entirely unfamiliar with being an outsider,” She continues. “Or with pain. It’s difficult enough to cope with without feeling completely alone on top of it.”

She cringes inwardly when she realizes that she’s slipped, using modern phrasing. The constant scrutiny is distracting, making it difficult for her to concentrate on her choice of words. He keeps on looking at her silently like he sees something that she would rather remain hidden.

“You are not quite what you seem, are you.” The man remarks softly. It surprises her, and she only nods mutely in response. “Again, I thank you for your kindness to my son.”

“It is nothing.”

“It is not nothing.” He insists, suddenly intense. “I of all people know that he can be difficult.” The last word is said with a twinkle in his eye. Rowan can’t restrain a snort of amusement. It’s probably the biggest understatement uttered since Adam was born.

“He has his moments.”

They smile at each other, briefly joined by the shared joke for a before he tells her that she may go now. As she is about to leave, though, he calls to her one last time.

“I want you to know, Bothild.” She turns back to him, but her smile fades when she sees that his face has gone dark. His voice has lost all trace of humor. “I am truly sorry.”

At first she’s only confused as to what he could be apologizing for. What had he ever done to her? Then she remembers that Bothild’s grandparents, uncles, and aunts had all been slaughtered after Ragnar and his warriors had returned home. Was that what he was referring to? It must be.

“It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t order their deaths.” Rowan assures him. Something about his answering smile leaves her feeling shaken. She leaves feeling vaguely like a conversation happened in that room that she was completely oblivious to.

~…~

She’s still mulling over the whole encounter when she arrives in the archives, hoping to talk it over with Oddune. He’ll be amused to hear that she got to speak to Ragnar Lothbrok himself. And historians said he didn’t even exist!

To her confusion, the room is empty. A pile of books lies spilled on the floor. It’s strange to the point of Twilight Zone levels for any of Oddune’s precious books to be left in such a state. Rowan carefully picks them up and sets them on a table, taking a look around the room. Nothing else is in disarray, so perhaps something startled him and he had to rush out suddenly.

The infirmary. It’s a poor excuse for one, but it’s the closest thing the villa has to a hospital. In fact, it’s the very room she had awoken in two years before. That’s where Oddune would be if someone had come in with a sudden injury, and the health and well-being of a person is really the only thing that would ever supersede the health and well-being of a book in his mind.

Rowan holds her skirts up so she can move faster. Oddune has begun to rely on her when treating his patients, and he will be expecting her there as soon as possible. She feels a familiar little thrill at the prospect of helping again, as long as there isn’t too much blood.

Outside, she is halted by the sight of a small crowd gathered around the open doorway. All of the members of the clergy that are in the villa are there. Their whispers go silent as soon as they see her approach. Oddune is not among them.

“What is wrong?” She asks, trying to move past them to get inside. They block her.

“Wait, my child.” One of them says, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Do not go in.”

“Why not?” She’s really getting a bit annoyed with this. If something is really wrong then Oddune will be wanting her inside, they should know that by now.

“It is Father Oddune.” Another says. “He was found just a little while ago.”

The edges of the world go hazy, her heart stops, stones settle in her throat and chest.

“What?” The word comes out as barely a whisper.

The priest holding her shoulder speaks slowly, as if to a child. “It seems that something caused him to… to become unwell some hours ago. By the time he was found...”

With a sudden surge of strength, Rowan shoves the priest away from her and pushes forward through the rest. Despite their protests and hands grasping to stop her, she finds herself standing in the doorway to the infirmary, staring at the lone bed sitting in one corner.

It is the bed where she awoke to this endless nightmare, the bed where Oddune first sat beside her and explained to her that she would never see her family again. It is the place she first looked into a bowl of water and saw a girl much like herself, but not. It is the place where she lay for days until the ringing in her ears finally stopped and she could begin to learn to walk in her new body. It is the place where she would often stand beside Oddune as he showed her how to use leeches to lessen a bruise.

It is the place where Oddune lies now, completely still. His eyes are closed as if he were only sleeping, but it takes only one look to see that his face has an unnatural blue tint.

Rowan stumbles closer on shaky feet to touch his hand. It’s cold and stiff. Rigor mortis has begun to set in, which means that he’s been dead for at least four hours. What was she doing four hours ago? Complaining that she was bored while Ivar and Alfred smiled at her expense?

She lifts one eyelid carefully. There is definite petechiae. That and the cyanosis suggests asphyxia. The cough. He tried to pretend it wasn’t that bad, but it’s obvious to her now that he’s been… had been trying to downplay it. If he had a fit that was bad enough, he could easily have been overcome. Alone in his beloved archives, there would be no one to help him until it was too late.

~…~

It’s hard to say how long she sat beside Oddune, but the sun is already almost completely gone when the priests finally have to force her to leave.

She is both numb and in excruciating pain at the same time. Despite the lump in her throat, not a tear has fallen, but the claws that have taken hold in her heart continue to twist and twist until she feels like there’s no way this feeling can go on without something inside of her breaking.

As she passes like a ghost through the halls she hears a voice say that Ragnar is to be sent to Northumbria, where King Aelle will surely execute him in the most creative way possible. Another bolt of shock goes through her. Another voice responds that his son is being sent home in the morning, alone.

Ivar. The only other person who knows her real name. How is he feeling, now that his father’s fate is set in stone? She’s never going to see him again either. Even if she hadn’t been able to say goodbye to Oddune, could she find a way to see her other friend one last time?

“Bothild?”

Rowan blinks. Lost in thought, her feet have led her straight to Ivar’s door. Litwin is once again standing outside, looking at her with a faint hint of concern.

“I want to go in.” Her voice comes out as a hoarse croak. Litwin shakes his head.

“I can’t let you. Orders are he can be left alone for the night, and I’m going to get a good night’s rest for once. That means not waiting out here for you.”

“I have to-!” The words spill out of her before she pushes them back down again. Taking a deep breath, she tries again. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. If you leave the door unbarred, I will close it when I leave.”

He is immovable, only shaking his head again. Rowan looks around her, desperation welling up inside of her. An idea comes to her like a flash.

“My hairpin.” She whispers.

Litwin leans forward, not sure he heard her correctly. “What?”

“My hairpin.” She repeats more clearly. “If you do this for me and promise not to speak of it to anyone, I will give you my mother’s hairpin.

This gives the man pause. His gaze flicks to the bronze bird in her hair and back to her face, etched with grief. It feels like an eternity before he finally nods once, stiffly. Rowan sighs with relief and releases her hair. Litwin is at least polite enough to avert his eyes from her scar as he takes the pin from her, lifts the heavy wooden bar from the door, and turns to scurry down the hallway.

It’s dark in the room. There are no candles or torches, so the only light is the silvery glow from the moon that comes in through the leaded glass window. It’s just enough to illuminate Ivar’s face as he sits on the bed in front of her.

His eyes are red and puffy. When he sees her he quickly rubs at his face with one sleeve, but it does nothing to hide the fact that he’s been crying. Rowan comes closer, suddenly unsure of her welcome. It takes a few tries, but finally he speaks.

“My father is going to die.”

“I know.” She whispers back.

His face starts to crumple. At the sight of it a flood of emotion fills her. She may be helpless before her own grief, but she can do one last thing for him. In an instant she moves forward and wraps her arms around his neck as he lets out a soft cry of distress that becomes smothered in her chest.

It’s so much easier to be here, cradling him to her and running one hand through his hair as his shoulders shake and she makes soothing noises, than in her own mind.

Ivar’s arms have encircled her small torso, hands gripping her sides so hard she can already feel bruises.

He pulls back to look at her. It’s not a pretty sight. Her face is splotchy with unshed tears, framed by a wild mess of unbound hair. His long fingers brush it back behind her ear, then lower to trace the shape of her cheekbone, and she lets herself be hypnotized by the feeling, eyes drifting shut.

“You look as though someone has died.” Ivar’s voice is raw, tinted with a trace of sarcasm. It’s so intentionally ironic considering the circumstances that it brings a wobbly smile to her lips.

“Someone did.” She replies. His hand pauses in its movements, and she leans into it slightly, silently begging him to continue.

“Who?” Neither of them can seem to speak louder than a whisper.

“He is,” Rowan almost chokes. “He was everything.”

They fall into silence again, her holding him as he pets her cheek. When they finally part, it’s in silent harmony. Even without words, they seem to be of one mind as he shuffles backwards on the bed and pulls back the single blanket so she can crawl in beside him.

It’s not a large bed, and she is made acutely aware of how big Ivar really in comparison to her. It’s a tight fit and they have to lie on their sides, and his body nearly envelopes her as he curls into her back. His left arm is stuck under her, but he doesn’t complain. He just leans over so he can tuck the edge of the blanket around her before resting his head behind hers on the only available pillow, draping his other arm over her waist.

Rowan can feel his every breath, match the movement of his chest as it presses against her back. Neither of them can sleep, overwhelmed and yet desperate for some kind of oblivion.

There is a flicker of something astonishingly soft against the back of her neck. Ivar’s lips press against the bump of her spine for a moment before moving a little to the side and pausing again. Slowly he lays chaste kisses up and down her neck, mapping out the dips and curves. When he reaches the space just behind her ear his lips part ever so slightly, lingering longer before traveling back down to just above her shoulder.

It’s a contradictory sensation. Part of Rowan feels almost anesthetized, but at the same time her skin feels so sensitive that each butterfly touch is borderline uncomfortable. A soft sigh escapes her and she tilts her head against the pillow, rolling her body back to give him more access.

She freezes, startled by the sudden, hard pressure against her thigh. Ivar stops too, even his breathing holds still as he waits for her reaction, most likely for her to shove him away and run screaming from the room.

If this were any other day her thoughts would have been racing, her stomach gripped with anxiety as she grappled with every possible action and every possible consequence. Instead, she finds her mind blanking, and the feeling is like a cool breeze on a hot day, a welcome relief. With nothing else to stop it her body reacts first, her hips pushing back into him.

A distressed comes out of him that he tries to muffle in her hair as his hips jerk against her. It is so close to a sound of pain that Rowan instinctively curls her fingers comfortingly over the hand that’s trapped under her, which is now splayed flat over her belly.

There is a moment of dead stillness followed by a flurry of nearly frantic movement as his other hand grasps at her skirts, pulling them up to her hips. He barely lingers over her naked skin before shoving between their bodies where she feels him fumble quickly.

The tip of Ivar’s cock breaches her on the first try, and it feels more like sheer luck than any proficiency. Rowan yelps at the sudden, deep burning that spreads out as the delicate tissue of her hymen stretches to allow him entrance.

Some part of her that is still vaguely alert realizes that their positioning isn’t ideal and that Ivar isn’t doing anything about it, so she takes the initiative by bending her outside leg towards her chest. He whimpers as his length slips further inside her tight passage, fingers flexing and digging into her stomach and thigh as he tries to hold himself still.

When he does move, what little control he had been trying to exercise vanishes in an instant. His thrusts are wild. Fast, hard jerks that are punctuated by his breathless, high-pitched gasps and moans.

Rowan revels in it all. In the pain that burns through her delicate flesh. In the almost pathetic yet somehow endearing sounds that seem wrenched out of the man behind her. In the tension that rolls through his body. It fills her senses and drowns out everything else, all internal noise. She finds she is becoming greedy for it and tries desperately to move herself with him, but can’t seem to find the right rhythm.

Ivar seems to find she’s being more of a hindrance than a help because he finally takes hold of her hip and pushes it into the bed, forcing her to be still and accept his pace. So she appeases her need by turning her face back over her shoulder, encouraging him to let his mouth brush the shell of her ear as his thrusts begin to falter. She is uncharacteristically tranquil. Her lips are smiling without permission as this man finds comfort and pleasure in her.

With one final groan, Ivar’s whole body goes rigid for a long moment and then relaxes completely. Hot, humid air ghosts over the line of her neck as he struggles to control his breath. Their hands tangle together in front of them, moving and caressing softly. The smile doesn’t leave Rowan as she feels him nuzzle into her loose hair.

There is now a deeper ache inside from Ivar’s inelegant treatment and her own unfulfilled arousal, but she feels strangely content with it. It’s like the North Star on a dark night, guiding her whole focus to a single burning point, keeping her thoughts from straying to uncharted waters until, finally, she sleeps.

* * *

Oddune finally talked about his life ‘before’. Only took him a year, and still very vague. Didn’t say when, but he was from Germany. Was an academic of some sort with a wife and son. Next think he knew everything was falling apart around him. Went on a trip to England to get away and got in a car accident. Ended up in the body of an eight-year-old in York.

The boy was really sick, and Oddune thinks he died right before he showed up. Actually already knew the language, so didn’t have my problem there. Parents saw their kid come back from the brink of death acting like a mature adult with all sorts of new wisdom, so decided God meant for him to become a priest. He didn’t mind, since it meant he got to do pretty much what he was before.

Technically no requirement for celibacy yet, so I asked him if he thought of getting married. He just got irritated and told me to mind my own business.

Still no idea of why or wherefore, but another interesting coincidence. We both ended up in the bodies of people who looked almost exactly like we did before. Starting to question my stance on reincarnation. Oddune says, “Who the hell knows? Now get back to cataloging!”

~…~

Occurs to me that I’ll be expected to get married and have a family. Always loved kids. Expected to have my own, but just a vague sort of ‘someday’. Never cared too much about boys/relationships. First too busy with swimming/riding/music/etc., then too depressed. Had all the time in the world anyway, a million choices. Not so much anymore.

Another thing I’m having to get used to. No such thing as a teenager. You’re either a child or an adult. Girls are women around menarche (14/15 average), boys about 15/16.

Teenagers aren’t teenagers either. Have to start working as soon as possible to help family. More responsibility earlier means earlier maturity. Seems Alfred has been more sheltered. A bit ‘young’ in comparison to others his age.

At 13, I’m still seen as a child. Not the worst thing though. Given a bit more freedom than otherwise, so able to get away and do my own thing sometimes. Lord CBF also not trying to marry me off.

Been wondering about Bothild. What she was really like. What thoughts were in this brain before mine?

~…~

Realized something. Bothild had excellent access to proper nourishment, but still severely underweight. Body is well into thelarche, but no sign of menstruation. Possibly due to lack of body fat? Seem to be getting back on track, but took for-freaking-ever. If I could have met Bothild, would have liked to have asked her about it. If a modern girl, know what my assumption would be, but is that possible? Have heard nothing to think she was devout enough for extreme religious fasting, so no other explanation comes to mind.

Obviously, I can’t do anything for her now. Just trying to get healthy and stay that way. Seriously thought I was done with this shit. More proof Universe hates me.

But, hey! Bright side, no shark week!

Chapter Text

She is standing high above the ground. No, not standing, sitting. Her seat sways slightly, but it doesn’t alarm her.

There’s something she’s supposed to do, and she knows that once she does she will fly away. There, in front of her is something, a cord she must grasp.

As she stretches forward she feels a cool breeze brush by her, and a flicker in the corner of her eye distracts her for only a moment. It’s nothing, she thinks, nothing can possibly bring me to ground now.

But it’s not nothing. It’s a serpent, its tail wrapped around a beam and its body already coiled around her throat. It starts to pull, and there is a sudden shrieking in her ears. In an instant her seat has thrown her. The trusted seat has sent her swinging by her neck until she slides along the cold ground. But the snake still holds her throat, holding her up so she is half-lying, half-dangling there as she claws at the thing that is now choking her.

Panic is welling up inside her. She must stand. She must get her feet under her and stand. The shrieking is louder now, coming from above her. She looks up and there is a flash of silver. Time seems to slow as she realizes that it is her seat coming down on her. One of her legs is stretched out before her, exposed. She clenches her eyes shut and prepares for the impact.

~…~

Rowan doesn’t wake from the familiar nightmare with a scream, or shooting straight up, or any of the other clichés she’s seen in movies. There is only a brief jerk of her muscles as her mind wakes a second before her body.

It takes her a moment longer to process why there is such a profound, all-consuming pain in her chest. The moment after she remembers her grief her consciousness locks on to the comparatively mild ache between her legs. Still, it’s bad enough to force her nerves to choose which sensation to actively experience and, mercifully, they choose the latter.

The warm weight that surrounds her on three sides nearly lulls her back to sleep before her sluggish and cloudy brain registers the source.

Ivar. He’s still wrapped around her from behind, arms encircling her and cheek resting against the back of her head.

Rowan experiments at first, nudging him slightly to see if he will wake up. There is no response, so she carefully wiggles herself around so she can observe his sleeping face, lit up by the moonlight shining in from the window.

There isn’t a single trace of anxiety or sadness to mar his features. With no expression to color her perceptions, she marvels at how beautiful he really is. From his cheekbones, to his perfectly shaped mouth, to the dimple in his chin, it’s as if some god put each feature in place by hand with excessive precision and forethought.

The urge to touch him, to trace over the sharpness here and the softness there almost overtakes her. Then she sees something else and it stops her dead with shock. This person, holding her in his arms, satiated from the body she welcomed him into, is someone very, very young.

This is the point where she feels the urge to run screaming from the room. With a deep breath she controls her panic and begins to slowly disentangle herself from him limb by limb. In his exhausted state, he doesn’t even twitch at the disruption.

She almost falls on her face trying to stand, landing on her hands and knees on the stone floor. At some point while she was sleeping Ivar had tried to cover her again, but had only gotten her skirts back down around her knees. They’ve ended up tangled around her legs. Giving a slightly panicked glance over her shoulder, she can just see that his eyes are still closed. She carefully un-hobbles herself before trying to get up again.

As gravity asserts itself, something warm and thick trickles down the inside of her thigh. Between that sensation and the pain, her first instinct is that it’s shark week finally rearing its ugly head. Then she realizes what the fluid leaking out of her body is and winces. Here was a bit they didn’t tell you to expect in health class.

It’s still late. If she hurries, Rowan knows she can clean up and return to her own bed with none of her roommates any the wiser. No one sees as she slips out of Ivar’s room, barring the door behind her as she promised Litwin.

A geothermal spring flows under the palace, feeding the Roman baths that King Ecbert takes such delight in. The room is empty at this time of night, and she uses a bucket to draw some of the warm water. With one hand she holds her dress around her hips and with the other she scoops water to wash away the sticky mess. When she’s done, she pours out the rest of the water on the tile floor, washing away any sign that she’s been there.

Everyone else is asleep when Rowan creeps silently into her room. They’re used to her being the last to bed and the first to rise, so no one will be suspicious that they haven’t seen her. If anyone were to suspect where she had been, what she had done, the resulting uproar would make the May Day riots look like a quilting bee.

She stops only to change into her nightgown before slipping into bed. Fatigue overtakes her quickly this time, and her sleep is without dreams.

~…~

In the past two years of her life, Rowan has rarely experienced waking to the sun shining on her face. The sensation is so unfamiliar that, at first, she doesn’t even realize she’s awake. When she opens her eyes, she is horrified to see that, yes indeed, the sun is already high in the sky. After never oversleeping, she’s now done it twice in a row.

The reason for it crashes in on her. The numbness and a deep guilt overtakes any concern over being late, and she can barely muster the energy to pull herself out of bed and dress.

She reaches into the chest for her hairpin when she realizes that she doesn’t have it anymore, but though she feels a little bad about giving away Bothild’s prized possession, it barely affects her. What was the point, anyway? Both Bothild and her mother were dead and gone. What was the use of hanging on to the thing? Instead she uses a simple kerchief to tie around her head, hiding her scar and keeping her hair back.

The halls buzz around her, but Rowan ignores it all as she drifts through towards the weaving room.

“Bothild.”

She turns with all the urgency of a sloth to find Judith standing pensively, hands clasped before her.

“My lady?” She asks, voice slow and sleepy.

“I need you to come with me.”

“Yes, my lady.”

This is nice, someone to tell her what to do, where to go. No reason to try to think or decide, just float along as the current sweeps her where it will.

The princess brings her to stand before the throne, before King Ecbert himself. In ordinary circumstances, Rowan imagines she would feel intimidated to have the full force of that suffocating attention focused on her.

He looks her over intently before speaking, clearly and with the same skin-crawling sincerity that she had heard him use with Ragnar. “Bothild, it has come to my attention that your mother was a Northman, one of King Ragnar’s people.”

“Yes, your majesty.” It wasn’t really a question, but Rowan responds to be polite. Maybe if she’s very good, and very small, those terrible eyes will look away from her. For all the madness that lies in it, she realizes that Ragnar’s gaze had been far less unsettling. At least he seemed to have a soul somewhere in there.

“You have lived here for fourteen years now. Though you have spent a little time with my grandsons, you have no close friends of your own age. It has, however, been noted that you have formed something of a bond with Ragnar’s son, the prince.”

Litwin is standing to one side. Rowan tries to subtly gauge what, if anything, he’s told the King. His body language reveals nothing, but she’s almost positive that he hasn’t said anything. He is a loyal soldier, but his personal honor would never allow break his word.

“I have merely acted as a nurse to him, your majesty, nothing more.”

Ecbert’s eyes raise. “For three, no, four days? Are you sure that it is not that you prefer his company to that of your fellow Christians?”

Well, he was right there. As someone with no expectations of her, she has never had to be on her guard with him. The only other person she’d felt that with was…

“I have decided,” The king says, “that you will perhaps thrive better among your mother’s people. Today, the prince is to be taken to a ship that will return him to his own land, and you will go with him.”

Rowan’s jaw drops. She looks to Judith, standing beside her father-in-law, but the woman won’t make eye contact. Her mouth, however, betrays her where it curves down at the corners. Is this some sort of a joke? A test, perhaps?

“My uncle!” A thought suddenly occurs to her. “I am beholden to him for these many years of care. If he wishes for me to stay, then surely you would not make me defy him.”

The king smiles humorlessly. “I have already spoken with your uncle. It was he who suggested that the return of Ragnar Lothbrok may inflame the people’s anger towards the Northmen, and you might be safer outside of Wessex.”

A figure steps into view from the side, and Rowan turns to see Bothild’s uncle, face like a raincloud over a funeral. She doesn’t believe that he’s spoken out of concern for an instant. This is him trying to rid himself of a financial drain, an embarrassment that serves only to hold him back.

Rowan looks to Judith next. “My lady, please don’t let them do this. Don’t let them send me away from all I’ve ever known!”

The older woman doesn’t respond, but her eyes are shining with tears. Even if Rowan has been a friend to Alfred, even if Bothild cracked her skull to save his life, Judith’s loyalty is first and foremost to her father-in-law. She is surrounded on all sides by people who care little or nothing for her, and she resolves in that moment that she will care nothing for them. Let them exile her, with Oddune dead, there is nothing left to keep her there anyway.

~…~

There is little time for Rowan to pack her meager belongings, but she doesn’t have much. All she cares to take can fit in one bundle, mostly the book and her box of writing utensils. That and her nightgown all fit into a plain canvas bag. She leaves behind her spare clothes, the nicer ones she wears on Sunday and Feast Days. They were bought with That Man’s money, and she’ll take as little from him as she possibly can.

She channels her not-always-so-inner mean girl as she marches for the entrance to the villa, head held high. Let them throw her away like they did Magnus, they will not see her beg.

Everyone has already gathered around the cart that is to take her and Ivar away to wherever it is the boat is moored. It’s where Ivar himself is seated right now, fully dressed again in his leather coat. When he sees her approaching his eyes widen in surprise. He watches as she throws her bundle up before climbing in beside him, but she is careful to keep their gazes from meeting.

Judith, Alfred, and Aethelwulf are standing nearby. Aethelwulf is bellyaching that they shouldn’t send him away, and Judith softly scolds that he is only a cripple. He gives a “humph” and begins to urge the cart and its escorts to get moving, but Alfred calls for them to wait.

The boy steps forward to give something to Ivar. Rowan can just see that it is a piece from the game they’d played the day before, and she can’t help but smile at him. He looks sadly at her, but she suspects that he’s most upset to say goodbye to a worthy opponent at Tafl.

His mother comes to stand beside him. To Rowan’s surprise she places a thick wool cloak in her lap. On top of it she lays a small silver cross on a delicate chain.

“To thank you for being a friend to my sons.” Judith explains. “The sea is bitterly cold, even in summer. Do not forget that the Lord is with you, whatever land you walk.”

Rowan runs her fingers over the fabric in silence. They are the finest things she’s been given this life, but she can’t bring herself to thank Judith.

Aethelwulf calls for them to move out, and the cart lurches forward. As they move away, Rowan looks up toward the room she had met Ragnar, but anything at that distance is little more than a blur to her. Still, she likes to think that she sees movement there. The old legend taking one last chance to see his son before his death. Impulsively, she kisses the little cross and whispers a prayer that though he cannot have a quick and painless end, at least he can be granted strength to see it through with dignity.

~…~

Ivar continues to stare at the game piece in his hand, then the scenery that is passing by, then finally he seems to find something very interesting under his own fingernails. Rowan can’t look at him either. Just the thought of making eye contact with him makes her cringe. She briefly considers throwing herself under the cart as a better alternative to the continued silence.

It will take hours upon hours to get to reach the English Channel, where they will board a boat that will take them to Kattegat. With nothing else to occupy her time, Rowan pulls the book out of her bag.

With her legs crossed in front of her, it’s simple enough to balance the large volume on her lap. The problem comes when she realizes that she will have to hold her ink bottle with one hand and write with the other. With the cart bumping randomly over uneven ground, she ends up spending more time wrestling to keep everything where she wants it than actually writing.

A hand reaches out to gently tug the bottle from her. She looks up briefly to find that Ivar, while still keeping his gaze fixed at some distant point behind them, is now holding the bottle steady where she can easily reach it.

The manners that have been drummed into Rowan since birth take hold, and she blurts out a quick, “Takka.”.

Ivar shrugs in response, squinting into the horizon. She is soon engrossed in her writing, not seeing the way he steals looks at her out of the corner of his eye.

Three hours later they’ve both given up on pretending to ignore each other, or being comfortable. Ivar especially is starting to take on a slightly pale hue after being jostled about in a vehicle with no suspension for so long.

“Sit here.” Rowan holds the folded cloak out to him.

Any awkwardness or embarrassment on his part is being superseded by the pain that must be incredible by now. He glares at her, lips pursed into a thin line. She nudges him with her shoe, trying to urge him to take it, but he only pushes her away and hisses that he doesn’t need it.

Men are much the same in any century. Unfortunately, so are women, and Rowan is not a woman who has ever backed down to spare another’s silly pride. By the time their escorts notice the commotion, the pair are in the middle of a wrestling match where she tries to shove him over to put the cloak under him, and he easily fends her off with just his hands around her wrists.

The guards quickly intervene, pushing Rowan back and yelling that King Ecbert wouldn’t ever know if they never reached their destination, and the pair might find themselves unexpectedly lost if they don’t behave themselves.

“It is your fault.” Ivar snarls when she translates this to him. “You’re the one who won’t leave me alone.”

“I try to help!” She wails in response before curling into a ball on her side and pulling the divisive article over her head, shutting him out until, finally, they reach their destination.

~…~

The boat is small, and Rowan is alarmed to realize that she’s never actually been on the water in this body, so she has no idea if she gets seasick or not. Before, she’d taken to it like a fish from an early age. But the craft before her is hardly a modern vessel, with a GPS and all manner of safety equipment.

Ivar doesn’t seem much happier. He looks at the boat like it’s a guillotine with his name lovingly inscribed above. There’s nothing he can do to protest. Two of their escorts take him under the arms and drag him down the dock. A gray-haired man offers a hand to help Rowan down from the cart and then over the side of the boat. The pair of them are seated together near the hold where she quickly settles into the opposite corner from Ivar.

Everything is a flurry of activity around them as the sailors prepare to set off, and Rowan is so occupied watching them that she doesn’t notice that Ivar’s hands are clenched into white-knuckled fists until they are well on their way.

She had actually forgotten how cold it can be out on the water. The wind that carries them away from England’s shores bites through her clothes and sends salt sprays that bite into her cheeks. At least she has the cloak to wrap up in. Ivar’s clothes are relatively warm but still leave enough of him exposed that he’ll soon start to feel the chill, if he doesn’t already.

“Here.” Rowan removes the cloak and holds it out to him, too concerned by the dark circles under his eyes to care about her own comfort.

Of course he shrugs her off, grumbling that he is fine.

“Ivar.” She whispers his name. When he looks up, she meets his gaze for the first time that day. “Please. It is cold.”

His expression softens. Maybe he’s moved by her entreaty, or maybe he’s finally just too tired to fight with her. Either way he allows her to drape the cloak around him.

Despite the heat from the fabric he continues to shiver, and Rowan remembers that, the last time he was on a boat, it was caught in a storm and he was shipwrecked. She realizes that it might not have been cold at all affecting him in the first place, but fear. It doesn’t seem to be getting any better, and she worries for him if he ends up stuck in this state for the entire journey.

She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and begins to hum softly. It is instinctive for her. Since she can remember it’s what she would use to calm everything from an animal to a child, or even herself.

Somewhere, beyond the sea. Somewhere, waiting for me. My lover stands on golden sands, and watches the ships that go sailin’.

He doesn’t understand the words, but the very unfamiliarity of the sound draws his attention to her.

Somewhere, beyond the sea. He’s there, watching for me. If I could fly like birds on high, then straight to his arms I’d go sailing.

When she opens her eyes at the end and sees that he’s watching her, she smiles and starts again. She begins with the oldest songs she knows, ballads from England and Scotland. The first thing that pops into her mind is ‘Twa Corbies’, and she’s frankly grateful he doesn’t understand the words, because a song about a bunch of birds planning to eat a knight’s corpse and use his hair for building their nests probably wouldn’t be very soothing at the moment.

By the time she gets to ‘The Cruel Mother’ Rowan starts to seriously wonder whether her ancestors never sang about anything pleasant, or if she’d just missed those songs. When she finishes ‘Whiskey in the Jar’, she realizes that she’s gone on for hours and her mouth is dry.

The man who had helped her into the boat offers her a little water. While she pauses to drink she notices that Ivar has started to shake again. Desperate to keep him calm she starts to sing whatever comes to her.

When night falls, she tucks herself into a corner away from Ivar to sleep while doing her best to ignore the hurt looks he shoots her way. The old nightmare comes again, and it’s only made worse by the motion of the waves. In the morning she has to go through the same process of waking and then remembering everything that’s happened all over again.

Her bones ache from the emotional strain and the persistently uncomfortable conditions. The guards at least allow her to pace the length of the boat to stretch out her muscles while she begins to sing again.

Johnny Cash, Metallica, Billy Joel, show tunes, Motown, ABBA, she sings anything and everything she feels like. Since no one says anything, least of all Ivar, she can only assume that they don’t mind. Sometimes she forgets the words, but since there is no one there who knows any different she just fills it in with nonsense sounds.

Every time Rowan stops to give her throat a rest Ivar begins to shake again, so she never stops for long. The only time she remains quiet is at night. She has begun to fight to stay awake, dreading what she knows will come if she lets herself sleep.

By day three she’s given up on anything that might sound normal to the men around her and has started in on opera. The one thing that has always irked her, she now takes the time to enjoy. That is that even without training Bothild has a better voice and range than Rowan had ever had.

A kind of delirium starts to set in. It gets harder and harder for her to stay awake. At night her head drifts forward, followed by a quick jerk as she rights herself, over and over again. Even though she maintains a strict distance between them, she can feel Ivar watching her all the time. Rowan doesn’t look back, unwilling or unable to risk seeing something there that will force her to think about what she’s doing.

~…~

It’s warm for the first time in what seems like forever. Rowan smiles and curls into the source of that lovely heat. Something is combing through her hair, a hand.

Her eyes fly open. She’d fallen asleep last night. Not only that, but Ivar has somehow managed to maneuver her so that she is leaning into his side. He’s wrapped one arm around her shoulders so that the cloak is around both of them. His other hand is idly petting her head as it lies against him.

Rowan tries to push away, but his arm stiffens like an iron band holding her to him. No amount of struggling can shift it, until finally she gives up and lets him hold her there.

Looking up to complain to his face, the words are frozen in her mouth at the sight of him. His normally handsome face is like death, gray and sickly, his lips chapped since their captors have refused to spare any of their precious water for a heathen. His hand moves mechanically through her hair as his eyes stare off into some endless void.

As if answering a prayer Rowan doesn’t know she’s made, a voice calls that land is ahead. She pats the hand on her shoulder nervously, whispering to him that he’s almost home. Just hold on, Ivar. They will be home soon.

*.*.*

I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t do this.

What can’t I do? Everything. All of it. I can’t deal with people dying and I can’t deal with my emotions like a normal person and I can’t even look at Ivar because he’s doing this kicked-puppy thing and it’s at least half my fault.

I try really, really hard to be a good person. I really do. I don’t think I’ve been that bad. So why is this my life? Why does everything I love keep getting taken from me?

And why, oh why, can I not keep myself from doing STUPID FUCKED-UP SHIT INSTEAD OF DEALING WITH MY ISSUES LIKE A RATIONAL ADULT!!??

~…~

Tried to keep myself occupied on the boat by remembering what Mormor told me about them. Answer? Not much. Remember that there are masts and rudders and sails, fairly certain that jibs are a thing. Really put most effort into not paying attention when Mormor was talking about sailing.

The woman has an intense passion for two things in life. Settled for me being interested in only one, fiber arts, but never quite gave up hope I would develop an interest in sailboats. Suppose I should have put slightly more effort into it, considering like, a quarter of the business is going to me one day. Figured I would just delegate to lackeys. That’s what they’re there for, right?

~…~

Dear Mom and Dad,

Even if I never see you again, I want to let you know that I get it now, and I’m so sorry. I never thought about what it would be like to see someone you care about in that kind of a state. But seeing Ivar (Don’t ask who Ivar is, you really don’t want to know) like that, so lost and afraid that I couldn’t do anything to make it better…

I want you to know that it’s not your fault. Maybe some things growing up weren’t perfect, but how I handled it was my responsibility in the end.

I wish I hadn’t been so stubborn and tried harder to get better after the accident. It was all just so much to handle at once. I was scared and angry and suddenly couldn’t do most of the things that I used to do to deal with it. Then everything started with Edmund and I wasn’t just angry, I was heartbroken too.

Broken. I really did break, didn’t I? It hurt like something physical, maybe even worse than my leg. There seemed to be a lot more pieces to put back together too, which is really saying something.

I can’t do that again. I can’t make these people deal with it. They don’t deserve it any more than you did. So I have to keep it together. I have to do this. I have to do this. I have to do this.

Chapter Text

The last thing Rowan expects to feel at her first sight of Kattegat is déjà vu. She is briefly overpowered by a feeling of familiarity as the boat begins to pass into a sound. Something about the huge inlet, the harbor and the silhouette of the mountains strikes a chord in her before it is drowned out by apprehension.

There is already a group waiting for them when they approach the harbor. Their guards stand at the ready, bows drawn while the gray-haired man calls out in the Norse language that they carry the prince.

They are allowed to dock. On one side a row of warriors stand ready, axes drawn. On the other side two young men step forward. They are both blonde, tall and somber faced, and they wait while Ivar, still pale and eyes hollow as a ghost, is lifted up and handed to them. They each take an arm over their shoulders with far greater gentleness and familiarity than Rowan has ever seen him treated with before.

No one has seemed to notice her yet. As she stands to follow Ivar she’s suddenly overtaken by a wave of fatigue that nearly knocks her off her feet. The gray-haired man takes her by the elbow to help her out of the boat and she thanks him for his kindness.

“God be with you.” He says and crosses himself, casting worried glances at the pagans he is leaving her with.

Rowan stands alone at the end of the dock. Before her stands a crowd of men and women staring with open curiosity and suspicion at the stranger who has accompanied their prince. Ivar is being carefully led away from her and she finds she is frozen to the spot, unsure where to go. It seems likely that the two men are his brothers and she is hesitant to intrude on their reunion.

They stop suddenly as Ivar struggles to look over his shoulder. When he sees that she hasn’t moved he beckons for her to follow them with a tip of his head.

His brothers look at her strangely and exchange a glance between them but say nothing. They are focused on supporting Ivar’s nearly dead weight as they walk through the village and into the woods. They come out into a clearing where a small cabin sits party out on the water.

It is strange inside. Fishing traps hang from the ceiling. There is furniture and beds, but it is so far out of the way. Why would they bring him here? Why not take him straight to their home and to his mother?

Whether or not he is as confused, Ivar shows nothing. He is sat down at a table where his brothers help him out of his jacket. The one with the godawful hairstyle goes to light a fire while the other fetches something to drink. None of them speak yet, apparently having reached an unspoken agreement to allow Ivar to recover first.

“Rowan.”

She looks up. She’s almost fallen asleep leaning against the doorway which she hasn’t moved from, the sheer lack of acknowledgment she’s been getting leaving her uncomfortable and unsure.

“Go lie down.” Ivar nods to the side of the room where a large bed dominates one entire wall.

“I’m not-“

“Rowan!” Ivar snaps and points to the bed. “Go. Lie. Down. Now.”

They glare at each other, jaws jutting with stubbornness. Their companions are watching them with great interest, and Rowan almost wants to keep fighting just so that they don’t see her back down.

But she’s tired, so tired her bones ache with it, and Ivar doesn’t need the aggravation of a pointless quarrel. As she moves past him, she tells him to drink slowly so he doesn’t make himself sick before flopping down onto the comfortable mattress. Within minutes she’s fast asleep, flat on her belly like a sea lion.

~…~

A gentle nudging pulls Rowan from her slumber, and she scowls and bats at the offending hand. It persists, continuing its assault on her person.

“Yah!” She sits up with an annoyed shout, only to see that the bastard responsible for waking her isn’t her bastard and shrinking with embarrassment.

The older, bearded brother of Ivar is grinning at her, apparently more amused by her fierceness than intimidated. If he were her own brother or Ivar she would have been quick to remind him that her displeasure was not something to chuckle at. This man, however, is unfamiliar to her and she instinctively pulls back into herself, wary until she can size him up.

He sees her cautious expression and laughs. He points to a corner of the room where a large tub has been set up. The other brother is draping a blanket over a rope with an air of great exasperation.

“Do you want to wash?” The older brother asks her, then does a quick mime by rubbing his own shoulders and points at her. “Wash?”

Rowan looks down at herself. Her clothes are stiff with dirt from the road and dried salt from the sea. Her hands are also dirty, and she can’t imagine what her face and hair looks like. She nods, a bath sounds like a godsend right now.

The man smiles at her and turns to his brother. “She says yes.” His tone has a blatant undercurrent of ‘I told you so’.

The other rolls his eyes and huffs. “I still don’t see what the point of this is.”

“Because, Sigurd, she is a young woman who probably doesn’t want to bathe in front of a pair of strange men.”

“What does it matter?” Sigurd shrugs. “She’s probably just a slave.”

His brother looks at her with an assessing look. “Ivar doesn’t treat her like one.”

“Ivar?” Rowan interrupts.

Both look at her, and Sigurd smiles and addresses her like one would a very slow child that’s said its first word. “Yeeees, that’s right. Ivar, my insufferable little brother who showed up with a strange little Christian and then ran off and left us to figure out what to do with her.”

Rowan is beginning to understand why Ivar doesn’t talk about them much.

“I am Ubbe, and this is Sigurðr” The one called Ubbe explains, pointing at each of them in turn. They seem to have decided that she both doesn’t understand their language, and is extremely stupid. To be fair, they might not be that far off with the latter assumption.

“Ivar is outside.” Ubbe continues, pointing to the door.

Rowan nods her understanding. Ubbe has to catch her by the elbow when she stands up; she’s still feeling a little dizzy, but he just smiles and leads her to the large tub.

The temperature of the water is perfect, steaming but comfortable. She really is grateful for the effort the two have put into it. Indoor baths are likely very rare even here in the summertime since the water outside is both a bearable temperature and doesn’t require hauling and heating buckets and buckets of water. The chance to soak in hot water, however, is a welcome treat after days and days on the sea.

The curtain is drawn and she pries herself out of the layers of salt-stiffened fabric. The water wraps around her like an embrace and soothes away her various aches and pains. They have even provided a bar of some sort of soap that feels surprisingly gentle on her skin, unlike the often lye-heavy soap she’s grown used to.

When she’s finished she dries off with a piece of cloth while she glares at her discarded clothes, willing them to become clean through sheer force of will. A hand suddenly appears over the top of the curtain, wiggling some garments side to side to entice her to take them.

They are men’s clothes, a linen shirt and a pair of simple linen pants with drawstrings at the waist and ankles. Ubbe has done his best to find something that she can wear comfortably from a cabin inhabited solely by tall men. The shirt is more like a dress on her and the pants, which would likely be knee-length and worn as an undergarment by their owner, are like capris on her small frame. Her kerchief is relatively clean, at least enough that she doesn’t mind putting it back on to cover her wet and tangled hair.

Sigurd takes one look at her when she emerges and bursts into laughter. Ubbe pushes him roughly, but struggles to hide his own grin. Rowan narrows her eyes at them, unamused.

“You look good.” Sigurd says, swatting back at his brother in defense. “Much better than Hvitserk did anyway.”

This is apparently a hilarious statement, because Ubbe gives up on his restraint and starts to crack up. Rowan’s eyes become slits, rethinking her policy on not hitting strangers.

“Are you hungry?” Sigurd asks, gesturing towards the table where she last saw Ivar. It has been laid out with bowls and spoons. A large pot over the fire bubbles with some sort of stew. Hunger outweighs her annoyance and Rowan sits herself down with great dignity and waits for everyone to be served before planting her face in the food.

Figuratively speaking, of course. She has an all new appreciation for Ivar’s voracious appetite and lack of table manners when she first met him. She’s vaguely aware that the food is under seasoned and the bread suspiciously dense and flat, but she doesn’t particularly care as she sets about meticulously inhaling every drop and crumb before her.

The brothers, meanwhile, talk as if she weren’t there. Sigurd continues to expound on his grievances against his younger brother.

“It would have been nice if he had said something before running off like a baby.”

“He has a right to be upset.” Ubbe scolds. “He came back from losing our father expecting mother to be here to comfort him.”

“Yes, but mother is dead. Perhaps now he will have to grow up.”

The spoon slips out of Rowan’s hand and lands with a ‘Splat’ back in her bowl. In an instant she has stood up from her place and is running for the door. She is stopped in her tracks when two rough hands grab hold and turn her around. Ubbe looks down at her with a stormy countenance. Sigurd remains seated, but he has turned around and is also taking in her shocked expression. They are no fools, these boys. They instantly deduce the reason for her behavior.

“You understand us?” Ubbe asks.

“Let me go!” She yells, trying to push back against him. His hands hold her tighter than is strictly necessary. Her struggles only make him grip harder and she winces at the pain. “Ivar…”

“Ivar will live.” The sudden coldness in Ubbe’s blue eyes gives her pause. “You tried to trick us.”

“Some.” Rowan admits. “I speak some. Not all.”

“Why didn’t you say so from the start?” Sigurd seems far less affronted by her deception. She focuses her attention on him while still tugging futilely at the iron grasp on her wrists.

“I…” She’s not really sure. She had simply repeated what she had done with Ivar, disguising her level of comprehension in the hopes of gathering information about them. “I am careful.”

“You mean you didn’t know if you could trust us?” Sigurd asks, and she nods.

“What about Ivar?” Ubbe still sounds upset. “Does he know you speak our language?”

“Yes!” Rowan protests, a little offended herself at the suggestion. “We are friends.”

Sigurd lets out a sound somewhere in between a snort of disbelief and a guffaw, but Ubbe at least lets her go. She immediately moves to go outside only to be once again stopped by a wall of angry Viking.

“I need to see Ivar.” She says, clearly and firmly.

“And I said no.”

Rowan is beginning to find upright Northmen to be a lot more difficult to deal with than the sitting ones. Ubbe stands with his arms crossed like a lone centurion.

“First,” Sigurd says “Ivar doesn’t have friends. Second, if he were to have a friend it wouldn’t be a Christian girl.”

“Finally,” Ubbe interrupts, “What exactly did he say that made you decide to try and make fools of his brothers?”

Rowan bristles. “I never! I…” She realizes that she doesn’t actually have an explanation for her behavior. Ivar had said nothing, they had done nothing to justify her being dishonest to the men who have so far gone out of their way to make her comfortable. She hangs her head and shuffles back to the table where Sigurd has righted the stool for her.

Embarrassment gnaws at her. Ubbe sits too but has lost the jovial air he’d had before, staring into his bowl with a thoughtful frown.

“Why did you come here?” Sigurd asks.

“I have to.” She doesn’t elaborate, not wanting to admit that she was thrown out like a used rag. He asks her further questions about her family and she replies politely, casting furtive glances at the older brother all the while.

The story of Bothild’s parents cause raised eyebrows from both, and they share another one of those looks. It’s the silent communication that she thinks must be unique to siblings, to people who have shared the same blood, the same upbringing, the same influences. The wave of jealousy that shoots through her is acute and unexpected. For a while she can’t bear to look at them, going to gather her clothes for cleaning.

Looking around the single room, she spots a few of the brothers’ own things that have been left lying about and takes them too.

“What are you doing?” Ubbe looks genuinely confused.

“I will wash.” Rowan replies as she puts the pile into a basket along with the soap-like bar. “Where is water?”

Sigurd points at the door as if the answer is obvious, and Rowan rolls her eyes.

“Not salt.”

“Fresh water?” He clarifies. “I will take you. It is dangerous to be out in the woods alone.”

She had slept late. The early evening sun shines down through the trees, casting dancing shadows down before their feet and a soft breeze carries the crisp, clean smell of the sea along. It feels like she’s back on one of her old rambles again. The untouched nature feels like another world that closes in around her and fills her senses with the profound calmness of it, soothing her.

Sigurd takes one handle so they can carry the basket between them, but it’s horribly lopsided due to the difference in their heights and pieces of clothing keep falling out on Rowan’s side. It’s such a ridiculously mundane problem after the past week that she starts to laugh. At first, Sigurd looks at her like she might be a madwoman, but eventually smiles softly.

“I will say sorry to Ubbe.” Rowan says as she sets to work. “I angered him.”

Sigurd sighs. “Don’t worry about Ubbe. He’s had a difficult time with women lately. Only he doesn’t particularly want to be angry with them so he’s decided to be angry with you instead.”

“You are not angry?”

He shrugs. “I don’t really blame you. If Ivar were the only Viking I knew, I would be suspicious of all of us too.”

Rowan bites her lip, trying to gauge the wisdom of her next question as she rubs the dirt out of her dress. “You and Ivar. You are not close?”

“What, didn’t he tell you?” He asks, crossing his arms and leaning against a tree. “I would have thought he would enjoy telling you all about his terrible older brother who is so cruel to him.”

“You are not?” She tries to keep her tone curious but neutral.

“I do not like my brother, and he does not like me.” Sigurd says with finality, and Rowan finds herself once again compelled to back away from the subject. Still, it interests her how incredibly touchy the both of them are when talking about the other. Their ire is so quickly roused that it must be due to complicated and long-standing issues between them.

It is also interesting that Sigurd in no way seems like a boy who has recently lost his mother. He briefly explains the political situation to her and cautions her that the new queen, Lagertha, will likely want to meet her soon. Rowan doesn’t recall the name, but she does remember Oddune telling her about the woman who had led the Viking settlement at first. Considering the part she played in the marriage between Bothild’s parents, Rowan is curious what the woman will make of her.

When they return from the river Rowan hangs the clothing up to dry and, for lack of anything better to do, sets about cleaning the rest of the cabin. Ubbe remains brooding, but manages to mutter something about gratitude, waving off her own apology for her earlier behavior.

As it grows dark, the subject of where she will sleep come up. The brothers seem to feel that it is a matter requiring serious discussion. She is left feeling a little miffed as they talk between themselves, not bothering to ask for her opinion.

Since their mother’s death they have been nominally exiled to this former fishing hut. The two of them have been sharing the large bed, which isn’t unusual in a place where space and insulation in living quarters is limited, even for royals. With Ivar’s return and the appearance of a young woman, they are in a bit of a quandary as to where to put everyone. Ivar isn’t present to argue, so it is easy for them to decide that he will be taking the floor, albeit with a large pile of furs, blankets, and pillows for comfort.

The thing they are hung up on is Rowan herself, with Ubbe arguing that it really wouldn’t be appropriate for her to sleep here at all as an unwed young woman from an honorable family. Sigurd argues back that she’s already spent so much time with Ivar that her reputation will survive and continues that she can sleep on the floor as well.

“He may not even be back tonight. Even if he does, what’s going to happen to her?”

The last is said in a particularly nasty tone that Rowan doesn’t care to dissect as the fatigue has returned with a vengeance. With a yawn she leaves them to their debate and curls up on the makeshift pallet at the foot of the bed, pleased to find that it’s actually quite cushy. By the time the brothers notice that she hasn’t spoken for some time, she’s already snoring softly.

~…~

Ivar does come back sometime in the night. Rowan is woken by the sound of him pulling himself across the floor. He says nothing to her; is silent as he undresses, silent as he washes in the corner, and still silent as he settles in beside her. When he is finally still and the sound of his breathing grows even, she dares to open her eyes and peek at him.

He lies on one side, his back to her. His hair is wet and his skin glows bronze in the firelight, stretched over muscles that are rigid with tension. Something in Rowan makes her want to reach out, touch one hunched shoulder. Her hand even lifts, hovers mere inches from that skin, knowing that with the slightest pressure he will follow her silent appeal for him to turn and look at her.

Shame won’t let her touch him. Pride won’t let her be the first to break the silence. Her fingers curl back into her fist as she pulls away, turns to mirror his position.

They sleep that way the rest of the night. Back-to-back with one foot and a whole ocean between them.

~…~

In the morning Ivar is already gone, his spot beside Rowan already cold. Ubbe has gone hunting while Sigurd labors with intense focus over a pot of porridge.

She goes outside to gather the dry clothes, eager to be back in clothing that fits, and stops in the doorway as her gaze falls on a lone figure sitting on a rock, staring out to sea.

At first she considers ignoring him, still smarting from his cold treatment, but the same urge from the night before calls to her, pulls her to his side. She perches beside him on the sun-warmed boulder, sitting on her hands with shoulders hunched. Her discomfort only increases as he makes no move to acknowledge her.

They just sit there, neither speaking, a good half a foot between them. Rowan is struck by the contrast between this moment and where they were just a week ago when they had spent the day pressed together side-by-side. Then it had seemed like they would never run out of things to say to each other, even with her limited ability to speak his language.

A dry laugh comes out of her, drawing Ivar’s attention. He raises his eyebrows at her, judging her for finding amusement in anything at this moment. It’s a sobering, aloof look that she can’t meet for long, forces her to look down at her lap.

“So,” He says with a bitter smile. “Are we not friends anymore?”

Rowan looks up at him, startled by the question. How could he ask that? She could have easily leapt off that damned cart and stayed in Wessex. She may not have chosen to leave but she had made a choice to stay with him because he was her friend; her only friend now. Is he being sarcastic, picking on her for daring to call him that before? Or is he just as bothered as she is by the new distance between them?

Rowan rests her chin on his shoulder, swallows her pride and whispers. “Always.”

Something that might have been a smile tickles at the corner of his mouth before he quickly recovers and wraps himself with a facade of seriousness.

“You seem to have no trouble making new friends.”

“Hm?” She tilts her head, still on his shoulder, and furrows her brow with confusion.

“I saw you yesterday.”

One eyebrow raises. Rowan tries to tilt her head more to see Ivar’s face better, but he stubbornly turns away so she can’t read his expression.”

“In the forest.” He clarifies. “With Sigurd.”

She shrugs. “Yes, and…?”

Ivar whips around to look at her, dislodging her and forcing her to lean back from the sudden onslaught of his anger.

“And? And?” Ivar shouts. “And what do you want with me now? Are you here just to pity the poor orphaned cripple?”

Rowan blinks slowly, a little stunned. “Why I pity you?”

Ivar blinks back, startled out of his rage by her question.

“You’re a prince. You have a home, brothers. Your mother and father, they keep you, love you. You have all this. What to pity?”

He turns away from her just as sharply, face crumpling with seething indignation. But Rowan chooses touch him this time, one hand rubbing circles on his back and the other tugs on his sleeve to try and make him listen.

“I sorry for your mother, but not pity. My heart hurt for your hurt. Understand?”

His mouth twists as if he’s preparing to spit on her words, but he only breathes with heaving, shaking breaths that move his whole body. When he reaches up to cover the hand that still holds his sleeve with his own, she knows that he’s begun to calm down. But then he reaches out, tries to brush a finger down her cheek. She shies away like a startled deer, scrambles to her feet and calls back with affected brightness as she prances away that he should come help her.

Ivar does follow her but only settles himself against the outside wall of the cabin to watch. He looks up at the high line sardonically when she complains.

“What would you have me do? Tie myself on top and hand things down to you?”

Rowan smirks back at him. “No, but I could put the basket on your back and you could drag it back inside like a turtle.”

His face falls into an unamused pout and she has to snatch the basket away when he reaches over to tip it into the dirt. They go in with only a brief skirmish over being the first to enter and settle down at the table for breakfast.

Ubbe has returned at some point with a pair of rabbits, and Rowan is acutely aware that he must have seen her and Ivar together at the water’s edge. Though both he and Sigurd watch their interactions closely, Ubbe’s gaze has a suggestion of wariness. It takes her awhile to realize that it reminds her of the way her own brother would watch her male friends sometimes, mistrustful.

“Who is she to you, Ivar?” Sigurd asks, apparently deciding that the atmosphere isn’t quite uncomfortable enough. “She’s not your slave, she’s certainly not your woman, so why did you bring her here?”

Ivar smiles ominously, rolling his head to examine Rowan sitting beside him. “She is… my person.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Sigurd hisses, suddenly bristling.

The darker brother grins at him, cheerfully popping a morsel of rabbit meat into his mouth.

“Yes, Ivar.” Rowan gives him a thin smile. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

He just shrugs his shoulders enigmatically and chuckles to himself while his brothers start to look a little nervous and Rowan squints her eyes at him in an attempt at chastisement that he happily disregards.

Ivar’s momentary good mood doesn’t last long. Rowan can almost see the moment that he remembers that his mother is dead and he retreats back into himself. The desire in her heart to do something to comfort him wars with the knowledge in her head that there is probably nothing she can do.

In the end he leaves to be alone once again and she finishes cleaning the cabin. In the process she finds several garments that need some mending, and she asks Sigurd for some sewing supplies. The fabric and workmanship put into their simplest shirt is as fine as any she had seen in Wessex. Only these clothes reflect an active lifestyle spent outdoors, and she can see where someone has already had to sew up small tears. Even for the most privileged sons in the village, something like clothing that takes so much time to create is used for as long as possible and never casually discarded.

Sigurd looks a little uncomfortable with all the work Rowan’s been doing, and she has to assure him that it’s no great trouble and that she only wants to show her gratitude for their hospitality.

Once again, Ivar returns in the night. He creeps inside under the cover of darkness and tries to remain as quiet as possible as he prepares to sleep.

Or Rowan assumed that he meant to sleep. Only instead of maintaining the No Man’s Land between them from last night she feels him slip up behind her under the furs. His hand softly grasps her elbow as he leans in, pressing his nose behind her ear and breathing in deeply as if trying to commit the scent of her to memory.

One stiff jerk of her elbow and he pulls back for a moment, only to lean in again. He mouths softly at the junction between her jaw and neck, brushing her hair out of the way with gentle petting motions.

Rowan swats him away as if he were a pesky fly.

“Rowan.” Ivar whispers, irritated but still mindful that his brothers are sleeping nearby. When she doesn’t respond he calls to her again, more firmly. “Rowan, can we at least–“

“If you not shut it and sleep,” She warns with a hiss. “I will sleep in the forest.”

He doesn’t respond, but his silence speaks volumes. With a huff and something that sounds profane he rolls away from her makes a great production of wrestling the blanket over himself and punching his pillow into submission.

Neither of them sleeps well that night. At breakfast they don’t speak or look at each other, a fact that seems to fill Sigurd with an unholy glee.

“Sleep well last night, Beinlausi?” He asks with a grin that suggests that he wasn’t the incident between them hadn’t gone unobserved.

That’s not what causes Rowan to look up at Sigurd and stare in shock. Ivar looks like he might strangle his brother and opens his mouth to speak but doesn’t get a word out before Rowan blurts out, “What did you call him?”

All three men look at her, trying to gauge whether she is surprised by the nickname because she understands the insinuation and is upset on Ivar’s behalf, or perhaps she only misheard.

“Beinlausi?” She asks Sigurd, disbelieving her own ears. “You call him Beinlausi?”

Sigurd nods.

“Ívarr hinn Beinlausi.” Rowan looks at Ivar, eyes wide. “You are Ivar the Boneless?”

She can’t breathe. The room feels like it’s closing in around her and she has to get out or suffocate. Before anyone can stop her she’s up from the table and out the door, fleeing from her realization.

This boy who has become her only friend; this young man who she had sex with in a moment of desperate grief; he is will one day conquer the world.

*.*.*

How did I forget?

Ragnar Lothbrok had several sons, Sigurd Snake-in-the-eye, Bjorn Ironside. But the fiercest of all was Ivar the Boneless. He nearly conquered all of England. Some say he did conquer Ireland, and that he and his descendants ruled over it for years.

It’s just not something that ever occurred to me. He seems so erratic. It’s hard to think that he could ever lead an army, much less successfully.

I have to try to remember. Remember as much as I can. If I’m going to survive here I have to try and be one step ahead of history.

History. I’m in the middle of history. I can’t help but wonder, is it really set in stone? Is Ivar destined to be a vicious warlord? How many people is he going to kill? How many lives is he going to trample over in his pursuit of power? And is there anything at all I can do to change it?

Chapter Text

The fresh air does little to ease Rowan’s gasping breathes and racing heart. She can almost hear it pounding in her ears as she crouches down on her haunches, head to her knees, to try and combat the wave of dizziness that hits her.

Ivar. Beinlausi. Ivar. Boneless. Ivar the Boneless. It keeps running through her head, but she can’t seem to get that name to mesh with the person she knows. What can she even remember from the stories she’d heard? Had her father tried to read to her about him from The Tale of Ragnar Lothbrok? What parts of the legends were true?

The Great Heathen Army. That’s right. The Vikings led a great army through England at some point. That was definite, they had historical records and archaeology to back it up. When did that happen? Would it be soon?

The sound of a throat clearing startles Rowan out of her thoughts and she looks up to see a tall, dark-haired woman in armor looking down at her.

“You are the girl who came here with Ivar Ragnarsson?” The woman asks in a curt, businesslike tone.

“Yes.” Rowan replies.

“Come with me. My queen wishes to speak with you.” The shieldmaiden barely waits for Rowan to stand before she sets off for the village at a brisk pace.

Rowan has to almost jog to keep up with the other woman’s long strides. Even just the set of her shoulders from behind says that any attempt at conversation would be unwelcome, so Rowan remains silent and prepares herself to meet the Queen. At least it’s an interesting view. The woman’s hair is braided into an intricate design that looks both impressive and impressively impractical considering that she must have to redo it every day.

They approach the massive longhouse that Rowan had seen when she first arrived, but do not enter like she expects. Instead she is lead to a much smaller cabin where two fully armored shieldmaidens stand guarding the doors. They step aside as soon as they see her companion with a speed and deference that indicates that the dark-haired woman has some sort of high position among them.

Inside Rowan determines that this is some sort of living quarters. It’s certainly far more decorated than the fishing cabin, but contains the same basic furniture. Looking around, she expects to see an elderly matriarch along the lines of Queen Elizabeth, only with more fur and braids.

There are two women in the room, one who appears to be another shieldmaiden with long blonde braids. The other, the queen who steps forward, is the furthest thing possible from what Rowan has imagined. Though she knows that the woman must be over forty, her face is young and her skin smooth. With her crown of golden braids, she has no need for one of common metal. Her bearing is proud and regal as she looks her over from head to toe.

“This is the girl who arrived with Prince Ivar, Astrid?” The queen asks.

The dark-haired warrior replies in the affirmative, casting a mistrustful glance at Rowan.

“I am Lagertha, Queen of Kattegat. What is your name?”

“Rowan.” She says without thinking.

Lagertha raises an eyebrow. “That is an unusual name, Rowan.”

True, even in her old life her name had been a little odd. “My father like a skald. I named for him.”

“And who is your father?” Lagertha smiles, a sparkle of amusement in her blue eyes.

With the opportunity to ingratiate herself to this powerful woman presented to her, Rowan jumps on it like white on rice. “You meet him, before me. Botwine. My mother Hildigunn.”

The name causes an instant change to come over the queen. Her face falls and she steps forward to hold Rowan’s face in her hands.

“Yes, I can see you speak the truth. You favor her greatly. When I heard of the fate of the settlement, I had not dared hope that she had been spared. Where is she now? Did she send you to us?”

Rowan shakes her head. “She dead. I was little. My father too.”

“You have no other family?” Lagertha looks at her with an honest sympathy that makes her feel vaguely guilty at the manipulation, but not enough to stop.

“None want me.”

The older woman gives her a soft, sad smile. “Then it is good you have come to us, Rowan Hildigunsdóttir.” She steps back. “We must find somewhere for you to stay here in Kattegat.”

Rowan frowns and points her thumb over her shoulder towards the door. “I am with princes.”

Lagertha’s smile this time is icy, without a trace of good humor. “Yes, I understand that you have been staying with the sons of Ragnar. But you must understand that, until other arrangements are made, it is my responsibility to see to your wellbeing. I cannot allow a girl under my protection to remain in such a situation.”

“They are kind.” She replies, filled with a sudden burst of loyalty and desire to defend the boys. “They not hurt me.”

“They are young men,” Lagertha says as if she were explaining it to a hopelessly naïve child. “And young men do not always remember to treat pretty young women with the proper respect.”

She reaches out to tip Rowan’s chin up with two fingers, proudly lifting her own head to match.

“You are a Viking woman now, Rowan, and Viking women do not allow men to treat them with anything less than they deserve.”

This conversation is getting a little heavy for Rowan’s taste. She has to restrain herself from leaning back away from the queen’s piercing gaze. Lagertha notices this and releases her, gesturing to the blond shieldmaiden to bring her a fur collar which she dons, fastening a gold chain to keep it in place.

“Come. I must handle some matters with my people. I will present you to them after.”

Rowan ends up following Lagertha, Astrid, the other shieldmaiden, and a boy who looks to be a little younger than Bothild. They stride into the Great Hall amidst applause while Lagertha smiles and nods benevolently. Ubbe and Sigurd are there, and look surprised when they see Rowan tagging along behind their father’s first wife.

When she ascends to stand before her throne, Lagertha’s two warriors take stances at the base to her left and right. The boy steps off to one side, but Rowan hesitates, unsure of her place here. The blonde notices and gently takes her by the wrist, pulling her to stand near her.

“Today marks a new dawn for Kattegat. For all of us.” Lagertha begins in a clear voice. She continues by speaking of King Ragnar’s uncertain fate, and reveals her plan to build fortifications to protect Kattegat. There is a great shout of agreement to this, but all merriment dies when a lone figure forces them to part before him.

A thumping sound rings through the hall as Ivar drags himself across the ground with two spikes. If it weren’t for the expression on his face Rowan would laugh at the sheer melodrama. His brothers put down a stool for him so that he can sit before Lagertha. Despite Ubbe’s attempts to calm him, Ivar accuses her of murdering his mother in cold blood and challenges her to single combat.

“I refuse to fight you, Ivar Ragnarsson.” Lagertha responds in a voice pitched loudly enough for all to hear.

“Why?” He demands.

“I don’t want to kill you.” She replies simply.

Ivar chuckles contemptuously. “Who says you would kill me?”

“I do.” Replies the queen. Despite her bias toward Ivar, Rowan has to side with the lady on this one. For all his bluster, this is a woman with years of combat experience under her belt, and Ivar has had little experience in an actual fight.

Even Ivar backs down from his challenge, though he covers it with a casual dismissal. “Don’t fight me, then. I don’t care. Just as long as you know that one day, I will kill you, Lagertha. Your fate is fixed.” He looks at Rowan for the first time since he arrived. “And she belongs to me. I ex–”

Lagertha stiffens visibly and interrupts him before he can voice his demands. “She is a freeborn child of Kattegat. She belongs to no one.” She turns her gaze to the people assembled. “This is Rowan, daughter of Hildigunn Olafsdóttir, and she has been returned to us after these many years. Does anyone here know of any family that can claim her?”

The people whisper amongst themselves. One man speaks up. “My queen, I remember Olaf. He came to Kattegat from far away to fight beside Ragnar Lothbrok. He had no family other than that which went with him to England.”

Lagertha nods in acknowledgment. “In that case, as there is no blood relative to take her in, I ask who amongst you will adopt this girl.”

“Adopt!?” Rowan can hardly believe her ears. Once again her life is being decided in front of her very eyes with absolutely no input from herself.

“It is our way” Explains Lagertha, “That no child remains without family.”

“But…” Rowan sputters half-heartedly.

“My queen.” The blonde woman, who up until this point has been watching her carefully, speaks up.

“Yes, Torvi?” Lagertha smiles at her fondly.

“I would take her in with my own sons.” Torvi continues to look at Rowan, gauging her reaction to the offer.

Lagertha considers this for a moment before nodding. “It would be fitting. Of course, no formal adoption may take place until my son returns from his raid, but I see no reason why Rowan may not reside with you in the meantime.”

Her son. Then Torvi is her daughter-in-law? A little frantic and desperate to slow the conversation to a pace she can more reasonably follow, Rowan blurts out the first thing that comes to her. “But, I’m Christian.”

The entire room quiets. The crowd looks at her like she’s just confessed to being a vegan. Ivar looks like he wants to take back any previous claims to knowing her. Lagertha takes this in stride.

“Of course, you have lived among Christians your whole life. Torvi will help you to learn of our Gods.”

“No.” Rowan hastens to clarify any misunderstanding. “I know. I’m still Christian.”

Glances are exchanged between Lagertha and Torvi while Rowan waits nervously for them to respond.

Torvi shrugs. “It does not matter to me.”

Her mother-in-law nods in agreement. “We have had Christians live among us before. As long as you are respectful towards our ways, I see no reason to object to your chosen faith.”

With a smile Torvi steps forward to embrace Rowan, whispering in her ear, “I have always wanted a daughter.”

Shell-shocked, all Rowan can think to do is pat the other woman on the back awkwardly. Lagertha hugs her as well, and the crowd cheers again as she welcomes her into the family.

Behind her, Rowan can hear Ivar make some kind of indignant sound. By the time she’s extricated herself from Lagertha’s strong grasp and turned to look, Ivar has left. Sigurd and Ubbe are still in their places at the front of the group. They look almost as bewildered as she feels. Does this mean that they’re going to be her uncles?

At the end of the meeting there is one last thing Rowan feels the need to address, something that she has wanted to say since Lagertha first mentioned her former husband.

“Queen?” She taps lightly on her arm to get her attention.

“Call me Lagertha, since we are to be family.”

“Lagertha, I want to say I sorry for King Ragnar. He was kind to me.”

Her mask of royal composure slips for a moment. She is obviously not indifferent to her ex-husband.

“You knew him?”

“Once.” Rowan replies. “He ask to see me.”

Lagertha regains her poise with a brilliant smile. “And now you are to join his family. It is a strange world we live in, is it not?”

Oh, if she only knew.

~…~

Torvi introduces Rowan to her first son, Guthrum, the boy who had walked with them to the Great Hall. He is the product of her first marriage, and Rowan is surprised to learn that he’s a little older than her. Apparently he is just a little bit of a late bloomer.

Torvi’s two children with Lagertha’s son, Bjorn, are much younger. The older boy, Erik, is still a toddler, and Refil is just a baby. They are both happy, chubby little boys who are easily amused by the funny faces she starts to make at them from the first moment she sees them. Erik shows her his favorite toy, a carved wooden horse, and she encourages him to show her what adventures it goes on while Refil tries to eat her silver cross.

She’s having so much fun playing with them that it’s actually some time before she remembers that Torvi had wanted to show her around the home. She looks up with a baby on one hip and a toddler clinging to her back like a spider monkey to find their mother standing back and watching them with a smile.

“I see I made a good choice.” Torvi says. “With so many working on the fortifications, it will be good to have an extra pair of hands to help with the children.”

Rowan nods while trying to pry Erik’s arms from around her neck. “I can do help. I like children.”

One of Erik’s little hands catches hold of her headscarf and pulls it away as he slides down her back onto the floor. Rowan doesn’t have the time to react before she sees Torvi’s eyes go wide with surprise. With a blush she tries to cover her scar with one hand while wrestling the scarf away from Erik with the other.

“How did this happen?” Torvi asks, gently pushing Rowan’s hand away so she can examine the raised, bumpy flesh.

“I fell.” Rowan winces and Torvi looks apologetic as her fingers trace the sensitive tissue. “It make me forget all before.”

The older woman makes sympathetic, soothing noises like she would to one of her own children.

“Torvi, why adopt me?” Rowan asks. She’s been desperate to know the answer for hours now.

Torvi seems suddenly very sad as she gently ties the scarf back over Rowan’s hair, smoothing her loose brown locks over her shoulders. “My first husband died with no honor. My marriage was supposed to bring my family prestige, and they were not happy to have me return to them carrying the child of a disgraced man. So I chose to marry the first man who wanted me so I no longer felt like a burden to them. It wasn’t until I met Bjorn and Lagertha that I knew what it was to have people who were willing to help me, to offer me a safe place to go no matter what.”

Rowan doesn’t know what to say. She can understand the sentiment, wanting to offer someone a comfort that you felt you had missed out on. It was what had drawn her to Ivar in the first place. She can’t find it in her heart to tell this woman that she doesn’t want to be here. Besides, she thinks, smiling at the little boy in her arms, it wouldn’t be entirely the truth anymore.

~…~

Sigurd brings her things from the fishing cabin that first day, coming and going with few words spoken, but aside from that Rowan doesn’t see the brothers for some time. They seemed to be avoiding the village for the time being. Rowan can’t be sure, but she suspects that they are waiting for the furor after Ivar’s public challenge to die down.

Torvi shakes her head in disapproval when she sees what little Rowan has brought with her, and takes her to the market in the morning to get some proper Viking clothes. Even for Rowan, who spent much of her childhood bouncing from one city to another as her parent’s work demanded, it is an impressive sight. Traders from all over Europe and Asia hawk wares from silks and spices to jewelry and weaponry.

She feels truly excited for the first time in a long while as she follows Torvi through the crowds of people buying and selling. Half the time she spends just admiring the incredible variety of the women’s clothes, how each one has decorated and accessorized to match their personal tastes. They’re surprisingly outgoing with her as well, pleased to show off the embroidery and strips of precious silk that line their dresses.

At the cloth merchants Torvi has her pick out material for new linen underdresses as well as the apron-like overdresses that are worn by the Northern women. As she looks through the selections of brightly-colored threads, her mind buzzes with ideas for embellishments.

The next stop is the jewelry merchants. It is here that Rowan discovers that Bothild’s old hairpin had actually been for a cloak. When she shows Torvi how she used to wear her hair to hide her scar, the woman insists on buying her one so that she can be more comfortable. She chooses the simplest one she can find, a simple stick of bronze. Torvi frowns at its plainness, but is insistent that, when it comes to the large, decorative brooches that will keep her new clothes in place, they must be expensive.

“It reflects on us. They show that we are of status.”

So Rowan can only stand by as Torvi buys two ornate tortoise brooches of gilt bronze to hold up her apron dress and a third tri-lobed brooch to hold her underdress closed at the neck. At least she agrees not to go all out on the chain that connects the matching brooches, from which will hang things like needles, scissors, a knife, and so on.

The woman selling the brooches proudly shows off the string of glass beads that connect hers. Each one carries a story of how her husband brought it for her through some improbable feat of daring and bravery.

She teases Rowan that, soon, she will have someone to bring her such things, and that is why Torvi has only bought the simple chain. Rowan glances nervously at Torvi, trying to see if this is true, but the other woman smiles reassuringly and admonishes the merchant to mind her own business.

When they get back, Rowan lays out her newfound wealth on her little bed, tracing over the intricate designs. She touches the small silver cross that hangs around her neck and marvels that women keep giving her these precious things. At what point did all of these people become so misguided that they actually like her this much?

~…~

Lagertha’s great project starts the day after she announces it. While she begins with just watching Torvi’s two boys, Rowan soon finds that other children soon gravitate towards her, pulled in by the promise of new games they’ve never seen. While their mothers are busy working, she shows them Hopscotch and Duck, duck, goose. When they’re worn out she instructs the quieter ones on the finer points of Cat’s Cradle while she sews her new clothes.

One day Lagertha sees Rowan helping to stitch up a wound on one of the workers. From that point she is often called upon to tend to various injuries. Though her knowledge of the herbal remedies used by the healers is shaky at best, a dislocated shoulder is a dislocated shoulder in any century, and that she knows how to fix.

She keeps herself so busy that she barely has a single waking minute where her mind isn’t occupied, and that is the way she prefers it. It is easy to stay cheerful when surrounded by dozens of shouting, laughing kids. There are a lot of them too. It seems like half the village is under the age of eighteen. The warm gratitude of their mother’s for keeping them entertained and out of trouble only feeds her desire to do more.

Only in the evenings when she writes in her book does she stop to think of Wessex and Oddune, and she finds herself writing less and less. It is easy to make excuses and put it aside for ‘next time’ when she has Torvi and Guthrum there, always willing to talk to her and help her improve her Norse.

Every night as they sit together, Refil already sleeping and Erik bouncing on his older brother’s lap, Torvi combs through Rowan’s dark hair while they talk. Rowan has never liked people messing with her hair, but she is at least willing to allow this. She draws the line at letting Torvi braid her hair into some pointlessly complicated design, no matter how much the woman wants to.

Despite the closeness they develop, Rowan can’t help but keep an emotional distance between herself and Torvi. She knows that the woman senses this, and is a little hurt by it, but Rowan doesn’t want her to get the idea that their relationship will become something it can’t. What Rowan doesn’t expect is for her to openly address it. But that’s exactly what she does, late one night as they lie in the large bed, Refil sleeping between them.

“You will never think of me as a mother, will you?” Torvi whispers so as not to wake the baby or the other two boys in their smaller bed across the room.

It takes a while for Rowan to recover from the surprise of the other woman’s candor. When she finally does, she discovers that the main emotion she’s left with is relief. It feels good to no longer feel like she’s trying to hide something.

“I had a mother.” She replies. “No one could replace her.”

Torvi gives a soft sound of understanding. “I understand.” She says after a moment of thought. “Perhaps, instead of a mother, you might think of me as an older sister instead?”

“I’ve never had an older sister.” Rowan considers aloud. That doesn’t sound so bad. She could respect an older sister the way Torvi deserves, while not feeling disloyal to her memories of her mother. “I think… I could accept that.”

~…~

Before she knows it two weeks have passed. Torvi has started to cast worried glances in her direction and make ‘suggestions’ that she might like to take a break from helping to do something just to amuse herself. Rowan shrugs it off until one day, while sorting through a chest of clothes Guthrum has outgrown, she finds herself struck by an idea.

She finds a shirt that has worn through at the elbows and was set aside to be remade into something else. Looking it over, she thinks that it wouldn’t be too difficult to remove the sleeves and add laces. Rummaging through the chest she pulls out a pair of the linen, knee-length breeches like the ones that Ubbe had lent to her before. They are meant to fit loosely, but this pair would fit her fairly snuggly. Together, she could make herself a halfway decent and comfortable swimming costume.

Torvi is puzzled as to why she would want to make such an outfit, but otherwise tells her to do what she wants with the clothes. If anything, she seems pleased that Rowan is showing signs of being more than a mindless worker bee. The family’s clothes have never been in such good shape. She’d even started to catch Rowan eyeing Lagertha’s clothes with a slightly demented interest that makes her slightly nervous.

It only takes Rowan a few hours one evening to make her alterations to the shirt, creating a close fitting vest that she can easily remove or adjust with the front lacing. Even better, she can wear her ‘swimsuit’ under her dress so she won’t have to try to change out in the open.

The only thing left for Rowan to do is to find a body of water that is big enough for her to really stretch out in. At least once a week most of the women in the village gather to bathe in the river, but it’s not an ideal location for swimming. Once again, she consults Torvi, who tells her that there is a large lake quite close to the village. It’s not used for bathing because of its depth, it’s far easier to go to the river where the little ones are safer.

With directions to the lake and her swimming clothes donned, Rowan sets off one bright day, excited at the prospect of once again diving into the water and getting her freestyle on.

*.*.*

Ivar has seriously stuck his foot in it. I can’t believe I thought his stupid was somehow limited to when he’s around people who don’t have an entire village ready to bitch-slap him the moment he makes a wrong move. Yes, I understand that revenge is a big part of this culture. I’m still not sure why Lagertha hasn’t had to at least pay a wergild for killing his mother, but since literally NO ONE else here is going to enforce it I would have thought he would be smart enough not to come right up to her and tell her TO HER FACE that he’s going to kill her.

~…~

Technically speaking, I’m the theist offspring of an English atheist and a Norwegian agnostic who was baptized Anglican – because grandmother insisted on it – who has general good feelings towards the teachings of Christ, which can pretty much be summed up as “Be excellent to each other.” What I specifically believed in never really mattered growing up.

Maybe I’ve chosen to see myself as a Christian because Oddune did. He always said that to understand the substance of faith one must look, not to the clergy or the most privileged, but to the poorest.

Living here, I can see how faith can be a necessary part of life for the average person. What else can keep you going when you’re faced with a daily struggle for survival and never ending death if you don’t believe that there’s some kind of reward in the end?

I don’t think I can really believe in nothing considering the fact that I’m here. Transmigration of the soul makes belief in some kind of a higher power sort of a given. Who or what I believe in specifically is harder to say. I’ve spent too much time studying science to accept the majority of the world’s explanations for the existence of man.

I think, maybe, I want there to be a reason why I’m here. It would be easier to swallow if it were all part of some greater plan, rather than some Random Act of Random.

~…~

How would I act if it were my mother? Maybe it’s just that I’ve never been a very confrontational person. Maybe it’s just something that you can’t understand unless it happens to you.

I haven’t seen him or his brothers for days now. I mentioned that I wanted to visit them today and Astrid looked like she was going to lay an egg. Torvi was at least diplomatic about basically saying that it wouldn’t look very good if people saw me being friendly with them right now.

What I wanted to say was, “Fuck all of you, Ivar’s my friend and I’m not a part of this so don’t try to drag me into it.”

What I actually did was nod and go back to eating my chicken.

Coward.

Chapter Text

The calm surface of the water is broken with a great splash as Rowan does a swan dive from a boulder into the lake below.

It’s so peaceful underwater. It’s so clear that she can easily make out the plants and stones that make up the terrain of the lakebed. Her lungs start to burn from the rising carbon monoxide in her blood, forcing her to make for air long before she would have liked.

She surfaces with an exultant gasp, taking some time just to float there and let the water hold her. The sun shines down on her face, the lake is cool on her back, soothing and calming her the way it always used to.

When she finally begins to swim, she goes slowly and makes sure to keep her technique perfect while she warms up. Even though she tried to do as much as she could in Wessex, she was severely limited when it came to space and time.

Now she has both. Torvi is an unusually permissive guardian, encouraging her to explore her own interests. Rowan supposes that it’s a benefit of being attached to the royal family, there is a lot of work that she doesn’t have to worry about. Still, she reminds herself to not let herself become complacent and slip back into old habits, letting the people around her do everything for her.

Rowan’s muscles aren’t used to this kind of work. After a few minutes she realizes that, no matter how much she’s enjoying herself, she has to pace herself or she’ll end up injuring something. When she can sense that she’s reaching her threshold, she sets back for the shore.

She’s so focused that it isn’t until she stops swimming and wipes the water from her eyes that she sees that she’s not alone anymore. Ivar is sitting on the pile of rocks where she left her clothes and has been watching her.

With a grin, she paddles to where one of the stones juts out into the water. “Hello, Ivar.” She says, resting her chin on her forearms and smiling. She takes a moment to just enjoy the sight of him after so long.

He doesn’t respond, only looks at her with a carefully neutral expression.

“I missed you.” Rowan offers, only now realizing how much she means it. Despite Ivar’s many faults, or perhaps because of them, there is no one else here that she can be with and still feel just as relaxed as if she is by herself.

“You could have come to visit.” He mutters, now looking downcast and sullen.

“Torvi said it would not be a good idea.” She tries to explain. “If I upset Lagertha…”

“Their feelings mean more to you than I do?” Ivar interrupts.

Rowan blushes and hides her face in her arms, suddenly ashamed. He’s right. She hasn’t been thinking of what it would be like for him to have her disappear like that. This was why he was good for her. She needed someone to remind her when she was being a selfish hag.

“You’re right.” She looks him in the eye and admits. “I’m sorry.”

Ivar appears shocked at her apology. He blinks at her dumbly for a minute before regaining his poise.

“I forgive you.” He says magnanimously. When Rowan grins happily in response, it’s his turn to blush and look away. For a while all they do is sit there while she grins at the shy little smiles he casts in her direction.

“Come join me.” She asks.

His cheer fades instantly. “I can’t.”

“No matter.” Rowan shrugs. “I can teach you.”

His scowl deepens. “Aren’t you listening? I can’t!”

After having such a good day so far, his harshness is like an ice cube down Rowan’s shirt. At first she’s disoriented by the sudden force of it, until she sees the way he’s sitting, legs bound together and stiff, and remembers.

Cocking her head to one side, she ponders this new information for a moment before shrugging again as casually as possible. “Leg’s aren’t needed to swim. I can still teach you.”

She’s surprised him again. She almost wants to start keeping a record, because Ivar the Boneless’ shocked face is truly worth remembering.

“No!” He blurts angrily.

Rowan sighs. Alas for Ivar, she has made up her mind. Being able to swim is not only an important skill, it could actually help improve his overall physical condition. It’s for his own good, really.

It’s to her benefit that she’s below him. It’s easy to look up at him through her damp eyelashes, eyes widened slightly and mouth pouting.

“Please?” She asks, voice carefully tailored to convey just the right blend of hurt and hope. “For me?”

He doesn’t stand a chance. It’s a look that was honed to perfection on that pinnacle of cold and reserved emotion, the upper-class British aristocratic scholar. It’s a look that has gotten her out of innumerable time-outs, groundings, and possibly one or two minor felonies.

“I… suppose…”

“Yay!” Rowan cheers, throwing her hands in the air.

Reluctantly, Ivar removes his boots and shirt while she covers her eyes dramatically. When it comes to his trousers and the belts binding them together, he hesitates once again. He glances nervously between his legs, the water, and Rowan.

“Pfft.” She rolls onto her back casually. “I seen the inside of my own leg. After that, your emaciated arse is hardly distressing.”

Staring at the sky and paddling in a circle, she can’t see Ivar’s reaction, but she does hear him mutter something about her Norse being much improved.

“Guthrum is a great help.” She says sunnily.

“Guthrum is a smooth-faced vargdropi.” Ivar snaps back.

“That is interesting coming from you, skegglausi.”

There is a growling sound from Ivar’s direction. A splash signals his entrance into the water and a hand reaches out to try and grab Rowan’s ankle. With a laugh and a kick she propels herself out of his reach.

Her goal of getting him into the water achieved, she has to wait for the anxiety of being in the water to soothe his ruffled feathers before she approaches again. He clings to the overhanging rock for dear life, which really does nice things for his arms and…

Rowan shakes herself out of that line of thought hastily. She reaches out her hands, beckoning him to take them. Ivar looks at them as if she were offering two red-hot branding irons to him.

“Ivar, do you trust me?”

“No.”

It really is like dealing with an overgrown toddler. Same favorite word and everything. So that is the way she approaches him, gently taking one forearm and coaxing him to let her support him.

“The first thing you learn is to float.”

It’s the way her brother taught her when she was little and afraid of water. He’d held her there in the water, instructing her how to relax every muscle from her head to her toes. At some point, he’d lowered his arms just an inch. She’d been so soothed by his voice that she hadn’t realized that she was floating until he had told her.

Now, with Ivar, Rowan can feel it herself when he starts to relax as she tells him to close his eyes. It’s more difficult for him to float due to his having very little body fat and a great deal of muscle, but he’s a fast learner and listens well when she tells him to adjust his position.

Once he realizes that it’s possible, a pigheaded determination sets in. Rowan has to practically put him in a headlock to keep him close by and remind him not to get overconfident. It isn’t until hours later when they are both exhausted that they finally help each other out of the water.

“I’ve never felt anything like that before.” Ivar marvels as they lie on the rocks, sunning themselves like a pair of lizards. “Like my legs weren’t holding me down.”

“Having strong arms will help.” Rowan replies.

In his linen underpants, his legs are bare to the knee. Rowan is interested to confirm that there is no deformity other than a severe lack of muscle. Curious, she retrieves her bronze hairpin and gently drags the point over the sole of one foot.

“What are you doing?” He sounds annoyed, but not overly upset.

“Can you feel this?”

“Yes.”

She repeats this with the other, noticing that he twitches at the ticklish sensation. All the nerves seem to be intact. She lays back beside him, frowning as she thinks about the possiblities.

Hesitantly, Ivar props himself up on one elbow so he can see her expression. “Rowan, what does Beinlausi mean to you?”

Rowan sits up, hugging her legs to her chest while she ponders what to say to him. Ivar is unusually patient as he waits for her to speak.

“I don’t know.” She replies, biting her lip. “In your faith, can a soul return to Midgard and live another life?”

“Yes.” Ivar says, unfazed by the non sequitur.

Rowan is surprised by the simple response. It’s obviously not a strange concept to him at all, and it gives her the courage to continue. “Then, do you think a person could, somehow, return to a life they have lived before?”

He frowns, silently prompting her to explain more.

“I don’t remember from before this.” She gestures at her scar. He hasn’t spared a second glance at it this whole time. “I remember… a different life.”

It has occurred to her before that another way to describe her experience is that Bothild woke up from her injury that day with Rowan’s memories. It’s at least simpler than trying to explain time travel.

“A life from before?” Ivar asks.

“No.” She shakes her head. “A life from after. Long after.”

Ivar lays back down, contemplating this information before replying. “My mother had dreams of the future. Perhaps you are another kind of seer.”

Rowan flops back beside him in relief. He really doesn’t think she’s crazy!

“Did the other English know this?”

“No.” She shakes her head emphatically. “They would call me mad. I have to pretend I forgot everything. I didn’t even know how to speak their language.”

“How did you learn?”

“One man knew. He taught me everything but…” Rowan trails off.

“He is the one who died?” Ivar asks. She can’t respond, a hard lump having lodged itself in her throat, but he doesn’t need her to. Sometimes, silence can speak volumes.

Ivar becomes suddenly excited by some thought and rolls quickly to his side to face her. “Then, in your memories from this time to come, you heard my name?”

“Perhaps.” She says.

He grins. “When? How long will my name be remembered? What did you hear?”

Rowan sighs and turns to look at him seriously. “Stories. That is all. Over a thousand years after now people will speak your name, but remember nothing.”

He shrinks back in disappointment, but she continues to press her point.

“That is a legend. One story will not agree with another, and no one remembers the man.”

“But he is remembered.” Ivar protests.

“True.” Rowan agrees. “But I would rather be remembered by one person who knew and loved me than thousands who don’t.”

He snorts in derision. “You sound like a Christian.”

“Well, yes.” She retorts. “That’s because I am.”

They’ve managed to annoy each other once again. For once, Ivar is the first to try and resolve the tension by changing the subject.

“What is your name?”

“Uh, Rowan.” The ‘duh’ is heavily implied.

“I mean the name you remember.”

“Rowan.” She repeats. “I gave you the name I call myself. The people of Wessex called me Bothild.”

Ivar seems pleasantly surprised by this. “You told no one else? Only me?”

He’s feeling all special again, practically preening beside her. For all his volatile tendencies, it’s sadly easy to make him happy. Just a couple weeks ago he was threatening to kill a woman, which was frankly a little bit terrifying. Now he looks like a dog that’s been called a ‘good boy’. Rowan feels compelled to pet him like one too, running her fingers through his wet hair so it’s pushed back from his forehead.

“That looks better.” She says, admiring the new style. “You look less like an acorn.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Never mind.”

“Was that an insult?”

“Not entirely.”

Ivar grins at Rowan’s teasing with such openness that it’s almost blinding, his happiness as radiant as his anger is black. It distracts her, when his face suddenly draws closer to hers she almost doesn’t react in time to avoid his attempt to kiss her. In a flash she’s rolled to a standing position.

“Rowan!” Ivar immediately reaches out to stop her as she goes to get her dress, catching her foot in his hand.

She closes her eyes, trying to take deep, calming breathes through pursed lips and clenched teeth.

“I won’t…” His voice catches in a suspicious way that Rowan does her best to disregard. “I will stop. Just don’t go.”

She doesn’t want to be like this. But how can she explain to him that what happened before can never happen again, should never have happened in the first place. She doubts he would understand the concept that she’s been raised with her entire life, that it’s fundamentally creepy and potentially damaging for a 22-plus-2-year-old to have sex with a 16-year-old.

“I promise.” Ivar all but whispers. “Don’t leave me.”

“You promise?” Rowan looks back at him. She should cut him off now while she has the chance, but she did miss him. He averts his eyes and nods, embarrassed by his own neediness, but unable to stop himself. Her resolve crumbles. “Then I’ll stay.”

He obviously isn’t entirely happy with this, but is at least willing to accept her terms.

He’ll be fine, Rowan tells herself, he’s a teenage boy. She’ll come to visit him and his brothers, she’ll teach him how to swim, and soon enough he’ll find someone else to lust after and forget all about this little hiccup in an otherwise excellent friendship.

~…~

“What do you do to spend time?” Rowan asks as they make for the fishing cabin. Ivar had been insistent that she come back with him for the evening meal.

“Has Sigurd’s cooking improved?” She asked.

Ivar made a face and shook his head ‘no’.

“Well, with such a meal to look forward to, how can I refuse?”

He’d snorted in amusement as he finished buckling the belts back around his legs. Now he crawls beside her with a dexterity that surprises her. She’s never actually seen him do this before, and it’s a little troubling for her to see how he’s been forced to move about his entire life.

“I play Tafl, I wander. Sometimes I work in the blacksmith’s.” Ivar replies to her question, moving nimbly over the terrain.

“Really?” It’s a surprising answer. Rowan hadn’t ever thought of him as someone who had experience with actual work. Of course, from what she’d seen, blacksmithing was viewed by many to be a skill akin to magic. It would make sense that Ivar would be drawn to it.

“Come to the forge someday.” He says. “I will show you.”

“I will.” She agrees. If anything, it would at least be a unique experience to see Ivar somewhere where he’s actually comfortable.

When they arrive at the cabin, Ivar pushes the door open before them. Sigurd looks up from the fire, surprised to see her. Ubbe frowns from his seat at the table.

“We have a guest, brothers.” Ivar pulls himself onto a bench and gestures for Rowan to sit beside him.

She smiles at the older Ragnarssons. “Hello Ubbe, Sigurd. I’m sorry it has been long.”

Sigurd nods at her in greeting. Ubbe looks between her and Ivar, his body filled with tension as he takes in the way Ivar leans into Rowan’s space as he fills a cup for her before draping one arm around her shoulders. The drink isn’t the weak ale she’s used to choking down, but sweet mead. It’s delicious, and she has to keep herself from draining the cup while her stomach is still empty.

Her eyes meet with Ubbe’s. She can feel his suspicion and disapproval and tries to diplomatically nudge Ivar further away. His only reaction to her elbow in his ribs is to smile at her while his hand plays with a lock of her hair.

“Let me see if Sigurd need help.” Rowan says quietly as she gently moves his hand. He nods and gives her fingers a squeeze before releasing her. Ubbe watches her every move like a hawk as she goes to see if she can use what little Torvi has taught her about cooking to salvage the meal.

Sigurd looks up and gives a start, his eyes widening as they zero in on her scalp. With a flush and a glare she pushes him to the side so she can see what’s in the cooking pot. He continues to stare at her scar as she does her best to ignore him and focus on the food.

“How did that happen?”

Rowan turns on him, ladle clenched in a white-knuckled grip. “A fight.” She hisses out in a heroic feat of self-control. “With a bear.”

Ivar straight up guffaws. The sound sends a ripple of astonishment through the room. Rowan lets the tension drop from her and smiles back at him, bizarrely pleased that he remembers their joke. She waves the ladle at Sigurd and orders him to sit himself down.

She sets to work finding a suspiciously full container of salt and a few dried herbs that she can add to the stew. Behind her she can hear Sigurd ask Ivar in wonder if she really fought a bear, which sets Ivar into another fit of laughter.

“Who plays?” Rowan asks when they’re all finally seated together. She gestures with her spoon towards the corner, where she’d noticed a guitar-like instrument sitting during her earlier search.

“I do.” Replies Sigurd.

Rowan smiles in pleasant surprise. “True? Will you play some?”

Sigurd nods, too distracted by the wonder of seasoned food to give a proper response. Ivar, though, frowns and is beginning to visibly sulk.

Ubbe leans back from the table, arms crossed over his chest, and points at Rowan and Ivar’s wet hair with his chin. “What have you two been up to?”

“Swimming.” Ivar replies, suddenly perking up. Sigurd chokes on his bite of food and Ubbe leans over to pat his back while looking at Ivar as if he’s pretty sure his brother is joking but can’t be positive.

“You don’t swim.” Sigurd smirks when he’s finally regained control. “You don’t even bathe in open water.”

“Rowan is teaching me.” Ivar’s smile is tight-lipped and humorless.

“I’m impressed.” Sigurd turns to Rowan. “You must have a great deal of patience to try and teach anything to Boneless.”

Ivar’s teeth are beginning to grind together. “Don’t call me that.”

Rowan leans over to Ubbe on her left as the argument continues. “Are you going to finish that?” She points hopefully at his half-full bowl of stew.

Ubbe raises an eyebrow but pushes the bowl towards her. She gives a happy shimmy and starts to eat again while carefully dodging Ivar’s wild gesticulations.

“Are they always like this?” She asks Ubbe curiously.

He glances between his younger brothers, still leaning back comfortably, and responds with a shrug and a facial expression that says, “Eh, pretty much.”

Rowan sucks on her spoon thoughtfully as she looks between the belligerent pair. “Are you going to stop them?”

Ubbe shrugs again. Apparently he’s mostly thrown in the towel with these two. As long as they haven’t escalated to the point of breaking objects or each other he has little interest in wasting his energy. Rowan watches in amazement. True, she and her brother had been unusually close, but even by normal standards the sibling relationship on display before her is horrifying.

“Were you going to play the…” Rowan ask Sigurd loudly, motioning to the instrument in the corner, hoping that she can distract them.

The boys turn to her, briefly annoyed by her interruption. Sigurd finally supplies the word she’d been searching for. “Oud. It is called an oud.”

“Oh.” It’s not an instrument she’s heard of before. At least the question has ended the fight for now.

Rowan moves to sit beside Sigurd as he begins to play, taking her cup of mead with her. She’s always admired people who can play an instrument. She’d tried to learn piano, but had never had the patience to do something that took time and practice for her to be good at. The song he plays is jaunty, and she nods her head to the beat and hums along as she starts to catch on to the tune.

“Does it have words?” She asks him, and he begins to sing. The song is about his own grandfather and namesake, the hero Sigurd who slayed a dragon.

*.*.*

Ivar watches them, expression gloomy as he sees Rowan showing interest in his brother’s passion. A muscle twitches in his jaw when she starts to try and sing along. He hasn’t heard her sing since the nightmarish voyage from England, when the sound of her voice had been a lifeline he had clung to amidst the waves. He wants to reach into her throat, take that sound before it can pass her lips, put it in a jar and bury it in a hole where only he can ever find it.

Ubbe has been watching him, watching them since they stepped through the door, but he can’t bring himself to care what his older brother thinks of his inability to take his eyes off of his little person.

“Be careful of her, brother.” Ubbe murmurs to Ivar so that only they can hear. Ivar rolls his head to look at him with exasperation. “She’s in Lagertha’s control now. She will not choose you over a family and safety.”

“Like Margrethe?” Ivar shoots back. Ubbe winces, the blow hitting its mark with deadly accuracy. “Rowan is nothing like that slave.”

“What is she like?”

Ivar turns back to the girl in question. Sigurd is trying to convince her to try the Viking style of singing from the throat.

“I can’t make that sound.” She protests. Her wide, full lips are parted in laughter. Her cheeks are pink and her eyes bright.

“She is…” Ivar pauses. “Not afraid.” He finishes.

The first time he saw her she had been. He’d seen fear her eyes before she’d turned tail and run, but not because of his legs. Over the years, he’d become an expert at seeing the revulsion that people tried to hide when they saw him. That look has been completely absent from Rowan, even when she saw his bare legs earlier.

This is what Ubbe doesn’t understand. He’s only seen her soft English eyes, he doesn’t realize that her bones are made of Viking iron.

When Ivar has been angry and raged, she never cowers or tries to placate him. She refuses to lower her expectations of him because he’s a cripple. She treats him as if he were a normal man.

Ivar doesn’t want her to see him as a normal man, he wants her to see him as a special man. Her man. But after the incident earlier, he has to accept that she never will.

At first, he’d been confused by the way she would freely touch him, and then immediately become cold or upset when he tried to take it further. Now he understands, his worst fears confirmed.

He’d fucked up that last night together in Wessex. Even if his prick had worked, he’d apparently been such a horrible lover that, now, she doesn’t even want to speak of it. He failed with her just as surely as he’d failed with Margrethe.

Only this is Rowan, who makes him laugh and confused and thoughtful. And he is pathetic and desperate enough for her company that he’s willing to let go of the memories of the scent of her hair and the warmth of her body if it means he can be near her, see her smile, talk to her, and hear her tease him.

When she touches him, it must be out of a sisterly affection. She had told him once that she had an older brother. Only with what she told him of her memories, he realizes that this brother is likely lost to her. If that is what she needs from him, a brother, he will become that. Ivar is the youngest of five boys, and he tells himself that he likes the idea of a younger sister, that it will be enough, that his heart doesn’t hurt.

Ubbe brings Ivar out of his thoughts with more of his cynical nonsense.

“I only want to know what she wants from you, Ivar.”

What does his brother know of the relationship between him and Rowan? He’s certainly never been friends with a woman. Of course he would immediately assume that she is some sort of social-climber, trying to use the poor crippled prince to advance her station in life.

“Is it so hard to believe that she wants to be my friend because she likes me?” Ivar asks.

Ubbe looks briefly ashamed, but Ivar waves away any attempt to retract his words. They both know that’s exactly what he meant.

“Ivar.” Rowan’s voice breaks through into their discussion. “You saw Odin?”

He surmises that Sigurd has been trying to impress her. He looks distinctly annoyed that she isn’t fawning with admiration at the tale of their visits from Odin.

“He came to tell us of father’s death.” Ivar explains.

She raises an eyebrow skeptically. “Did he tell you about the pit of snakes?” Her tone is sarcastic, her comment meant to be offhand, but her words send a shock through the brothers.

Ubbe rises to stand over her, nearly shaking with pent-up anger. “How did you know about that? Who are you?”

Chapter Text

Somewhere, deep in the bottom of this cup of deceptively sweet-tasting honey wine, lies all of the shits I usually give.

Or so Rowan thinks, as she begins to realize that she just might be more than a little buzzed.

“Answer me!”

She flinches away from Ubbe’s shout, clenching her eyes against the pounding that has started in her head.

“Let her be, Ubbe.” Ivar growls and grips his brother’s arm, but he is shaken off.

“Don’t you see? She is a spy. How else could she know how father died unless Aelle told her beforehand?”

“I’ve never met Aelle.” Rowan mumbles as she peers into the cup in her hand suspiciously. “Ivar, did you put something in this?”

Ubbe smacks the cup from her hand, enraged by her lack of a reaction. “Look at me, you Saxon whore!”

Only her eyes move up to meet his gaze. Ivar sees the look she gives Ubbe, and tries to surreptitiously move the pitcher of mead and any other large containers of liquid out of her reach.

Ubbe sneers at her. “I knew there was something strange about you. Did you think you wouldn’t be found out? Did you think you could manipulate all of us as easily as my brother? You should have stayed in Wessex with your traitorous king.”

“Y’know.” Rowan smiles. “I’m growing rather tired of hearing people tell me where I should and should not be.”

Ivar speaks up before his brother has a chance to reply. “She is a spækona, Ubbe.” His exasperated tone suggests this is an obvious fact that everyone else must be a complete idiot to have not realized.

“What?” Ubbe asks in disbelief.

“She is like mother.”

“Do you really believe that?”

Ivar looks at Rowan and smiles ominously. “Yes, and I will prove it. Tomorrow we will go speak to The Seer.”

Rowan can practically hear the capitalization. Even in her current state, she notices that the noun he uses indicates that he’s talking about a man, which makes no sense. Men don’t practice that kind of magic.

Ubbe narrows his eyes at her. “That is a good idea, Ivar.”

Her jaw aches from the tension in it. A hand grips her shoulder gently. Beside her, Sigurd leans forward to study her face. “Rowan?”

“Please yourselves.” She spits out. The sensation of anger burning at the backs of her eyes is familiar. All she has to do is push it back. If she does she knows that, soon enough, it will be replaced with blissful numbness. She stands to leave, but Ivar stops her by grabbing her wrist.

“Rowan?” He asks quietly. “What is wrong?”

“I’m just tired.” She lies. “I’m going back to Torvi.”

“You will come with us tomorrow?”

Rowan nods, and Ivar kisses her fingers before releasing her. “Everything will be alright. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

~…~

Torvi is in a state between rage and panic when Rowan steps through the door. The older woman gives a cry of relief, rushing forward to clutch her in her arms.

“I was so worried about you!” Torvi looking her over for any sign of injury. “What happened? When you didn’t come for the evening meal I sent Guthrum to look for you.”

“I was with Ivar and his brothers.” Rowan mutters, head hung.

Torvi drops her hands from Rowan’s shoulders and steps back, looking positively stricken. “I thought you were going to stay away from them.”

Rowan shakes her head. Exhaustion reaches her very bones. There is no strength left in her to argue. “Please, Torvi. I’m no a part of this. Don’t make me choose.”

Torvi must see something in her face. She frowns slightly. Cupping Rowan’s cheek in her palm, she sighs in resignation. “Do they truly mean that much to you?”

“Ivar does.” Rowan replies. “I won’t hurt him.”

“Your heart is far too kind.” Torvi scolds. “I don’t know what you see in him.”

Half the time, neither does Rowan. Then he goes and remembers a dumb joke she made weeks ago and still thinks it’s hilarious. And then there’s clincher, the thing that pulls her back to him every time…

“He needs me.”

Torvi eyes her cynically. “Far too kind.”

~…~

It takes a horde of stampeding Ragnarssons to get Rowan out of bed the next morning. At least, that’s what it sounds like they’re doing. Torvi was letting her sleep in due to the migraine that had taken firm hold. The three brothers, however, have other plans.

“Good morning, Torvi.” Ubbe greets his sister-in-law politely. “We wanted to take Rowan for a walk around the village.”

“Get up!” Ivar brushes past him, making a beeline for the bed where Rowan is trying to block out all noise and light with a pillow. “What are you doing still in bed?”

“Mmmrph.” She’d hoped that migraines were a thing of the past, since she hadn’t had one while in Bothild’s body. She had been mistaken. It must have been triggered by the mead, because just the thought of the stuff makes her want to gag now.

“Get up! Get up! Get up!” Ivar leans his upper body over the mattress and bounces it up and down.

“Ivar...” Torvi tries to intervene. The prince ignores her, grinning like a fool as he carries on with his harassment.

Bleary-eyed and nauseous, Rowan pokes her head out and glares at him. At least the acknowledgement gets him to stop with the bouncing.

“I know where you sleep.”

Ivar pats her cheek. “Yes, and you are always welcome, but now you need to get up so we can go on our walk.” He stresses the final words meaningfully.

“You aren’t going away, are you?”

He shakes his head with a smile.

The other two brothers, in the meantime, have been negotiating with Torvi. She looks suspicious over their sudden appearance, but seems resigned to let Rowan continue to spend time with them. It is agreed that they can show her around the parts of the village she isn’t familiar with, as long as they return within a couple of hours.

Rowan finally drags herself out of bed and Ivar and the others step outside so she can get ready. Sigurd casts her a concerned glance when she joins them, but remains silent when she pushes past him and snarls a question at Ivar for his unabashed glee. Apparently he doesn’t get many chances to rub something in his brother’s faces these days. Even her terrible mood can’t take this moment from him.

Ubbe leads the way to the outskirts of the village. The Seer’s hut is set apart from others. Ivar tells her that though his power is respected, he is still an outsider due to a terrible sickness he has and for practicing women’s magic.

The interior of the hut is dark and eerie; the only light comes from the fire. All manner of strange ingredients hang from the ceiling about them. A cloaked figure hunches in one corner. He does not turn as they enter, but Rowan can see him tense up at their presence.

“Seer,” Ivar crawls to him, completely unbothered by the room or its inhabitant. “We have brought someone to meet you.”

“Indeed you have, Ivar Ragnarsson.” The Seer’s voice is deep and raspy. When he turns in their direction, Rowan takes an involuntary step back. The skin of his face looks like it’s been melted, sealing over his eyes. The overall effect is made all the more grotesque by the black makeup that is smeared over his fleshy, deformed mouth.

Rowan feels Ubbe move to stand at her back, as if she might turn and run. Maybe she should.

“We have questions about her, Wise One.” He says from behind her. “About where she has come from, and her intentions here.”

The old man’s laugh is a raspy, joyless sound. “I cannot say from whence she has come.” The Seer says. “But her soul has fallen between the branches of Yggdrasil.”

The brothers all look at each other. Even Ivar seems shocked by this statement. “What does that mean?”

“Ask her yourself.” The Seer replies. “She will tell you of her fall, of becoming shrouded by water. In the Well of Urd she swam, and when she emerged she was in a form and place she knew not.”

“It’s true.” Ivar marvels. “She told me that she has memories of a life she has not yet lived.”

“Is she a danger?” Asks Ubbe. It’s the only question that matters to him.

“A danger?” The Seer scoffs. “Hardly. She comes from a world where man has grown weak and soft.”

“I think you might have just contradicted yourself.” Rowan mutters in English. Whether or not the Seer understands the words, he at least recognizes the tone, and bares his teeth in a snarl of contempt.

“Her knowledge may be great, but her wisdom is little. She carries counsel within, but it will not come to full bloom for many years.”

Ivar leans forward eagerly. “Why is she here? Did Odin send her?”

“Her future is hidden from me. Her presence clouds my sight. Take her away!” The Seer turns his twisted face, gesturing towards the door as if Rowan’s continued proximity makes him physically ill.

Sigurd and Ubbe each take one of her elbows and rush to remove her while she casts one final, ironic look around the room and calls back to the Seer, still in English, “I like your International House of Woo.”

“BEGONE!” The shout trails after them, the brothers holding their hands over her mouth to prevent her from saying anything else until they are well away from the hut.

When they finally allow her to shake herself free from their hold, the whole group is silently contemplative. Ivar approaches, sits on the ground in front of her and reaches up to touch between her eyebrows where the skin wrinkles in a frown.

“What is the matter? It’s like I told you, everything will be alright.” He chides.

“I don’t feel well.” Rowan tries to be dismissive, but Ivar doesn’t accept it.

“The Seer’s words have distressed you.”

Sigurd shakes his head in wonder. “It is a strange fate the Gods have given you, but it shouldn’t upset you.”

“The Gods would not have brought you here unless they had some sort of a plan for you.” Ubbe adds.

“I don’t care.” Rowan’s voice is barely controlled, her hands in fists at her sides. “And I don’t need your kindness.” She looks at Ubbe. “My head hurts, I want to throw up, and I am done.”

She turns to leave. Ivar calls for her, but she throws up her hands and shouts back, “Done!”

~…~

“Are you feeling better?”

Rowan nearly jumps out of her skin. She turns from where she sits beside the lake to find Ivar, smiling tentatively. She nods and turns back to the bowl in her lap. It’s been a few days since the visit to the Seer. It took that long before the migraine finally faded and she felt up to returning to swim. Only this time, she has another plan as well.

“What are you doing?” He draws himself over to sit beside her. There is an unusual array of items around her. Eggs, a small jar of honey, a tiny bottle of scented oil.

“It is for wash my hair.” Rowan replies as she carefully stirs the mixture together.

“With eggs?”

She shrugs. “It works.”

“How do you know?”

“I read.” She sasses. The only response she gets is a snort of amusement from beside her.

When everything is combined into a slurry, she looks back at Ivar. He’s started to keep his hair combed back from his face. It gives him an older, more mature appearance.

“Would you like to try?”

Ivar is oddly flustered by her offer. He makes a visible effort to appear calm before asking, “Are you offering to wash my hair?”

Rowan shrugs again. “If you want.”

With an exaggerated air of indifference, he shrugs back. Rowan instructs him to remove his shirt and lie back on the rock so that his head hangs over the water. She rolls up his shirt and tucks it under his neck so he’s more comfortable before slipping into the lake.

He tenses visibly when he first feels her fingers running over his scalp, but he soon relaxes as he becomes used to the sensation. By the time she’s thoroughly saturated his hair with the egg mask, he looks like he’s about to fall asleep.

“Stay there.” Rowan tells him. Ivar’s eyes flutter back open as if woken from a dream. “I will wash it in a moment.”

It takes a lot more work to get her own hair completely covered. By the time she’s wound it up into a knot so that it can soak in, it’s time for her to finish rinsing out Ivar’s treatment. All the jokes she could make about fancy salons die on her tongue, knowing that they wouldn’t make sense to him.

“That other life,” Ivar asks as if reading her mind. “Would you rather be there now?”

Rowan sighs. Ivar’s eyes are closed again as she rubs her fingers into his scalp. He can’t see the way she frowns and purses her lips.

“I was… unhappy there. But I still miss my family. In a choice between whether to be unhappy here or there, it’s difficult to have an opinion.”

Ivar hesitates before asking another question. “Why were you unhappy?”

“You have a sickness in your body. I had a sickness in my mind. It was like a monster, lurking in the shadows. Or a thief, stealing all joy.” Rowan winces. She sounds whiny even to herself. She rushes to add, “It is difficult to explain.”

“No, I understand.” Ivar murmurs. His eyes gaze at some distant point in the sky. “Are there at least some things that you like better here?”

“There are.” Rowan admits. She doesn’t elaborate, and he doesn’t ask her to. “Come in. I’ll teach you more.”

It doesn’t take much to get him to join her in the water this time. He remembers the previous lesson well. By the time they finish, he’s started to swim very short distances between her and the shore. Every time he reaches her outstretched hands he comes up grinning in triumph. And if he still clings to her more than is absolutely necessary, Rowan only gives him the side-eye.

“Why were you angry?” Ivar asks as he starts a small fire to help her dry out her long hair. “After we met the Seer.”

Rowan blushes. She’s been trying to figure that out herself. First she’d had a migraine for the first time in two years and was being forced to go along with Ivar’s ludicrous plan. Then she’d met the Seer, who it was obvious to her was just another person like her and Oddune, but that he was using his knowledge to manipulate everyone around him. Then Ubbe had immediately believed all the mumbo-jumbo that had come out of his mouth, because, apparently, it took an Act of God for his brother to make a friend.

“People.” She finally says. “Just… people.”

Ivar looks up from the fire, considers this for a moment, and finally just gives a nod of, “Yeah, fair enough.”

~…~

The herbalists have once again sent her out into the hills looking for something-or-other that Rowan can only identify because they’ve given her a sample and very detailed directions.

The land around Kattegat is breathtaking. Like her Mormor’s home in Norway, the forest of evergreens gives way to rolling hills of green grass. Letting her hair down to be caught by the gently breeze, Rowan twirls idly on a hilltop. She skips barefoot towards the area that she’s been told she can find stalks of a purple, bell-shaped flower.

A song comes to mind. A folk song by a Norwegian group called Bukkene Bruse her mother sang for her when she was small. It’s bouncy and repetitive, and it’s fun to walk to the rhythm as she sings to herself.

Hot æ det for ein gangar grå - Målfrid mi fruve

Som kvar morgon framfor dynni står - Tora lill

Som kvar morgon framfor dynni star

Tora lille -Tora liggia luri

As she comes over the next ridge, she slows to a stop. Before her stand hundreds of stones placed in deliberate, oval shapes. There are at least half a dozen altogether, and Sigurd kneels before one ring, the smallest of all. He is looking in Rowan’s direction as she approaches, alerted to her presence by the sound of her singing.

“Hello, Sigurd.” She calls to him as she comes closer. He watches her with a somber expression, and she gets the eerie feeling that she’s somehow intruding. But he doesn’t act overtly upset over her presence, so she doesn’t hesitate to ask, “What is this place?”

“It is my family’s place of burial.”

Rowan halts abruptly, looking around her at the stones. Only now does she realize that they are laid out in the shapes of boats. Stone ships to carry their occupants on their final voyage.

“Oh, should I go?”

Sigurd shakes his head. “No. I wanted to speak with you, anyway.”

“About what?”

“About Ivar.” Sigurd remains calm, but there is a note of determination in his voice. “You need to be careful of him.”

Rowan rolls her eyes. “This again?”

“You don’t know him, not really.” He insists. “He may act like he cares about you, but he doesn’t.” He looks back at the stones before him. “I don’t think he’s capable of caring about anyone but himself.”

“That’s not fair.” She tries to defend Ivar, but Sigurd only grows more agitated in response.

“You’re not listening!” He stands up and comes closer to her. Rowan knows he doesn’t mean to be threatening, but the sudden movement causes her to instinctively step away from him. Sigurd stops and gestures behind himself. “You see this grave?”

Rowan glances over and nods.

“This is where our niece is buried. Bjorn’s daughter.”

She frowns. “I didn’t know Torvi had a daughter.”

“Not Torvi. She was Bjorn’s child with his first wife. She left them both long ago. But Siggy…” He looks back at the grave behind him. His voice is haunted. “Bjorn entrusted her to my mother, but she was too busy to take notice of her. She died, drowned. I was supposed to be watching her, but I was annoyed. She was so small…”

Rowan stands frozen. The thought of something like that happening to one of her cousins while they were in her care sickens her. “How old were you?”

“Seven years. Ivar and mother were together when I told them that I’d found her. He laughed.”

“You found her?” The image of a little Sigurd finding the body of his niece lodges in her mind. Her stomach roils and she winces at the sharp pain that rings through her.

Sigurd turns to glare at her. “Didn’t you hear me? When I told Ivar that our niece was dead he laughed. It meant nothing to him.”

“I heard.” Rowan whispers. Only she’d tried to pretend she hadn’t. She wants to tell herself that he’s lying, but the pain in his face is real. “What did your mother do?”

He scoffs. “She didn’t care either. She was too busy with her lover or drinking or taking care of Ivar to notice.”

“Or to care for you.” The realization comes to Rowan and tumbles out before she can stop it.

Sigurd stiffens. “I don’t need your pity.

“Oh for…!” She takes a deep, calming breath, asking the heavens, “Why do men always believe sympathy is pity?”

“Whatever it is, I don’t need it.”

“Bullshit.”

Sigurd blinks in shock at the profanity. Guthrum has been very helpful.

“I’m sorry you experience that. Not because I pity you, but because it causes me sick that any child could experience that and not have a mother’s love and support. You did not deserve it. No one does.”

He blinks again, as if this information is somehow new and profound to him. Rowan surveys his expression carefully. Has he really never had anyone tell him that? For a moment, she’s a little concerned he may actually start crying.

“Do you need a hug?” She asks tentatively. His eyes finally focus on her with a frown.

“What? No!” He clears his throat. “No. I just want you to remember what I said. Be careful of Ivar.”

If it will make him feel better. “I will remember.” She agrees. “If you help me find this.”

Sigurd takes one look at the stalk of flowers she holds up and smiles. “I know where those grow.” He says.

As Rowan follows him, she stops to take one final look at the field of stone boats, and especially the tiny shape that sits alone, a half-forgotten marker for a forgotten child.

*.*.*

Usually takes me 5 G&T’s before brain-to-mouth filter fails like that. Ivar covered for me, but not sure what’s going to happen tomorrow with Seer person. May need to formulate escape plan. Still, Ivar said he would protect me.

Head hurts. Sound hurts. Light hurts. Going to bed now.

~…~

Mood’s been more down than up lately. I’m scared.

~…~

My forefathers have come through for me! While knitting may not exist, I have learned that these guys have something that’s close enough called nadelbinden. Do you know what this means??!! I shall have MITTENS! Hallelujah!

~…~

Ivar doesn’t appreciate my excitement. But he’s a poopy-head.

~…~

Haven’t asked to Ivar about The Dead Niece thing. Not sure why.

~…~

Hello, Row, this is the little voice in your head that sounds remarkably like Ed. You know exactly why you aren’t asking Ivar about The Dead Niece. It’s because you know he has psychopathic tendencies and are trying to pretend he doesn’t.

As Ed would say, “On today’s episode of Armchair Psychologist, ‘Is There a Name for What’s Wrong With You?”

A question I ponder more and more. Ivar is obviously not what one could call well-adjusted. Comparing his stories about his mother with Sigurd’s is certainly eye-opening. I don’t like to make judgements about people I’ve never met. She probably did the best she could with what she had. It’s not like she had doctors and therapists to support her when Ivar was born. I don’t blame her for keeping Ivar so protected, but it really didn’t do him any good. He’s been spoiled and favored on one side, and completely isolated from normal experiences on the other.

But Ivar has struggles here that very few in my time would experience. It’s a harsh life, even for royalty. Everyone needs to work to keep things going, and a disabled child would be seen as a burden. It’s amazing his parents didn’t expose him at birth. Most would consider it a kindness.

The swimming will help. He never used his legs as a child, so I don’t know how much things can be improved now. But the water will allow him to work on those muscles without the danger of injury. Hydrotherapy was a big thing at Camp PT. Ivar hasn’t even noticed that he’s started moving his legs more during our lessons. I don’t want to mention it either. I don’t want him to get his hopes up. At least it might help with the pain. He hides it well, but I can see from the way he moves sometimes that it gets bad. I could try to do the massages I used for my leg, but I don’t want to push it with the touchy-touchy thing.

On the plus side, his hair is looking magnificent.

~…~

Endless questions about everything from everyone. I finally asked the brothers why people keep behaving as if I’m some bubbling spring of wisdom from the Gods. Apparently, everyone in the village is a hopeless gossip. That and Sigurd can’t keep his mouth shut to save his life. So now everyone thinks I have the knowledge of Odin Himself.

Yay me.

Torvi was upset again that I didn’t tell her before, but she understood when I told her that I was afraid of how people would react.

Then she told Lagertha, who has now been trying to keep me close by. Not sure if she really wants my input, or if she’s just trying to keep an eye on me. Astrid the Watchdog has been popping up constantly. I feel like I should assure her that I don’t hold the key to World Domination, and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell Ivar. The guy has enough weird ideas without me adding to the problem.

~…~

Actually, the more time I watch Lagertha, the more I question who is nuttier, Ivar or her. Note to self: don’t mention the bros’ mom in her presence, the look in her eyes was a little manic and entirely creepy. Still, watching her doing the Queen thing is interesting. I see why so many are devoted to her. She strikes that Elizabeth I balance between affectionate, lovable woman, and untouchable, aloof monarch.

Yesterday, a man wanted to divorce his wife because they only had daughters. The look on his face when I told Lagertha that the sex of a child is determined by the man was priceless.

And no, people, the uterus doesn’t wander around the body like a hipster European backpacker. That’s not how it works. As far as I know, that’s not how anything works.

~…~

I’ve been here two months. I’ve known Ivar two and a half months. It feels strange that there was a time when he wasn’t there, when I had to be on guard all the time. I tell him things I haven’t told anyone, even Oddune. I tell him that there was a time I struggled just to get out of bed, and the only reason I didn’t die is because I couldn’t muster the effort. He pats my head and tells me he understands, and that he will happily drag me out of bed anytime.

He needs me like no one ever has before. I know it’s my weakness. But I’m also afraid that he may come to need me too much. Is he expecting me to do something that is impossible? After sixteen years, what can I really change? There is only so much that one girl can do to help, you know?

It’s like he’s coming to me for shelter from the storm, but the rains already came long ago.

Chapter Text

“Good morning, Ragnarssons! I come bearing – whoops!”

Rowan has to do a quick tap dance the moment she enters the cabin to avoid a pile of flailing limbs. She manages to Frogger past them, holding the large basket of food high up to protect it from the angry, cursing young men wrestling on the floor.

Setting the basket on the table, she watches Ivar and Sigurd as they struggle and snarl at each other. Turning to look at Ubbe, who is sitting there and watching them calmly, she raises an eyebrow in question.

Ubbe shrugs. “They’ve been doing this a lot lately.”

“Oi!” Rowan snarls as one booted leg comes very close to colliding with her ankles. “Just because I like you two doesn’t mean I won’t kick you in the head!”

The two combatants stop abruptly, suddenly looking guilty over the friendly fire. They sit up, putting a distance between each other and glaring.

“What was it this time?” Rowan asks, but then holds up a hand. “Wait, I don’t care. I’m going to go swimming, Ivar. If you want to come along then hurry up and eat. These were baked this morning, and you should probably hurry before your brother eats them all.”

Ubbe is unashamedly stuffing his face with warm bread that’s studded with berries, glazed with honey, and now broken open and liberally spread with butter. This sight sets off another flurry of motion as his brothers hurry to grab some of the fresh buns for themselves.

“I can’t go with you today.” Ivar tells her around a mouthful of food.

“Oh.” Rowan frowns in disappointment. Ivar hasn’t exactly been avoiding her for the past few days, but any time she asks if he wants to go swimming, he finds some excuse not to. Still, he’s happy to join in any other activity she suggests, so she chooses not to complain. “Well, if you aren’t busy later, I have to gather some things for the herbalists.”

He nods. “Perhaps.”

“Very well.” She heaves a sigh and prepares to take her empty basket back home. “Please try not to kill each other in the meantime.”

Ivar smiles thinly. “Why don’t you eat something before you leave? Here, have some fish.” He holds out a plate of a gelatinous substance that sends Rowan skittering to the door with a wrinkled nose.

“Keep that away from me! Remember what happened the last time?”

Sigurd shudders and silently urges Ivar to put the dish back down. Their combined effort to prank her into eating some had ended tragically. First, she already knew exactly what lutefisk was, and they couldn’t get her to take a single bite. Then she’d gotten a whiff of the smell and Sigurd had to spend the next two days cleaning everything Rowan had ever eaten off of the floor. He’d been, quite frankly, traumatized by the whole event, and was still cursing Ivar for suggesting the idea in the first place.

His younger brother takes pity on them and sets the plate aside with a snigger.

“Come and eat.” Ubbe waves for Rowan to come back. In the past weeks, he’s taken to treating her in the disinterested yet caring way that has come naturally to eldest brothers since the beginning of time.

“I already ate.” She replies.

For some reason, the brothers seem to find this incredibly amusing. Rowan squints at them as they chuckle at her expense.

“Only once?” Ivar asks, grinning teasingly.

“Hey!” She protests, but it’s no use. It’s true, the Viking food has been agreeing with her, and her appetite has hugely increased to match the increasingly soft roundness of her cheeks and… other places.

Sigurd holds one half of a buttered bun out to her, his hand still shaking as he tries to restrain his laughter. It draws Rowan back to the table like a lure, and Sigurd takes great amusement in watching her eyes follow the bread as he moves it back and forth. He doesn’t stop her, however, when she finally snatches it from his hand. He just pulls the stool out beside him so she can sit comfortably while she enjoys her second breakfast and hums happily.

Ivar is, of course, noticeably annoyed that she’s not sitting in her usual spot beside him. Sigurd, also of course, notices his irritation and grins, draping an arm around Rowan’s shoulders the way he’s seen Ivar do so many times.

“What are you doing?” Rowan asks Sigurd around a mouthful of food, eyebrow raised.

“Nothing.” He tries to sound casual, but all she has to do is glance across to Ivar to see what’s going on. With a roll of her eyes and a sigh she takes Sigurd’s hand and removes his arm.

“Do not,” She says. “Do not try to use me to irritate your brother.”

Ivar’s face morphs into the most insincere expression of mistreated innocence that Rowan has seen since… well… two days ago, actually, which was the last time he tried to pull that on her.

“Rowan, you see how–” His tone is whiny and cajoling, but she remains unmoved and interrupts him.

“The same goes for you.” She stabs a finger in his direction. “You are just as bad as he is.”

With a shake of her head, she stands to leave. She’s dallied longer than she intended, and she will have to cut her swimming session short today. But she stops to give Sigurd a hug with one arm to assure him that she’s not really upset. Stepping to the other side of the table, she kisses Ivar on the top of his head and strokes his hair on the way out. He closes his eyes, and she almost laughs out loud at the way he pushes back against her hand.

“Ivar, I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this, but you’re not really a Ragnarsson. You were, in fact, switched at birth… with a cat.”

One bright blue eyes peeks open at her in confusion. Ubbe has to wipe a hand over his mouth to hide a smile.

“It’s true. You are, in fact, a cat.”

Picking up on the joke, Ivar looks distinctly unamused as he tells her, “Yes, very funny. You can go away now, we have important matters to discuss.”

Rowan pats his cheek and muses as she goes to leave. “And somewhere, the true Prince of Kattegat is out there, living the life of a feral tomcat.” She stops and turns once more at the doorway, eyes twinkling. “Wait… that’s about the same thing, isn’t it?”

“Get out!” Ivar snarls as she scampers off amidst a fit of giggles.

~…~

That afternoon, Ivar has no trouble finding Rowan. All he has to do is look for the large crowd of children that seems to perpetually surround her when she’s in the village. Today, she’s taken them to the apiary. They huddle around, eyes wide while she points out the different bees, and tells them how they tell the others where to find pollen through their funny little dance.

Much of Rowan’s time is spent like this, trying to keep them busy and out of the adult’s way as they build the defenses. At first she’d been trying to teach them some games, but they had all quickly grown hungry. The Vikings only eat two meals a day, one in the morning a couple hours after the start of work, and another in the late evening. But children’s metabolisms don’t always follow the schedule of an adults, especially after hours of running and playing. So Rowan had taken to making them afternoon snacks. A particular favorite was when she made sandwiches, something the little ones were as excited about as she’d once been over lunchables. Today’s menu had included MLC’s – mutton, lettuce, and cheese – and some wild berries.

Erik, mouth and fingers still purple from his dessert, is the first to notice his uncle’s approach. He tugs on Rowan’s sleeve. She smiles down at Erik and then in the direction that he points.

“Ivar!” Her smile blooms brighter at the sight of him. “Have you come to watch the bees?”

“No.” He replies from a safe distance. “Do you still want to go to the hills?”

“Oh, yes! I almost forgot.”

The children groan unhappily when she tells them that they will have to return to their mothers early today. One look from Rowan and the whining immediately ceases and they start to shuffle off, older children leading the younger ones by the hand.

“What did you and your brothers have to talk about?” Rowan asks Ivar sometime later after they have leisurely made their way to where she can gather wild plants for the herbalists.

“We are going to gather an army to avenge our father.” Ivar says. He’s been lying beside her, chewing quietly on a stalk of something. When he speaks, his tone is quiet, as if he’s trying to soften the impact of his words.

Rowan stops in the midst of cutting some scurvy-grass from between the rocks where it likes to grow. Her mouth is tense, but she says nothing, so Ivar goes on.

“My father told me that we are to get revenge on both Aelle and Ecbert. But to do that we need to gather an army that can fight against all of England.”

A Great Army. So this is how it begins? Rowan wants to protest, to tell him that vengeance will not heal the pain of his father’s death. But she knows that he won’t listen. This is something that is bigger than them. It’s a major historical event that will shape everything that comes after, and she’s just one girl.

“Are you going with them?”

Ivar makes an affirmative sound. He continues to watch her closely, trying to gauge her reaction. Rowan sits back on her heels with a sigh. Of course he is. He’s Ivar the Boneless. One day his name will be known and feared throughout all of England. But today, today he is a young man who has never seen a real battle, and she can’t help but wonder…

“Are you afraid?” She whispers.

“Of what?”

“Of dying.”

“In battle? No. In the storm, yes, I was afraid of dying. But I’m a Viking, to die in battle is the greatest end I could imagine for myself.”

Rowan wants to scream at him to come to his senses. This isn’t the person she knows. Is there really so much that he’s hidden from her? So much of him that is Viking? If only she could take every gentle, vulnerable part of him that he’s shown her and hold it close to her, protect it from the ‘Viking way’. It will surely end up taking either his kindness or his life.

“I don’t understand!” Her voice almost breaks. “Why? Why fight? Why put yourself in danger like that?”

“Rowan,” Ivar sits up and tries to pat her back in a way that he must think is comforting. “The only unchangeable fate that a man has is the moment of his death. If I am meant to die young, I will, and it won’t matter if I fight or I stay at home and hide from it like a coward. If I am meant to die an old man, then no blade or arrow will strike me down until the moment that the Norn have set out for me. Either way, I will die with honor on the battlefield, where Odin will send a Valkyrie to bring me to Valhalla.”

She scoffs, but he shushes her before smiling.

“There my body will be strong. The only pain I feel will be of my own choosing, when I fight with other great warriors for all eternity.” His gaze becomes distant, as if he can see the golden hall before him now. “That is where my father is now. He will be there to greet me at the gates, and I will look him in the eye and tell him that I fulfilled his final wish. We will drink together, tell each other stories of our victories, and we will never be parted again.”

The incredible conviction of his beliefs renders Rowan speechless. The soft, yearning way he speaks about seeing his father again brings a lump to her throat. What would she do to see Oddune again?

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?”

Ivar laughs at her sad pout. “Don’t worry, Reynir, I have no intention of dying and leaving you here alone.”

She should never have pointed out the tree she was named after. He’d decided that he just had to give her a pet name that no one else used, and no amount of complaining on her part could change his mind.

“I’m not worried about you dying.” Rowan grumbles as he wraps his arms around her from behind. “I’m worried about you coming back.”

Ivar snickers and rubs his cheek against hers, knowing full well that she doesn’t like the prickle of his sideburns. She reacts with predictable annoyance, trying to fight him off while he merrily carries on tickling her with his whiskers.

~…~

It’s been a week since Ivar first told her that they were gathering the Great Army. So much of the brother’s time has become occupied with plans, Rowan finds herself left out of their conversations more often than not. She has no interest in their revenge plot, and they seem to be trying to protect her from the violent parts of their lives.

Today, though, Rowan is surprised to see a fourth person already there when she enters their cabin. It is a young woman that she’s seen Ubbe speaking to on several occasions in the village. A pale blonde, her face is almost angelically pretty yet always strangely blank. Even now, when Ubbe introduces her as Margrethe, her expression betrays nothing as she greets Rowan politely.

There is a palpable tension in the air. Ivar won’t even look in the general direction of where Margrethe is sitting. Sigurd looks like he might run outside and drown himself in the ocean at any moment. Ubbe, however, only has eyes for Margrethe as he smiles and strokes her arm possessively.

Rowan is at a loss for what to say. Everyone is so incredibly uncomfortable, and she tries to go for the question that seems to be the first thing that Vikings want to know about each other.

“Who is your family?”

Margrethe’s eyes remain downcast as she replies. “I was born in another village. I was sold to Ubbe’s mother when I was a child.”

“Sold?” It takes a moment for Rowan to process what she means. She generally tries not to think of the thralls that surround her every day. Even if their situation isn’t as bad as slaves in other cultures, the idea of owning another person clashes with her most fundamental principles.

“But Ubbe has freed me now.” Margrethe smiles at him now, and he responds with a soft kiss.

There is something deeply uncomfortable there. Something that Rowan can’t quite put her finger on. Ubbe is obviously fond of the former slave at the very least, but there is something lacking in her response. As if she is an automaton merely mimicking human behavior, rather than a young woman in love. The only time Rowan sees a flicker of something else is when Margrethe and Sigurd’s eyes briefly meet across the fire. There is some silent exchange between them, but the girl quickly looks away with what looks like guilt.

As for Ubbe, he is either blissfully unaware of his sweetheart’s indifference, or else he doesn’t care. From what she knows of him and his keen powers of observation, Rowan has the suspicion that it’s the latter.

Thankfully, Ivar is even less interested in staying in the room than her. He quickly demands that she come with him to the forge. She doesn’t even argue at his high-handed behavior, but leaps at the excuse to get out.

“Is it just me or is something very strange going on there?” Rowan gestures with her thumb as they make their way to the village proper.

Ivar grunts, but doesn’t elaborate until much later. It takes a great deal of wheedling from her and several threats to remove her hands if she doesn’t stop touching everything from him, but he finally speaks.

“My brothers all had her before.” His brow is furrowed as he hammers what will eventually be the blade to a small knife, either in concentration or annoyance. More likely both.

Rowan nearly chokes on air, briefly startled out of her exploration. “Wh-… Ho-… I mean… that doesn’t seem at all… odd?”

“She was a slave.” Ivar shrugs.

“What does that have to do with anything?” At this point, she’s found a stack of horseshoes and has started idly juggling three of them.

With a huff he rolls his eyes towards her and regards her with exaggerated forbearance. “What is so difficult to understand? She was mother’s slave. Ubbe, Hvitserk, and Sigurd all wanted her. They all had her. See? Simple.”

“Yes, but what about her? Does she feel the same way about all of them?”

“Who cares?” Ivar gestures broadly to the entire room. “And she can’t feel that much for them since she’s the reason why they weren’t here when our mother was killed.”

Rowan’s eyebrows reach her hairline in surprise. It’s hard for her to imagine that the meek creature she’s met was involved in a murderous plot. Although Ubbe’s initial mistrust would then make a lot more sense.

“And they forgave her?” She’s started balancing a newly-finished sword on the tips of three fingers.

“Apparently.” He suddenly interrupts himself with a bemused shake of his head. “Rowan, why do you know how to do these things?”

With a flourish, she drops her hand out from under the sword and then catches it before it can drop to the ground.

“Twenty-two years and no social life and you too can possess such skills!” She grins.

“I don’t want to.” Ivar is giving her that look he gets when he’s wondering why he spends time with her. It takes him a moment to register what she’s actually said. “Wait, how many years did you say?”

~…~

Several days later, the first ships begin to arrive. Rowan had expected that it would take much longer for word to reach anyone. They would then have to gather their men, ready their ships, and make the voyage to Kattegat. These men, however, were already at sea. They were returning home from the summer raids when the message reached them that the sons of Ragnar were building an army to avenge the slain king.

All of a sudden, the usually bustling village has become an absolute circus as everyone races to provide for the guests. With Lagertha’s main priority still being the defense of Kattegat, there are precious few available to do all of the cooking and serving that is such an important part of Viking hospitality.

As for Lagertha, she graciously greets each of the new arrivals from her throne, accepting their gifts and praise with what is clearly false modesty. But she herself has made it clear that she has no intention of going with them. When Rowan asks her, she gently explains that her former husband would have wanted her to stay and protect their people.

Rowan manages to go mostly unnoticed amidst the throngs of people gathered in the Great Hall. It gives her the chance to observe and eavesdrop. What she hears gives her an all new appreciation for what this endeavor means to them. These men speak of Ragnar with as much fondness as if he were their own father. With tears glistening in their eyes, the vow to avenge his death. They look at his teenage sons with awe, as if they might see some shadow of the great hero in their young faces.

Margrethe comes up to Rowan, startling her out of her thoughts with the blonde’s sudden appearance. With a small, empty smile she compliments Rowan on the white shift and brown apron she wears. They’re her ‘fancy occasion’ clothes, and she’d spent hours embroidering around the edges of both garments.

“I never learned such fine work, but I would like to.” Margrethe admits.

Rowan is surprised by the other woman’s sudden interest. Although it is the first time she’s had the chance to wear this outfit, so perhaps Margrethe just has an appreciation for good sewing.

“I’ll show you, if you’d like.” Rowan offers.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Margrethe replies shyly. “Could you accompany me to the market? I will need a new dress very soon, but I don’t know what to buy.”

The girl is strangely insistent that they go now, and Rowan finds herself being ushered along. As they leave the Great Hall, she catches Margrethe and Ubbe exchanging significant glances. Ah, she thinks, is this that kind of new dress that Margrethe wants? That might explain her urgency, if she wants to have it finished before everyone leaves for England.

The market is just as busy as ever. Rowan had always enjoyed shopping with her mother, picking out items that would go with the older woman’s much lighter coloring. Margrethe is even fairer than her mother had been, even in comparison to other Danes. Her hair is almost white and her eyes the palest blue imaginable.

She seems content to stand back and let Rowan drape fabrics over her shoulders. When asked for an opinion, she is hesitant to express herself clearly. An hour into the excursion Rowan is about ready to hit her upside the head with a bolt of wool just to get the girl to say something definitive.

Finally she discovers that if she holds out two options she can get Margrethe to pick between them. It’s time consuming, but she finally feels like they’re getting somewhere.

After some subtle prodding, Margrethe confirms that she would like the dress to be finished within the next two weeks. Ubbe has asked her to marry him and he wants the ceremony to take place as soon as possible.

“I’m not sure how much we can finish in that time.” Rowan frowns in deep thought. “Perhaps a simpler design, but using a patterned fabric?”

She points out a selection of silks from Persia. The cloth has been woven with intricate designs. It’s also expensive. Most people would only be able to afford enough to trim the edges of a single garment. Ubbe, however, has insisted on that Margrethe have only the best from now on. She still looks mildly horrified when the merchant tells them the cost.

Despite her hesitation, Rowan sees the way she lovingly strokes her fingers over a bolt of cream-colored fabric with a green and russet design all over. The colors are slightly muted, the pattern evocative of things found in nature.

“You like this one?” Rowan asks.

For the first time, there is real emotion in Margrethe’s wistful smile.

“What do you think of this, with an overdress of that purple linen? The skirt can be shaped to show more of the silk, but it will wear better over time.”

Margrethe doesn’t speak, but her expression is the only response Rowan needs. As they walk along with their purchases in hand, she continues to pet the luxurious fabric like a beloved pet.

“I never imagined having something so lovely to myself.” She marvels quietly.

“I will help all I can.” Rowan elbows her lightly. “Everyone deserves to wear something pretty on their wedding day.”

It’s so nice to spend time with another woman her own age. Even if that woman is a bit strange. Who is she to judge, anyway?

Rowan’s good mood is interrupted when they approach the center of the village and the Great Hall. Some kind of commotion is going on. Something very, very serious.

As they get closer, voices can be heard shouting in anger. One of them is definitely Ivar, but Rowan can’t be sure of the others. Without being able to make out everything, she is able to pick up on the most important words.

Lagertha. Kill. Murder. Mother.

Margrethe steps between her and the wide open doorway. It only takes a single glance for Rowan to see the guilt in her face.

“What is going on?”

“I’m sorry. They didn’t want you to be here. I’m sorry.” Margrethe looks honestly stricken. All Rowan can think of is what Ivar had told her. She had distracted Ubbe and Sigurd for Lagertha. Now she’s helped them to distract Rowan while the brothers exact their revenge.

“Get out of my way.”

Without really waiting for a response, she shoves the bundle she’d been carrying at Margrethe and uses the resulting surprise and a well-placed shoulder check to get past her and into the Hall.

The first thing Rowan notices is that Lagertha is still alive. Before she can feel relieved, she sees that Ivar is coming towards her at an impressive speed. She has to move quickly to avoid being knocked over as he crawls right past her and out the door, his face twisted with rage.

“What is going on?” Rowan yells after him. There’s no response. Looking back into the room, she sees Ubbe standing in front of another, even taller man. Anger pours off of both of them in waves. “What is going on?” She repeats.

This starts a veritable flood of words as she demands to know what Ubbe thinks he is doing, how dare he and-

Her tirade is unexpectedly interrupted. With a look of exasperation, Ubbe has marched towards her, bent over slightly, and in one smooth motion lifted her over one shoulder. Without breaking stride he continues on his way, carrying her out like a sack of potatoes.

At first, Rowan is too startled to react. Then she comes to the realization that there is absolutely nothing she can do to get out of Ubbe’s hold. All she can do is resign herself to her fate of being constantly moved about against her will like a pet cat. She let herself go limp against his back. Her expression is pitifully dejected as she reaches out for an astonished Torvi, who is standing mutely beside the tall stranger, her husband, Bjorn Ironside.

*.*.*

If I’m not feeding myself, I keep on trying to feed Sigurd. Today I yelled at him to put on a cloak before going outside. I think I may have accidentally adopted him?

I may not be growing vertically, but other parts of me certainly are. How do I put this? What used to be a perfectly modest garment for swimming is starting to look like the costume for Tavern Wench #3.

Someone has certainly noticed. Simultaneously amused and sympathetic. Bent over yesterday and the poor guy’s eyeballs almost fell out of his face. He spends so much time trying to look like he’s not looking that it’s painfully obvious he’s totally looking.

Usually would say, screw him I wear what I want and he can just learn to control himself. But he honestly looks really upset about something – maybe he’s weirded out that I’m technically older than him? Will have to look into making a new swimming vest soon.

~…~

Won’t be room for everyone when Torvi’s husband gets back. She says that the little cabin next door isn’t being used, and I can live there if I’d like. Honestly, would be nice to have a little room to myself again. Love spending time with Torvi & co. but not used to being around people 24/7.

~…~

Ivar feeling salty that he’s not really older than me. The salt is REAL with this boy.

After highly scientific study, I continue to believe he is really a cat. Evidence as follows.

Enjoys being petted. Specific areas are not to be touched or risk bodily injury.

Random mood swings from happy and playful to Oh-God-Run-For-Your-Life.

Highly effective predator, but secretly adorable and fluffy.

Extreme attachment to select individuals. Feelings for rest of humanity range from complete apathy to murderous hatred.

See? Cat.

~…~

For all his talk of Margrethe being a person, blah blah blah, Ubbe doesn’t much treat her like one. He’s a bit high-handed for someone who cares about what she wants.

Especially when what she wants is pretty obviously not him. I don’t know what the hell all the dynamics are going on, but anyone could see the way she and Sigurd look at each other. It’s the only time she has a facial expression that isn’t completely blank or slightly pained. So what is she doing with Ubbe?

~…~

Have spent a lot of time thinking about relationship between Margrethe and Ubbe – or Margrethe and Sigurd/Hvitserk for that matter.

In 2000’s, we would say that a slave cannot consent to a relationship with a master due to unbalance of power. But then I think, does saying that deny the slave a basic level of humanity? Is saying that they cannot consent another way of taking away the right to consent?

Nothing is simple here. It’s easy to sit in a house with running water and AC and make blanket statements about people thousands of years or miles away.

Chapter Text

It seems that the entire village has gathered to watch as Ubbe carries Rowan through the streets. From her position slung over his shoulder, she can still see her dignity as it is left far behind them on the floor of the Great Hall.

Sigurd – who himself had just had a weapon held to his neck to prevent him from interfering in Ubbe and Ivar’s plan – says nothing. He only guides Margrethe with a light touch to her back as they follow behind.

When Ubbe finally kicks open the door to the brothers’ cabin and sets Rowan down, she finds herself inexplicably calm considering the disrespect just shown to her person.

“Well, I think that went very well, whatever your plan was.” She remarks sarcastically.

Ubbe doesn’t look so much angry as he does determined. “Rowan.” He says in a low tone. “No one cares.”

She takes a step back from him. “What did you just say?”

“You have no right to speak on this matter to anyone. You are no part of it. A position, I might point out, which you chose for yourself.”

“I owe Lagertha and Torvi a great deal!” She protests.

“And what of Ivar?” He asks. His tone hasn’t changed. It remains even, and Rowan senses that he’s trying to push her somehow. “You know what avenging our mother’s death means to him. It is not a matter of if, but when. Will you still try to remain impartial when they’re holding blades to each other's throats?”

Rowan huffs. Damn him. He’s trying to force her hand, to commit herself to one side or the other. She doubts that it matters to him one way or the other, but to his beloved younger brother…?

“You want to know, if you were to put a knife to my throat and demand that I choose between the woman who has taken me in and treated me like a sister, and the little brat who demands my constant attention and for some reason thinks it’s funny to call me ‘his person’?”

The words flow out of her mouth like a burst dam. Ubbe crosses his arms over his chest, looking down at her from his high horse as if he knows exactly what she’s going to say.

“Exactly.”

“Well, in that case, of course I would choose Ivar!”

The room is silent. Ubbe appears to be both surprised and pleased by her impassioned statement. There is even a little smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. Sigurd and Margrethe, on the other hand, look horrified.

“Why?” Asks Sigurd.

“I don’t know!” Rowan flails her arms and throws herself down on a seat before the fireplace.

Sigurd sits down beside her, eyeing her nervously. Ubbe takes Margrethe by the hand and leads her to sit with him across from them. As the two brother’s begin to discuss the recent events in a surprisingly civil manner, Rowan becomes lost in her own thoughts.

Why? Why did she feel so strongly about supporting Ivar? Was it because he needed her in a way that Torvi didn’t? Or was it simply because they had been there for each other right after suffering similar losses?

Or maybe she’s finally just lost her damned mind and needs to be locked up from the nice, healthy people.

“Hvitserk!”

Rowan breaks out of her train of thought at the sound of the door opening and Ubbe’s happy greeting. Even Margrethe smiles as he and Sigurd go to welcome him.

“I heard you freed Margrethe? You want to marry her. I’m glad.” Hvitserk grins at Ubbe and the girl, reaching forward to stroke her face. “Just don’t keep her all to yourself.”

Nausea churns in Rowan’s stomach at the strange, proprietary way this man touches his brother’s betrothed. She knows that her distaste must show on her face when he turns to look at her curiously. She’d stood up as soon as he entered out of a new habit she’s developed in this short body, and stands with her arms wrapped around herself.

“And who is this?”

“This is Rowan.” Sigurd comes to stand beside her. “She came from England with Ivar. Her mother was from the settlement.”

“Is that so?” Hvitserk leers, actually leers at her. “Then she’s already been travelling together with Ivar, has she?”

It seems like a perfectly innocuous statement, but it sets his brothers cringing. Rowan glances between them in confusion, then dawning realization as she sees the blush on Margrethe’s cheeks.

“I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean, but I think I can guess.”

Hvitserk laughs at her irritation, grabbing her by the elbow as she tries to brush past him on her way to the door. “Stay, I’d like to hear about how my little brother managed to find such a pretty travelling companion.”

Rowan jerks away as his hand comes up to touch her face. He’s even taller than Ubbe and Sigurd, towering over her with that infernal grin.

“Don’t touch me.” She says, sounding disbelieving at his sheer impudence.

“Don’t be like that.” He tries to sound sweet and cajoling. His hand reaches out again for her face as the other moves to her waist. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Sigurd stepping forward to intervene, but it’s too late.

A muscle memory that Rowan didn’t know she still had kicks in as she pulls out of his grasp. Before she can even think to stop herself she curls the fingers of her right hand in and strikes with her palm towards his throat.

Hvitserk doubles over, choking and clutching his neck. Rowan stares at him blankly, shaking with adrenaline and not quite believing that she just did that. Then she looks at Ubbe and Sigurd, suddenly afraid of their reaction to her hitting their brother in the throat.

Both of them stand, arms crossed and looking down at Hvitserk without a single trace of sympathy.

“I was going to tell you,” Sigurd says. “She’s a freewoman.”

The man currently writhing on the floor looks up at them through his tears as if he’s just experienced some great betrayal. Rowan, realizing that it’s probably a good time to make herself scarce while he’s still incapacitated, starts to shuffle for the door.

“I’m just going to go.” She tries to excuse herself.

“And do what?” Ubbe asks. He at least hasn’t forgotten what brought her here in the first place.

“I’m not sure.” She shrugs. “Probably attack your other brother.” With a final, quick glance around and a mumbled request to be excused, she bolts for the open door, feet flying as she sprints for safety.

~…~

“Woo!” Rowan breathes out in relief as she crouches down at the end of her mad dash.

It’s not that she particularly regrets punching Hvitserk, it’s just that her brother’s self-defense instructions had been very clear. Step one, get out of their grasp. Step two, punch them in the throat. Step three, get the hell out of dodge. He’d drilled it into her so well that it apparently crossed over into her new body.

She stands up and stretches out, testing the pull of her muscles after that sudden burst of physical activity. Everything feels good, no strains. Looking around her, she’s at least managed to aim herself in the general direction of where she’d wanted to be.

Over the weeks, Ivar had shown her all of his favorite sulking spots. Finding him is merely a matter of checking each of those places. Now that the weather has turned colder, he spends far these time on the open hills, preferring the forest for its shelter from the wind.

Rowan steps softly through fallen leaves and twigs that snap under her feet. It’s very quiet, the animals all preparing to shelter for the long winter.

Maybe they sense something I didn’t. Rowan thinks to herself as she looks up at the clouds that have started to form above. The temperature is just on the edge where, if a storm comes, it won’t snow, but the rain will be miserably cold. With that in mind, she knows exactly where Ivar will have gone.

Sure enough, when she finds the place where she knows the rocky terrain falls away into an overhang, she can see smoke rising up from just beyond it. Lying on her front, she quietly crawls forward to the edge where she can look down on the makeshift shelter.

“Oi!” Rowan yells, and Ivar jumps gratifyingly in response.

He looks up at her with a glare. “Go away.” He snarls, but Rowan ignores this. She climbs down the small slope to one side of the overhang to join him.

“We really need to have a conversation about my bodily autonomy and everyone’s incessant need to put me where I don’t want to be.”

Ivar doesn’t look at her as she comes to sit next to him. He just glares into his little fire as he snaps twigs and throws them in with a great deal more violence than strictly needed.

“I’m not in the mood–”

“Oh? You’re not? What, did your ingenious idea to avenge your mother by killing Lagertha in a roomful of her own people not go quite according to plan?” Rowan doesn’t even try to restrain the sarcasm.

Slowly Ivar turns to her, and slowly she starts to take in the tense set of his jaw and the cold fire that burns in his eyes.

“Ivar?” She says very quietly, as if she needs to remind him of who he is.

“Do not speak of my mother.” Tension leeches from his very bones into his voice, and Rowan has the sudden urge to press herself against the far wall of the shelter.

“I… I didn’t mean–”

“I do not care what you meant. My mother was murdered. Lagertha shot an arrow into her back when she had already won. I have every right to seek revenge for that.”

His soft tone shakes Rowan far more than if he’d shouted. For a moment all she can do is sit and stare at the man before her, shocked by the barely controlled rage that simmers just below the surface. She’s seen him weep; she’s seen him laugh; she’s even seen him angry or annoyed with Sigurd; but she’s never seen this side of him, and she finds herself desperate to distract him from it.

“Why did you try to trick me?” She asks quietly.

Ivar’s expression relaxes, no longer angry, but still unhappy. It seems that the question has reset something in him, reminded him of how he wished to appear to her.

“You hate this life.” He replies softly.

“No I don’t!” Rowan tries to protest, but he rolls his head to look at her and his expression silences her immediately.

“You hate it.” Ivar repeats. “You hate the fighting. You hate seeing people hurt.” His gaze shifts back to the fire as he continues. “You think I don’t understand you, but I do. It is your nature to mend things. It is one of the qualities I… admire about you. I don’t want that to change, but you need to understand that I’m not going to change either. One day, I will kill Lagertha.”

Rowan bites her lips, frowning into the fire. He won’t let her shut him out. He puts one hand on her shoulder, forcing her to listen.

“But that doesn’t mean I want you to see it.”

The sky opens up above them. Rain starts to fall. Rowan blows out a heavy breathe that draws an annoyed look from Ivar.

“What was that about?”

“Well, I’ve been manipulated, carted about, berated by two Ragnarssons, and I’ve hit a third.”

“Sigurd?” Ivar asks hopefully.

“No, Hvitserk. He thought I was a thrall and was very rude.”

Ivar’s expression fades to disappointment, before rallying himself with the mental image of his brother being attacked by a tiny woman. “I wish I had seen it.”

“I’m so glad you are amused.”

He is, very much so. Rowan tries to look stern, but Ivar keeps breaking into sadistic snickers, and she can’t stop herself from smiling. They sit there under the shelter of the stone, waiting the storm out together.

~…~

“Rowan!” Guthrum calls out to her as she approaches their home, little Erik beside him. “Where have you been? Grandmother says we are to stay with her tonight in the Great Hall.”

“Oh?” Rowan follows him as he leads her away from the cabin. “Why?”

Guthrum casts an uncomfortable look over one shoulder. “Father just came back from the raid.”

“Oh?” She says again, and then with more understanding. “Ooooh.”

There had been more than a few times when she herself had been shuffled off to a babysitter when one or other of her parents had returned after a long absence.

“Guthrum, is there some sort of other meaning to ‘travelling’ that I don’t know about?”

“What?” He is starting to get that look on his face that he did every time she made him tell her something he didn’t want to. “Why would you ask that?”

“Your Uncle Hvitserk thought it was very funny to talk about me and Ivar ‘travelling together.” She prods.

That apparently explains everything, because he smirks and says, “That is what my parents are doing right now.”

Suddenly, Rowan doesn’t feel nearly so bad about punching him in the throat.

~…~

Over the weeks, the Ragnarssons have found Rowan engaged in all manner of strange activities with the children of Kattegat. There was the time she was helping them build a rudimentary trebuchet. Another time they came across her engaged in dissecting a sheep’s eyeball for a fascinated group that may have included one or two adults as well.

So it is surprising to no one but Hvitserk the first time he walks into the village to find a large group of children playing some sort of a game that seems to involve a ball, a stick, running in apparently random directions, and Rowan yelling at the top of her lungs that they are “not allowed to attack the short stop.”

She finally gives up on maintaining any kind of order, leaving the children with a final shout that they were all heathens who needed Jesus. Her glare only deepens when she catches sight of Hvitserk, and she stops dead in her tracks, prepared to flee again if necessary.

“I came to apologize for my behavior.” He’s quick to say. “It was terribly rude of me, and I hope that you will forgive me… and not tell Torvi.”

Ah, the true reason for his regret makes itself known. Rowan has come to understand that there wasn’t one of the younger Ragnarssons who wasn’t secretly terrified of their sister-in-law. That, and apparently the punishment for even kissing a freewoman without her consent was an excellent way to get yourself killed. No wonder the princes seemed so reluctant to try and properly court one.

Rowan inclines her head in agreement, hoping that will be the end of it and he’ll leave her alone. She really should get back and meet Bjorn, and she tries to walk away in a manner that shows that their interaction is over, but Hvitserk immediately falls into step beside her.

“My brothers told me of your tale. Is it true that you have been to many lands we have never seen?” There is something childishly eager in his tone.

“I was born in one of those lands.”

“You must tell me of them. We just returned from a place called Hispania. No Viking has ever been there before.”

“Hispania? I actually know where that is.” Will wonders never cease?

Hvitserk grins as he bounces along beside her. “It was beautiful. I–”

“I know,” Rowan interrupts, trying to put him off. “I lived there for a year.”

He is undeterred, now walking backwards in front of her to try and meet her gaze. “Truly? Did you sail there?”

Rowan halts in her steps, saying sarcastically, “No, I flew through the sky in a giant, metal bird while people served me nuts in tiny bags.”

Hvitserk seems to ponder this for a moment. “That doesn’t sound very adventurous.” He finally remarks.

Either the man is a complete idiot, or an absolute genius. Rowan really couldn’t tell at this point.

“The adventure of a possible fiery death after a long plummet at any moment?” She suggests.

"I suppose if you put it that way..."

Did nothing faze this man? Of course, if Rowan were honest with herself, she could only imagine being a middle child between Ivar and Sigurd on one side, and Ubbe on the other. If she set a firecracker off directly under his ass he'd probably look mildly surprised and then ask to see it again.

They are standing a good ways away from Torvi's home, but Rowan can clearly make out the sound of a raised voice that causes both her and Hvitserk to turn in that direction. She can't make out what is being said.

“Torvi.” Hvitserk says with a curious frown. There is a strange moment where their eyes meet and, in an instant of silent communication, come to an agreement. Simultaneously, they creep forward to hear better.

“... because she needs a family, with as nothing to do with you or with Siggy!”

Rowan can feel her muscles stiffen as she realizes that an argument is going on between the couple over her.

"Say something, Bjorn!” Torvi snaps. "Of course, you were willing enough to shout at me when our children were here to listen, but as soon as your daughter's name is mentioned you turn into stone!”

Taking a step back, Rowan almost collides with Hvitserk. He places a steadying hand on her shoulder.

“Hvitserk, how old would Bjorn’s daughter be if she had lived?”

“I think maybe… fifteen?”

Fifteen. Rowan or, to be more specific, Bothild’s body had just turned fifteen at some point. Was that what this was about? Was Torvi trying to replace Bjorn’s dead child with another?

A quick glance at Hvitserk and she has to do a double-take because he’s… smiling?

Before she can fully register her own confusion, he has reached a hand forward to push the front door open and, all while maintaining eye contact with her, shouted, “Brother! I have brought your new daughter for you to meet!”

Rowan stares at him in horror. As Torvi comes to usher her in, face creased with agitation, Hvitserk continues to smile at her with devious glee. She has no choice. She has to allow Torvi to draw her inside while Hvitserk greets his sister-in-law and cheerfully excuses himself from the complete shitshow that he’s forced upon her.

As he leaves, he gently rubs his throat and winks at her.

~...~

This is the first time Rowan’s had the chance to get a good look at Bjorn, and he her. She tries to keep her gaze down, to appear as small and unthreatening as possible for Torvi’s sake if nothing else. As the older woman ushers her forward, the eldest Ragnarsson looks her up and down with blatant annoyance.

“You are the daughter of Hildigunn Olafsdóttir?” He asks tersely. Her answering nod does nothing to calm him. If anything, he becomes even more agitated. “Torvi and my mother have told me that a decision has been made to adopt you into our family. According to our laws, my opinion on the matter means nothing. As long as Guthrum agrees to share he and his brother’s inheritance from their mother, I cannot object.”

Obviously, he was barely containing his excitement over the prospect, Rowan thinks to herself. “I have no desire to cause trouble in your family.” She says aloud.

“It is of no matter.” He dismisses her concern coldly. “You need a family and, as my mother as pointed out to me, we do bear a certain… responsibility towards you.”

“Why? You didn’t kill my family.”

Bjorn’s lips disappear as he tenses up at her bluntness. “No, but my father lied to our people about the settlement. My mother feels a more personal responsibility because of her hand in your parents’ marriage. Either way, the decision has been made. Torvi says that the plan is for you to live in the cottage next to us until I leave for England.”

The change of subject is abrupt and definitive. He will say no more on the matter, and Rowan doesn’t feel any great need to press him on it. She’s just glad that, in a few short weeks, the Great Army will be gone, and Bjorn with it.

~...~

The feast to welcome back Bjorn and Hvitserk was going… interestingly. Torvi had cajoled and flattered Rowan into letting her put her hair up in a more complicated style, assuring her that the coronet braid hid her scar just as well as her normal bun.

Now she was sitting stretched out across a bench, trying to fade into the wall because people kept trying to introduce her to this and that old friend. It’s incredibly late. She hasn’t been handling staying up late very well recently. At this point she’s past mere tiredness and has started to reach a strange state of giddiness, which isn’t helped by the small amount of ale she’s consumed.

Ivar and Sigurd are further down the table from her, and arguing as usual. Apparently it is of vital importance who was to be sailing on which ship on their voyage to England.

Hvitserk sits at the far end, trying his best to ignore his brothers. When he and Rowan’s eyes meet unexpectedly, a moment of understanding seems to pass between them as he rolls his eyes subtly.

She holds up both her hands like two snake heads, and starts to mime them bickering while she smirks. As Hvitserk struggles not to react, one of the puppets suddenly stops and turns to look at Rowan. Her expression turns horrified as it suddenly leaps at her throat, biting down viciously! She tries to pull it off, but soon succumbs to the attack. Her tongue lolls out dramatically as she goes limp.

A burst of laughter draws Ivar and Sigurd’s attention to Hvitserk. By the time they turn in the other direction to look at her, Rowan has become the picture of innocence.

“What?” She asks, sounding like she’s just as confused as they. Ivar glares at her, obviously not convinced.

At least it’s stopped the argument for the time being. Hvitserk takes the opportunity to launch into a description of Hispania and the journey there.

“Rowan.” Ivar scoots across the bench, lifting her feet onto his lap so he can get close enough to speak without being overheard. “There are some friends who have returned with the raiding party that I want you to meet.”

“Just tell me it is not them.” She nods towards a pair of men who have been drinking and boasting loudly all evening. While their behavior isn’t particularly unusual for Vikings, they still give her the creeps.

Ivar glances over his shoulder to get a surreptitious look at who she’s indicated. He smiles wryly. “King Harald and his brother? No. My friends are not here. They have some… matters they are attending to. They live outside the village.”

“I will try to find some time. Torvi has had me wearing my feet to the bone trying to look after all these guests.”

He gives a squeeze to her ankle. “Tell her I have need of you.”

“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”

His eyes narrow. “You’re doing it again, aren’t you?”

Rowan widens her eyes and pouts. “I don’t know of what you speak.”

“You know exactly what.” Ivar leans even closer. His eyes are bright with amusement as he taps her nose teasingly. He’d quickly caught on to when she was making references he didn’t know about. It seemed to entertain him just as often as it annoyed him.

They’re so wrapped up in their conversation that it takes them awhile to notice that Hvitserk is sitting frozen, sucking his spoon and staring at them as if they were a two-headed goat on display at a sideshow. Rowan is immediately uncomfortable under the scrutiny, but Ivar refuses to release her when she tries to pull her feet out of his grasp.

“Is there something you want?” He snaps. Hvitserk only shrugs and smiles, returning to his food.

Just then, Bjorn comes up holding a cup of mead and glaring like the disapproving father he isn’t.

“Torvi tells me you like to sing. Why don’t you sing something for our guests?”

It sounds enough like a challenge that Rowan can’t help but agree. After a brief discussion with Sigurd, they agree on a song they’ve been practicing for several days.

She stands straight and, in a clear voice, begins to sing of Heiemo. They had discovered that they both new the tale in some form, and had worked to combine the two. Like any time she sings a ballad, Rowan quickly loses herself in the story, letting her eyes fall shut.

Heiemo sang her song on the hillside

The nykkjen heard it, striding on the sea

The nykken, a water spirit, tells his helmsman to steer them to land so that he can take the maid for himself. He dances while she sings, and at the end of the day he kidnaps her to his ship.

Heiemo, Heiemo quiet your wrath

You will sleep on the nykkjen’s arm

He tries to cajole, but the beautiful maid is not amused.

She stabbed the nykkjen in his chest

The nail ran into the root of his heart

Here you lie for the raven and the hound

While I still have my chanting skills

The crowd applauds as the last note fades, and Rowan tries her best not to preen too obviously. Even Bjorn raises his cup at her in acknowledgement. Ivar, meanwhile, seems to take the whole thing as a personal success.

“My person has a lovely voice, doesn’t she?” He says loudly. Passing behind him back to her seat, Rowan ‘accidentally’ elbows him in the back of the head. As usual, it does nothing to stop him from telling Hvitserk all about how she left her home to follow him, and sang like a goddess the whole voyage.

“He’s lying.” She says to Sigurd. “He thinks I sounded like a wounded goose.”

Ivar tries to protest, while a now very drunk Ubbe stumbles forward and hangs over his youngest brother’s shoulders.

“I want to hear this.” He slurs, and an almost equally intoxicated Hvitserk joins him.

“Sing something happy!”

Did Rowan know any happy opera? An idea comes to her and, buoyed by her own state of post-bedtime tipsiness, stands up on the bench.

“Very well. I shall sing to you a song from the story of a woman from Hispania, although it is in the Frankish language. Don’t ask.”

And with a deep breathe, she launches into a song from the opera Carmen commonly called Habanera. It’s a song with a distinctively provocative tone. Rowan can’t help from including a swaying, saucy little dance as she sings that love is a wild thing that knows no laws. If you love her, she won’t love you. If you love her, you’d best beware!

When she finishes, out of breathe and giddy with the sheer fun of letting loose for once, half the room cheers, while the other half looks vaguely horrified. Sigurd applauds enthusiastically, Hvitserk looks confused, Ubbe and Bjorn appear to be reluctantly impressed and Ivar... well, frankly Ivar looks vaguely dazed and a little bit turned on.

Rowan slides back down the wall, giggling when her butt hits the bench again. The thump as she sits down is quickly followed by another, much louder sound as Hvitserk’s body finally gives in to the large amount of mead he’s consumed. His head hits the table in front of them, and he begins to snore loudly.

A grin begins to spread across her face as she sees him lying before her, completely helpless.

“Ivar, let me borrow your knife.” She nudges him with her foot.

Ivar eyes her suspiciously and asks, “Why?”

“I’m going to shave off Hvitserk’s eyebrows.”

The four conscious brothers exchange wide-eyed looks for a moment, before Ubbe suddenly steps forward, pulling his own knife out of his belt.

“Use mine.” He says. “I just sharpened it.”

“Don’t cut him!” Sigurd says, but he joins his brothers in crowding around Rowan as she lies across the table and gently tilts Hvitserk’s face into the light.

“Don’t worry.” She assures him with a snigger. “There’s a reason my brother made sure never to be unconscious in my presence.”

Later on, while Ivar and Sigurd each paint on a new eyebrow for Hvitserk, Rowan thinks how nice it is for them all to be getting along for once. If only things could always be like this, she muses, completely unaware of how much her life is about to change.

*.*.*

Dear Edmund,

You were the one person whose approval mattered to me. With a single smile you could make me feel like I was an invincible giant because you were proud of me. And with a single world you could make me feel like a worthless little ant.

There are a lot of things that I miss about you. I miss playing video games with you. I miss eating strange foods with you.

You know what I don’t miss? The feeling of having had the smackdown put on me and coming away feeling like a very small, very badly-behaved child.

Jesus, Ivar can be scary. Is that what Sigurd was talking about?

~…~

Every time I meet another Ragnarsson that’s at least a foot taller than me, I’m reminded that this isn’t really my body. It used to be someone else. Someone with a life and thoughts and feelings of her own that I’ll never know. I don’t know what I find sadder, that I’ll never get the chance to understand her mind, or that there was no one she ever trusted to tell.

~…~

Really like my new place. Small, but cozy. A bed all to myself! Apparently it was built by a man who moved here and lived alone for awhile. He built a new home when he married, so this place has been out of use for a bit.

Ivar and Sigurd say that they are going crazy with Ubbe and Margrethe. It’s pretty cramped with Hvitserk back.

Chapter Text

The old woman smiles watching the younger women around her with their children. Her daughters-in-law lead her gently by the arm into the bath house, setting her down on a bench and help her to undress.

She watches as others place hot rocks into the large tubs of water, filling the room with steam. They keep a close eye on her to make sure the old woman does not become overheated, but she waves them away. She may be old, but she still has enough sense to tell them if she feels faint.

Seat opens her pores, helping to rid her body of the impurities built up over the long week. Her skin is like the autumn leaves, thin and delicate. But she feels no envy as she looks upon the women and girls around her with their firm, young bodies. She does not regret her many, long years. Though there has been much pain – she has buried three good husbands, two sons, a daughter, and several grandchildren – there has been much joy as well.

When she had been sixteen, her first marriage had been arranged between her and her husband’s fathers, though hers had been careful to seek her opinion before agreeing. They had little contact before the wedding, but they had grown fond of each other over the years of shared hardships. He had given her two sons before dying in a raid in a far off land.

Her second husband had approached her after a respectable period. The land she had inherited from her father when she married abutted his, and they had agreed that it was a good idea to marry and so join their farms together. They had both lost spouses, his wife had died in childbirth, and it had been a logical choice for both of them. Her father dead, her older brother had been the one to negotiate the contract that would bind their families.

There had been no nervousness like with her first wedding. After all, she was a woman who had been married for five years and born two children. There were no mysteries left for her there.

How wrong she had been. She still smiles at the memory of their wedding night, when her new husband had tenderly shown her the kind of passion that was possible between a man and woman. Though she had been no stranger to pleasure before – at least, after she and her young groom had started to figure things out between them – it was nothing compared to what she had with this man. It was like a fire that shocked her with its intensity, with no understanding from whence it had come.

Their union had given her four children, one after the other, two sons and two daughters. Though the younger boy died in infancy, they had comforted each other through their shared loss, as well as through the trials of trying to drag a living out of farming the harsh and unforgiving land.

When he was taken by illness, she had thought the grief would be the end of her. But she had managed to go on for the sake of their young children.

Her third husband had baffled her at first. What was this man doing approaching a widow past childbearing years? It was the first time she had been truly courted, with poetry and gifts. She had accepted him, not for practical reasons, but for herself, for the sake of companionship and the sweet thrill she felt when he spoke. There was no reason for a contract this time. Their relationship was not about land and property.

Her as her sons and daughters had married and gone to their own homes. It wasn’t until after her older daughter had returned home after being widowed that he told her that he wished to go on one last raid. He had soothed her loneliness for twenty years, and she would not deny him this last wish.

He had gone with Ragnar Lothbrok on his final journey, and had not returned.

She worked throughout much of her life, day in and day out to provide for her family. Now she has been given the luxury of idleness, the chance to sit quietly and watch the younger women around her. Many of them she had assisted into this world, and she has watched as each of them grew and began to blossom. They have all come to her at one time or another, asking her how to care for a fussy baby, how to get along with their husbands, and how best to use their meager resources.

Yes, she has had a good life, without regrets. Her body may show the effects of long years and many children, but it is not a source of bitterness for her. She would not give up one moment of her treasured memories to regain her youthful beauty.

A lone figure catches her attention. It is the half-Saxon with the strange name, the Christian who came back with Prince Ivar two months ago. It is unusual for her to join the other women and girls in the bath house, preferring to go to the lake to swim and bathe. But it has grown far too cold in the past week, and she has apparently decided to take advantage of the warm water of the bath house.

The girl has become a familiar sight to the old woman. From her seat at her son-in-law’s stall in the marketplace, where she spends much of her time, she has watched as the girl plays her strange games with the village children. She has also seen how the young princes have taken to her. The eldest is often annoyed with her, but as protective as if she were his own sister. She watches as she scolds the fairest and he hangs his head meekly. The next moment he is beaming and proud as she praises his music, as if he has found in her the guidance and approval of a mother.

As for the youngest prince, he follows her; as silent, as possessive, as persistent and as dark as her own shadow. The old woman sees the way his face softens the moment his eyes fall on her, and how the girl seems completely unaware of his silent devotion.

Finally, she has seen how the girl has changed in the months since her arrival. When the old woman first saw her, she had been thin and wiry for her age. It had reminded her of the girls wanted to be shieldmaidens. Between their work at home and the intensive training, their bodies were often dense with muscle from an early age. But they also seemed to take a little longer to grow into womanhood.

Over the past weeks, though, the girl has noticeably filled out. Even the relaxed fit of her dress and hangeroc can’t hide the new curves that have sprouted, seemingly overnight. Now, with no clothes to hide behind, the old woman’s sharp eyes take in the shape of her with careful scrutiny.

The girl sees her watching. Her expression is curious but polite as she nods a greeting. The old woman, now sure of her suspicions, chuckles and beckons her over.

“I am Ingrunn.” She introduces herself.

“I am pleased to meet you.” The girl responds politely. “I am Rowan.”

Ingrunn waves this off. She already knows this, and she did not call the younger woman over for simple pleasantries.

“How is your health?” She asks.

Rowan frowns in confusion and shrugs. “It is well.”

The corners of the old woman’s eyes and mouth crinkle in amusement. “You have not felt ill lately?”

“No. I am quite well.”

“Daughter,” Ingrunn chides with affection “do you not know?”

Her face is so openly bewildered by this line of questioning that Ingrunn has to laugh. She reaches out to cup one youthful breast. The younger woman winces and shies away from the touch, but Ingrunn persists, forcing her to look down at her own flesh. The mound hasn’t just grown. It is painfully enlarged, and blue veins are plainly visible under the skin, radiating out from the nipple where small bumps have begun to show.

“Do you see?” Ingrunn says gently. “You are with child.”

Rowan pushes her hand away, gently but firmly. “That isn’t possible.”

Ingrunn laughs again. “I have heard many a woman say that who welcomed a babe not long after.”

“That’s not possible.” Rowan repeats more firmly.

“When did you last bleed?”

“I have not.”

Every woman, even the ones who have been pretending not to hear them, goes silent. Dozens of pairs of eyes, including those of Ingrunn, stare at the girl in horror.

“You have never bled as a woman does?” The old woman tries to clarify. Her tone is suddenly different, soft like one would use with a child.

“No.” Rowan shakes her head. “So you see, I can’t be…”

She doesn’t finish that statement. Despite her protestations, she is noticeably upset as she turns to gather her dress and leave. Ingrunn cannot regret speaking up, though. Better she know now than later. But someone would have to speak to the girl’s adoptive mother soon. As it was, a notorious gossip had already scurried out the door, and the entire village would be talking about it by sundown. Squaring her shoulders, she called for her daughters-in-law to help her dress.

~...~

Generally speaking, Torvi is considered by all to be a calm, reasonable sort of woman; not prone to random outbursts or fits of temper. Even Ivar didn’t mind her presence. So one couldn’t blame the Ragnarssons for being surprised when, without warning, she descends upon them with all the fury of a wounded bear.

Ivar and his brothers are all gathered together in the fishing cabin to discuss plans for the raid when the door opens and Bjorn’s wife enters, looking like a Valkyrie come to retrieve their souls. Only the expression on her face suggests that she will also be the one to end their miserable lives as well.

“Where is Rowan?” She asks, looking around the single room.

“She is not here, woman.” Bjorn replies, annoyed by the interruption.

Ignoring her husband, Torvi glares at the other four brothers. Ivar smirks as he idly throws a small knife between his hands.

“What makes you think we would know where she is?”

“Because you always know where she is.” Torvi snaps.

Ubbe is the first to realize that something very serious is happening. “What is the matter?” He asks.

“Don’t you know?” She asks with a tilt of her head. “It seems everyone but me has heard, and only because Ingrunn herself came to speak with me.”

“What are you talking about?” Ivar gestures with the knife for her to get to the point.

“Rowan is with child.”

Ivar freezes, knife poised in the air. It’s like a sudden fog, a numbness passes over him. At the same time, a thousand thoughts flash through his mind at once.

“And if I find out that one of you is responsible,” Torvi gestures at Ubbe and Sigurd. “I will cut off your prick and feed it to you.”

Bjorn steps forward to try and calm his wife, unusually gentle in the face of her extreme anger. “That is enough, Torvi. Obviously, if she is with child and the father is among our people he will be made to take responsibility. My mother will see to it. There is no need for such threats.”

Torvi shakes off Bjorn’s hand on her shoulder with a jerk. “If the father is among our people then he is a dead man. I will see to that.”

He is quickly growing more irritated. “I said enough! She is a young woman. Unless she was forced you will do nothing.”

“She is not a woman.” Torvi meets his eyes steadily, making sure that the full meaning of her words sinks in. “She has never bled before.”

There are a few rules in Ivar’s society over how men are to behave with women, and they go like this.

The mere suggestion of dishonorable intentions towards a maid could result in her kinsmen coming together to maintain their honor, resulting in death.

By law a man could slap his wife, but it was generally not considered to be a good idea, as the wife would probably find a way for him to end up dead.

Freewomen are not to be even kissed without consent. Doing so will likely result in death.

Finally, seducing or raping a child was disgusting and dishonorable and, while the distinction between who was a child and an adult could vary in other respects, a girl who had not bled was unequivocally still a child. Whether she became pregnant mattered little, because whoever fathered the child lay with her before she could be considered an adult.

His brothers all look sickened. Ivar’s head is spinning from trying to process everything he’s heard. Rowan is pregnant. Rowan is too young. Someone is the father. That someone could be…

“I know where she is.” He says, desperate to stop that line of thinking. “I’ll go talk to her.”

Some part of his mind is aware that Ubbe, Hvitserk and Sigurd all follow him as he leads them to the spot by the lake where Rowan goes to swim. Even in the extreme cold, it is the one place she would go to if she were upset. Up until this point, no one else has ever come here except for the two of them. But he welcomes their presence now, knowing that it will force him to be more wary of his actions when he speaks to her.

It appears that no one is there when they arrive. His brothers look about in confusion, but Ivar knows better. He settles himself on a boulder and waits for her to appear.

In less than a minute Rowan surfaces in front of him. She looks like a daughter of Ægir as she shakes the water from her eyes, pushing clumps of hair out of her face and laughing. She swims closer to lean against the overhanging rock, smiling and peering up at him through her dark lashes. If she were looking at any other person, they might think she was truly happy. But Ivar knows better. The shape of her mouth isn’t quite right. There is a hint of agitation in her brown eyes that she only gets when she’s trying to hide something from him.

“What are you doing here?” She asks lightly. “And you’ve brought the whole crew with you.”

Why did she call them a crew? They weren’t on a boat… Ivar has to stop himself from asking her. She’s a master at diverting his train of thought with her nonsense, but he can’t let that happen now.

“Well, the water is only slightly freezing. Do you want to join me?” She offers pleasantly when none of them speak.

Hvitserk steps forward. He seems to be the least affected by the situation, and is able to maintain his usual air of casual cheer as he offers her a hand. “Come on out. Let me help you.”

With a glint of mischief, Rowan takes his hand and, planting her feet against a rock, tries to use her weight to pull him in with her.

It doesn’t work. Hvitserk is prepared and he only has to lean back a little to maintain his balance. Rowan lets out a puff of frustration, but allows him to lift her out of the water now that her game has been foiled.

Sigurd is ready with a piece of cloth he found folded along with her clothes. She accepts it with a grateful smile and starts to ruffle it over her hair.

Ivar’s gaze falls without his permission as it so often does lately. The simple linen vest she wears while swimming doesn’t fit the way it used to. Her breasts have begun to strain against the lacing at the top, drawing his attention like a moth to a flame. He’s tried to deny it, tried to pretend that his interest isn’t what it is. When that hadn’t worked he’d tried to avoid her completely when he knew she would be wearing her revealing outfit.

Now that he understands why her body has changed so much he’s only more disgusted with himself. They’re changing to prepare for what they’re meant for, which is not to satisfy his perverse predilections. Perhaps Sigurd is right and some part of him has remained infantile. His mind twisting a part of women that is meant to feed their young into his own depraved fixation.

The thought gives Ivar the strength to look away. His curiosity urges him to look further down, to where her abdomen is partly exposed between the hem of her top and the waistband of her trousers. If he looks carefully, is there some change there? Can he perhaps detect the slightest swelling of her belly?

Rowan has stopped moving. Ivar looks up to see that she is looking back at him, and she’s seen exactly where his gaze had just been fixed.

“Don’t look at me.”

It’s not the words that shock Ivar, but the way her face twists in a way he’s never seen before. There is a venom there that he wouldn’t have thought her capable of.

“Don’t look at me.” Rowan repeats, even harsher this time.

He opens his mouth to speak, not even sure what he will say, but she doesn’t allow it. In a single stride she stands before him, eyes wild.

“I said, don’t look at me!” And with that she shoves him, hard, against the chest. Ivar barely moves from the impact.

In the next instant she’s pushing him again, and again, yelling at him things he can’t understand and then she’s crumbling, falling against him. A terrible sound comes out of her. It’s like an animal caught in a trap, panicked and primal. Then her small body begins to shake against him with huge, gut-wrenching sobs that sound like the howling of an abandoned dog.

It’s only then, in between those horrible sounds, that she says something he understands.

“I want my mama!” Rowan cries against him. Over and over she repeats it. “Mama! I want my mama!”

Ivar looks at his brothers, completely lost as to what to do. Hvitserk appears to be fascinated –or more likely just hungry– Sigurd looks vaguely nauseated, and Ubbe just looks at Ivar like he’s very, very disappointed in the way his little brother is handling the whole situation.

What the Hel is he supposed to do? What is he supposed to do when his person is falling apart in front of his very eyes? Rowan doesn’t cry. Ever! He’s the one who cries, and then Rowan comforts him. Puts him back together with her skinny little arms around his shoulders.

And with that, he realizes that he knows exactly what to do. Just like she’s done for him so many times before, Ivar wraps his arms around her. Ignoring the presence of his brothers and what they might think, he tucks his face into her hair and gently rocks her from side-to-side.

At first, she tries to fight him, some of her earlier rage still fueling her. It doesn’t take much for her to give in, though, and she clutches him back as she weeps into his shoulder.

Despite her extreme distress, or perhaps it’s more accurate to say because of it, she’s soon worn herself into a stupor. Only then does Ubbe step forward to wrap his cloak around her and lift her up into his arms. She’s doesn’t seem to have the strength to protest or move, just leans against him limply.

“Here, give her to me.” Hvitserk finally speaks up, holding out his arms. Ubbe gives him a questioning glance, and he nods towards Ivar. “You carry Ivar, I’ll take her.”

It’s a sensible plan. Ubbe has always been the one to carry Ivar on his back. And Ivar himself is in no fit state to crawl back to the village himself. Hvitserk takes the miniscule burden of Rowan’s weight easily. Sigurd can carry her dress and shoes, anything more might be too much responsibility for him to handle.

He almost wishes they would leave him to himself. The pain of dragging himself across the stones might distract him from his thoughts. As it is, Ivar can’t stop himself from watching as Hvitserk carries Rowan back to the cabin. Her eyes are closed. She’s trying to shut them out, possibly afraid of what they might ask.

The question. The only question that matters. The one that burns in Ivar’s throat till he wants to scream and shake her till she answers him. But he promised, and if he breaks that promise now, she will surely never speak to him again. And now, more than ever, it’s imperative that she allows him to remain close, whatever the answer is.

Because Ivar doesn’t really know, does he? Rowan has hardly been the most forthcoming with him about such things. Anything might have happened. The man she spoke of, he could have been more to her than a mentor.

Then there was the one English guard she’d been friendly with, and he remembers how her hair had fallen around her face that night, loose and disheveled. Strangely, it’s the first time that he remembers looking at her and the word ‘beautiful’ and sprung to mind unbidden. He knew she had to have done something to convince the guard to leave her alone in his room that night.

Hel, for all he knows, Ubbe or Sigurd could have coaxed her into their bed at some point. How would he know? Really, what likelihood is there that he’s even capable of such a thing?

And Ivar realizes, as he gazes on her sweet, troubled face, that it doesn’t matter. Rowan is his person, whether she acknowledges it or not, and that means that she’s his to protect. Whatever happens or has happened, he is the one who is there now. It’s intoxicating for him to think that she has finally, finally shown a bit of weakness. That now, perhaps, she might one day come to need him just as much as he needs her.

Torvi runs forward as soon as she sees them approach. Ubbe is quick to reassure her that Rowan is uninjured, but he then takes her to one side to quietly tell her and Bjorn of everything that happened and the girl’s breakdown. Bjorn is plainly uncomfortable, but he still gestures for Hvitserk to hand her to him.

“I will take her back to our home.” He says briskly. “She can sleep there tonight.”

“Yes, she must rest.” Torvi nods, her expression dazed and her cheeks pale from worry.

As his oldest brother passes by, Ivar tries to reach up and touch her, but Bjorn sidesteps him with a glare. “Let her be.” He snaps. “You’ve done enough.”

Ivar watches the way Rowan curls into the eldest brother’s chest, hiding her face against his shoulder while her arms wrap around herself protectively. He lets his hand fall. Bjorn is an idiot, but it’s true, Rowan is irrationally upset with him right now. Tomorrow, after she’s had time to calm down, he will visit her. He’ll tell her of his plan, that she has nothing to worry about.

That night, Ivar dreams that she will wrap her arms around him again, perhaps even weep a little with gratitude. He will show her that he can be as strong and dependable as any man. Bit by bit, she will come to rely on him and maybe, one day, she will tell him that she takes back the promise she asked of him. And on that day he will finally speak of that night, and what it meant to him.

~...~

The first part of his great plan, going to see Rowan early in the morning by himself, is nipped in the bud almost immediately.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Sigurd stands in front of the door, arms crossed, looking down at Ivar with a smug little smile.

“It is none of your business.” Ivar hisses, glaring back at his brother.

“Oh?” Sigurd sneers. “Just going for a crawl in the woods?”

Ivar bares his teeth, prepared to get the other boy out of his way by force if needed, when Ubbe comes up behind him and lays a hand on his shoulder.

“I know you are concerned about Rowan, brother.” He says. “We all are. So we will all go see how she is this morning.”

It isn’t what Ivar wants to hear, but he knows from Ubbe’s tone that there is no use fighting. He snarls at his brothers to hurry up when he decides they’re taking too long putting on their cloaks, and makes Ubbe carry him into the village. Even Hvitserk comes along. At least Margrethe makes no move to join in, choosing to stay back and work on her wedding dress instead.

As they approach Torvi and Bjorn’s home, they find Guthrum passing by on the way to fetch water from the well. His face is pale. He tells them that Rowan returned to her little cottage in the evening and hasn’t left since. His parents were up all night discussing what should be done, whether the adoption should be postponed.

He doesn’t have to elaborate on the reason behind the uncertainty. The situation has changed. The priority has shifted from providing an orphan with a family, to giving a woman support and security. If Torvi were to adopt Rowan, she would legally be their niece. None of the Ragnarssons would be allowed to marry her and provide her child with an inheritance.

The thought of one of his brothers marrying his reynir fills Ivar with dread and nausea. He is suddenly desperate to see her, to assure her and himself that he is still the most important man in her life. Ubbe has already let him down, and he crawls quickly towards the door to Rowan’s house.

Without knocking, he pushes the door open, calling softly in case she’s still asleep, “Rey-”

He is interrupted by an object colliding with the doorframe just next to his head and a shrill scream from inside telling him to “GET OUT!”

A hand reaches out and shuts the door in front of Ivar while he is still too stunned to move, just as a cup sails over his head. Hvitserk looks down at him, somewhat sympathetic for once.

“Well, that could have gone worse.” He says brightly.

“No, I really don’t think it could.” Ivar asked as if he disbelieves his own ears.

Hvitserk smiles and pats his shoulder. “It could! She could have had a better aim!”

Chapter Text

She’s there again, in that little room with the moonlight shining down on them as he holds her to his chest. Once again, his mouth  starts to press to her neck. It starts a fire deep inside her that grows with a speed that seems incongruent to the innocence of the kisses that lit it.

She arches into him, reaching back to curl her fingers in his thick hair and urging him closer. They move against each other, luxuriating in the sensation of skin on skin. The only sound is that of heavy breathes and her own soft, plaintive moans urging him on. His hand curls around her thigh, opening her for the invasion of his body into hers. There is no pain this time.

No, that’s not quite true. There is a sort of pain. But it’s a sweet, deep aching that is both soothed and intensified as he moves inside her. Something like a wail falls from her lips as it grows inside her, like nothing she’s ever felt in the waking world.

They move together like a duet, she and her moon lover. Harmonizing, like the voice of a tenor and a soprano, each one singing their own notes but their voices melding together to create a melody. The hard snap of his hips in counterpoint to the easy rolling of hers.

She’s not sure when it ends, or if she even reaches a climax. Time skips and the next moment she can feel his breath against her neck as he clasps her even more tightly than before. One calloused palm flattens over her belly, and his voice rumbles out, low and possessive.

“Mine.”

~...~

That’s it, Rowan thinks the moment her eyes open and she remembers her dream, if this is what staying huddled up in bed is going to do to me, I’m dragging my carcass out of it if it’s the last thing I do.

Waking up in another time, losing her family, Oddune’s death, being sent away from England, and now this. Like a dam breaking, all the pain and grief of the past two years had come over Rowan at once. Like someone took the cornerstone out of the wall she had built up to keep reality at bay. And when it had finally become too much for her body to sustain, numbness came over her like a familiar friend.

The last time she’d curled up in bed for three days straight, her father had been there to physically pick her up and carry her to the hospital. Then she’d had her mother to guide her back to the world. There were doctors and medicine to ease the worst of it so she could begin to rebuild herself.

Here, she has a would-be foster mother hopelessly out of her depth when it comes to nervous breakdowns, and a man-child who lurks outside her door at all hours with a worried expression firmly fixed on his face.

Torvi had finally become so irritated with Ivar trying to peek inside every time she opened the door to enter or leave the hut, she’d pretty much ordered him to find something better to do with himself. For some reason he’d actually listened, and Rowan has been saved having to hide her face in her pillow so as not to look at him for hours now.

After that dream, though, she is determined not to continue wallowing for another minute. The last thing she needs in the grand opera that her life has become is to develop some hormone-fueled fixation on a teenage boy.

She pulls her clothing on and sets out. She walks through the village aimlessly, just trying to keep herself moving and hoping the cold air can help clear the lingering fog from her brain. It’s hard to miss the stares as she passes by. It seems like every step she takes is followed by the start of whispered conversations.

A voice calls out to Rowan. Sefa, a seven-year-old girl she has often played with, runs to her, followed closely by her three younger siblings. She throws her arms around Rowan, laughing.

“We haven’t seen you in so long, Rowan!” The girl says. “We have been playing lots of the stick-and-ball game.”

“Have you?” Rowan replies. She knows she feels happy to see the children, but the mist clouds her emotions as well as her mind. All she can do is smile vaguely and return the girls embrace.

The children decide to follow along with her as she continues her walk, babbling excitedly about everything she’s missed. A tall, middle-aged woman with reddish hair watches as they come closer. She stands just outside the door to a hut and, as Rowan draws closer, she gives her a strange sort of a smile and gestures for her to approach.

“You!” the woman calls her, “Yes, you! Come closer. You are Rowan Hildigunnsdóttir, yes? Come, come inside from the cold!”

The woman urges her with such excitement that, in her still numbed state, Rowan can’t help but allow herself to be ushered towards the small, warm dwelling.

Sefa, however, clutches her arm tightly and whispers nervously, “No, Rowan. Not there.”

Rowan hushes the girl, telling her that it would be rude to decline the invitation. Sefa continues to eye the older woman with unease, but she holds tight to Rowan’s arm, refusing to leave her side.

Inside the hut sits another woman, also with reddish hair, and probably a little younger than the first. She looks up in surprise when Rowan enters, but her eyes quickly light up.

“Look who has come to visit us, sister!” says the first woman, “Rowan Hildigunnsdóttir. I found her walking outside and I thought, surely a woman in her condition shouldn’t be wandering about on a day like this.”

The second woman smiled prettily. She carried less frenetic energy than her sister, but Rowan still feels a little strange about the way she looks at her. Only she is just too drained to give it much more thought than that.

“Of course she must come in! Sit down, and tell us how you are faring.”

“I am well.” Rowan replies mechanically as she’s tugged onto a seat near the fire, Sefa following close by. It was very cold out, and the fire feels wonderful on her face and hands.

The second woman sits across from her and says, “You may not now us, but we know you. We were there the day the Queen presented you. Is it true you lived among the English, and that you were with Ragnar Lothbrok before his death?”

Rowan nodds dumbly. “I did meet him, yes.”

The two women share a strange look, and then the younger turns back to her. “And now you are here, alone, and with child. It must be so distressing for you.”

Before Rowan could formulate a response, the older sister spoke up. “But of course, all of Kattegat will be there to support you. Why, my sister and I have only just now finished preparing a tincture to help strengthen the child.”

She doesn’t understand. What are they talking about? Why would they do that? They place a cup before her with bright, eager eyes, and Rowan frowns. The herbalists have shown her how tinctures are prepared by soaking herbs in wine. They were only occasionally used due to the expense of using imported wine. They were also highly concentrated, and she’d never seen someone take a whole cup at a time. Besides that, there is the sudden, niggling thought in the back of her mind that the tincture uses a far stronger alcohol than in the weak ale she consumes on a daily basis.

“I thank you for your kind thought. I am not thirsty just now.” She tries to formulate the politest refusal possible, not wanting to offend the women.

Something flickers in the older woman’s eyes. It is there and gone in an instant, but in that moment Rowan sees and she starts to feel a wariness building up inside her that struggles to break through her daze.

“But you must drink it.” The younger woman says through lips stretched thin over closed teeth. “We made it especially for you.”

Wariness starts to grow into alarm as some heretofore unknown instinct in Rowan tells her to get out of the hut.

“I’m afraid I must-” She starts to stand up, but one hand closes around her arm to hold her there.

The younger sister’s fingers dig into Rowan’s bicep, but the thing that makes her wince is the look on the woman’s face. All trace of warmth is gone, replaced by a look of pure malevolence.

“Quickly, Lofn!” She says to her sister as Rowan starts to struggle. “I will hold her!”

“Yes, Mabil.” Her sister replies obediently as she grabs up the cup and approaches Rowan with it.

Realizing that they mean to force her to drink it, Rowan starts to fight in earnest her mouth shut tightly. Sefa begins to wail in terror as she runs for the door. The two women are so fixed on Rowan that they don’t even seem to notice the little girl screaming for help.

Despite the fog, Rowan can now clearly see what she’d failed to comprehend earlier. These women are totally and completely out of their minds.

“Do not struggle, girl.” Mabil hisses in her ear. “We mean you no harm, it is the one inside you who must answer for its father’s crimes. Won’t it be easier for you not to carry and bear a child alone at your age?”

With those words, a darkness falls over Rowan’s mind. It is the cross between panic and blind rage, and kicks her leg out, catching Mabil in the knee. With a cry of pain the woman releases her, but her sister is right there. Lofn towers over Rowan, and she wraps one arm around her neck, trying to force her head back with one hand and pour the contents of the cup into her mouth with the other.

Rowan spots a small knife sitting on a table, and in an instant snatches it up. It’s as if she can hear Edmund’s voice in her ear, drilling the words into her until her body moves before her mind can think.

Step one, get out of their grasp.

The knife cuts across the woman’s arm, and she releases Rowan. She turns quickly, the next part little more than a blur of panicked instinct.

Step two, go for the throat.

Lofn goes still in shock when the blade stabs into her neck. Rowan doesn’t even have to stop to think to find the carotid and push the knife as hard as she can into it.

There’s blood, blood everywhere. It pulses from the wound and splatters her face and hand. Nearby, she vaguely hears Mabil let out a sound like a howl.

Step three, get the hell out of dodge.

Her brother’s training is the only thing that breaks her out of her shock enough to turn and run from the hut. Outside, people have noticed the commotion and are starting to approach. Rowan falls to her knees in the middle of the dirt street, suddenly unable to move any further. She looks down at her lap where her hands lie, spattered red with the woman’s life.

In the distance, Sefa comes running as fast as her legs can carry her, sobbing hysterically. Following right behind her is the surprisingly comforting sight of Ubbe, face creased with worry as he kneels down beside her. She can see his lips moving, but her stunned mind can’t process what he’s saying. There is a ringing in her ears and her vision has gone strange as shock starts to set in.

~...~

Rowan sits beside the throne in the Great Hall, trying to process the last few hours. Just after Ubbe had arrived, Mabil had come tearing out of her house, screaming that Rowan had murdered her sister. Ubbe had immediately put himself in between them, calmly informing the woman that the matter would be brought before Lagertha. He’d pulled Rowan to her feet and taken her directly to the Queen.

In the end it was Sefa who had described the cup and the way the two women had tried to force Rowan to drink from it. Now, two herbalists stand before a gathering of villagers, holding out a pouch filled with strange black things. Lagertha had sent them to search the hut for whatever the sisters had used to make the tincture, and this is what they had found.

Ergot. A fungus that infects rye grains and could cause hallucinations due to the presence of lysergic acid. It was most familiar in Rowan’s original time as LSD. In this time, however, it is occasionally used to induce uterine contractions.

Hearing this, Lagertha’s face becomes filled with a cold rage as she turns to Mabil. She stands before the queen, surrounded by shieldmaidens to prevent her from coming any closer to Rowan.

“You and your sister meant to cause this woman to lose her child.” She says.

It is not a question, and Mabil doesn’t even try to argue otherwise. Instead she holds her head high and proclaims, “My sister and I sought blood revenge. My husband died in Ragnar Lothbrok’s attack on Paris. My sister’s daughter went with him on his last journey to England, and never returned. But more than that, my son, my only child was murdered by Ragnar’s. Ivar Ragnarsson drove an axe into my boy, and nothing was done.”

The whole room is silent. Several people exchange looks that suggest that they know exactly what the woman is talking about. Rowan glances at Ubbe, standing nearby, and his face has gone gray.

“Ragnar and Aslaug protected the little cripple, they made it as if nothing had ever happened. I was given no weregild for the loss of my son.”

Lagertha winces slightly, her voice softening. “I feel for you, Mabil Geirssdóttir, I too know the pain of losing a child. But what does this have to do with Rowan?”

Mabil laughs. “Do you think we are fools? The child in her belly is Ragnar Lothbroks!”

A gasp runs through the crowd. Rowan feels like she might pass out, throw up, or both simultaneously.

“She said with her own mouth that she was with Ragnar before his death, and now the whole village speaks of how she is carrying a child. Why else would she have come here? Ragnar himself sent his concubine to our lands to be safe. It is fitting that the life of my child be payed for with that of the last child of the man responsible for his death. The Gods agree! They brought her straight to my home just as the tincture was finished!”

It was obvious that the woman was deeply unstable. Rowan could understand how her mind might have taken a few facts and twisted them into something she could use to satisfy the anger she had lived with.

The herbalist interjects, shaking her head. “The amount that you tried to give her would surely have killed them both.”

Lagertha nods. “That is true. And besides that, you have no proof that the father of the child is Ragnar. It is true, a great wrong was done to you, but you did not seek revenge against those responsible. You and your sister sought out someone who was weak and vulnerable who you believed you could overpower, and there is no honor in that. As Rowan has been under my protection, I feel it is my duty to see that justice is done for the attempt on her life.”

“No. Let her be.” Rowan speaks up for the first time, and Lagertha raises her eyebrows, encouraging her to elaborate. “She’s suffered enough. Her own existence is punishment enough.”

After a moment of thought, Lagertha looks back to Mabil. “Very well. Since Rowan has spoken on your behalf, your life will be spared. When I became Queen of Kattegat I said that I intended to rectify the mistakes of the past, and I shall. I will personally pay the weregild for your son, your husband, as well as for your sister and her daughter. You will then pay the weregild to Rowan, her price and half again as is the custom for a when a woman with child is injured.”

Mabil laughs bitterly. “Of what use is money to me? I have no family, no heir to give my possessions.”

“You will accept it,” Lagertha says in a commanding tone, “and I say this for your own benefit, you would do well to leave Kattegat and never return. This is my only warning to you, be grateful for Rowan Hildigunnsdóttir, the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok are not as forgiving as she is.”

~...~

Ubbe walks with Rowan back to Torvi and Bjorn’s home. It’s probably a good thing that they weren’t present today, she thinks, or there would have been a great deal more bloodshed.

“Will you be alright?” Ubbe asks.

Rowan sighs. “I have to be, don’t I?”

He nods. Perhaps he’s one of the best people to understand her at this moment. After his father left, he’d been forced to become a kind of father to his younger brothers. Like her, he hadn’t had the luxury of time to sort out his own feelings. His immediate priority had been those who he felt responsible for.

Later, Rowan has to spend a long time trying to convince Torvi that she’s alright. No lasting physical damage was done. But Torvi still sits her down and tells her about the first time she’d taken a life. That night, they sit up together for many hours, talking quietly.

Torvi had killed her own ex-husband to save Bjorn and, although she didn’t regret it for a moment, it had still taken her some time to come to terms with having taken a life. She gently coaxes until, finally, Rowan starts to open up a little, confiding her conflicting emotions.

Then, just before she takes her leave, Torvi gives Rowan a small package. Inside is some of the softest linen imaginable, perfect for little clothes meant to be worn next to the most delicate skin.

~...~

“We cannot leave her behind.”

Rowan freezes outside the door of the fishing hut. She’s been avoiding going there, knowing that she would have to face the other brothers eventually, but Torvi had forced her hand by sending her to find Bjorn.

On the one hand, she’s starting to develop a terrible habit of eavesdropping. On the other, the brothers are talking about her. She leans closer, curious as to what they will say.

“Ivar’s right. After Paris and the settlement, there are too many here who might decide that those women were right. That they could get revenge on our father by hurting her.” She hears Ubbe say.

Ivar’s voice is strained, urgent as he speaks. “And who is to say that they would be wrong? Hm? Even I cannot say that the child is not Ragnar’s.”

“Absolutely not. A raid is no place for a pregnant woman.” Bjorn interjects.

“Who asked you, Bjorn? You may be the army’s leader, but Rowan is not part of the army or your family.” Ivar’s voice has that strangely pleasant tone he gets when he’s deeply annoyed.

“And besides,” Sigurd adds, “I’m not sure that the village is any safer right now.”

When Ivar and Sigurd actually agree, either it’s a fantastic idea or an absolutely terrible one. Either way, Rowan wonders if Ivar even registers that his brother is taking his side for once. All he seems to be aware of is how he can get his own way.

“We will have to stay in England for the winter. If she stays in Kattegat, the child may come before we return.”

They all fall silent, considering the implications of Sigurd’s words.

Ubbe speaks slowly, choosing his words carefully. “Many of the men are bringing wives and slaves with them. There will be plenty of help for her when the time comes.”

“Then it’s settled-” Ivar cuts off his own words as he opens the door to find Rowan leaning against the doorsill. She raises an eyebrow at him, and she can see him visibly shrink under her unamused gaze. He knows exactly how she feels about everyone making decisions for her.

She turns to walk along the shoreline, hugging herself tightly, and she can hear him following close behind. She speeds up her pace, hoping he will give up his pursuit.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me!”

The harshness in his voice causes her to halt mid-stride and turn, only to find herself tackled to the sand with Ivar’s arms around her legs, pinning her in place.

“Ivar-!”

“Shut up, Rowan! All I have ever done is try to care for you, and this is the thanks I get? You ignore me. You shut me out like an annoying child!”

His voice rises steadily till he is shouting. His hands shake her by her legs as if it could force her to listen to him.

“I have trusted you. I have given you everything! And what do I get in return? You keep silent and then you almost get yourself killed because you trust me with nothing! You treat me like some kind of a pet, merely there for your amusement, feeding the tiniest scraps of affection like a stray dog! I am not a pet, Rowan, I am a man!”

At some point during his tirade, she’s curled her body downwards. Now she is in a fetal position, as much as his grip on her legs will allow, her arms wrapped around her abdomen protectively. When Ivar finally stops to take a breathe, he realizes that she’s trembling.

“Reynir?” He asks, suddenly uncertain. When he hears her muffled sob, he reacts with instant horror. Crawling up beside her, he tries to pry her out of the ball she’s formed herself into.

“I’m sorry.” Is the muffled whimper that comes out.

Now panicked, Ivar gives up and pulls her directly into his arms. Softly, he pets her hair, babbling, “I would never hurt you. You know that, don’t you? You must believe me.”

While at the same time, Rowan cries and apologizes over and over. When she finally stops, Ivar gives a sigh of relief.

“I’m sorry.” She says one last time.

“It is alright to cry.” He whispers as if telling her a secret. “I can be strong enough for both of us.”

“I’m scared, Ivar.” She admits.

Ivar smiles against her hair. “Don’t be. You’re my person. You can’t die without my permission.”

“That is a marvelous comfort.”

They give simultaneous snorts of amusement.

“You will come, won’t you?” He asks. “It isn’t safe for you here.”

Rowan sighs. He’s right. Beyond the threats from those who might make incorrect assumptions about the father of her child, she has to acknowledge the possible threats from those who could make the right one.

“Alright, since you asked so nicely. I’ll go to England with you.”

*.*.*

Generally speaking, I couldn’t care less about the decisions other people make for themselves. But for myself, there are a few choices I just knew I could never make for myself. After all, I had a trust fund and love kids. The usual reasons just didn’t apply to me.

But then this. This, and the first thought that went through my head was, “I have to stop this.”

I don’t know what made me feel more sick, that it was the first thing I thought, or that my second was that there was literally nothing I can do. I’ve spent enough time with the herbalists to know that they have some things they can try early on. But they work less than half the time, and they become less effective and more dangerous the longer you wait. I’m at what, 11 weeks (9+2) at the most conservative?

But when I realized what that woman was trying to do, all I could think was that I couldn’t let her hurt this.

I’m sorry she’s dead. I feel for both of them, here in a world with no psychiatric help. Maybe it would have been more merciful to let Lagertha execute the sister. But that’s not my judgement to make, and I can’t bear the thought of someone else dying because of me.

If only this were all a dream I could wake from. But it feels like, right now, the only thing I can be sure of is that this is mine. The choice back then was mine and so are the consequences. No one will take it from me. I’ll burn down all of Kattegat before I let them.

Chapter Text

“How much further is it? My feet hurt!”

“Stop complaining! I thought you had the memories of a grown woman? Anyone would think you were a child.”

Rowan stops mid stride, Ivar mid-crawl. Simultaneously, they both decide to pretend that comment was never made and continue on their journey through the forest.

“Why don’t you just tell me where we’re going?” She continues to gripe.

Ivar rolls his eyes. “Because then it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?”

He’d come over that morning, fairly bursting with excitement, to demand that Rowan come with him so he could show her some great surprise. She’d started out happy to finally be let out of the house since she’d been in what she privately called protective custody for the past couple of days. After traipsing through the forest for what felt like hours, however, she’s cold and cranky and ready to go sleep some more.

“Here it is!” Ivar announced, turning with a grin to see her reaction.

Rowan tried to gulp down a knot of panic that rose in her throat. “It’s a… chariot.”

Ivar nodded eagerly.

“With a… a horse.”

“Yes, that’s how it moves, Rowan. The horse pulls it. Do you see? I will be able to go into battle! It will be like my legs!”

She is happy for him. Truly she is. But old nightmares had returned over the past few days, and memories with it. Even though the animal before her is apparently a calm enough creature, she can’t help but want to keep her distance.

“Well, what do you think?”

“It’s beautiful, Ivar.” She replies.

“Come, I’ll take you for a ride with me.” He crawls forward and climbs up and then holds his hand out to her expectantly.

Her hand goes instinctively to her belly, rubbing it in an attempt to calm herself. “I-I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

Ivar frowns. “I have been practicing. I promise I will go slowly.”

Rowan wants to argue, but she also wants to show Ivar that she really does trust him. So she approaches carefully all while eyeing the horse warily. Ivar gives her a hand up into the chariot and guides her to sit in front of him. With his front firm against her back and his arms encircling her on either side, she is surprised to find that she’s become calmer.

“Comfortable?” He asks, looking down at her warmly.

She nods, gripping the cushion in front of her tightly as Ivar flicks the reins and the chariot lurches forward. True to his word, he goes at a slow and steady pace out of the clearing and down the shoreline.

“Floki made it for me.” he explains along the way, “I thought we could go and meet him today, since we’re close by.”

Ivar, always plans within plans. Rowan leans her head back against him and sighs. It’s so warm with him surrounding her, and the gentle rocking of the chariot is soothing enough that she just might…

“Reynir?”

“Huh?” Rowan startles back awake.

They’ve stopped in front of a small hut by the lakeshore. Outside, a strange man stands and gives the two of them an even stranger look as Ivar gently wakes her with a whisper in her ear.

“Floki, this is Rowan.” He introduces her proudly.

Rowan scrambles down from the chariot and take the reins from Ivar without a second thought, holding the horse’s head still while he climbs down.

“Ivar has told me much about you.” Floki says. His eyes, rimmed with black, are narrowed and suspicious.

“He has told me of you as well.” she replies, “And of your wife.”

Floki gives a pained smile. “Ah, well, Helga is inside with…”

She nods, letting him know that he doesn’t have to elaborate. Ivar has already told her of the new addition to their household, trying his utmost to prepare her without coming out and saying that they thought the woman had completely lost her mind.

The tall man motions for them to enter the hut. Rowan can feel his sharp gaze following her, and senses that he doesn’t entirely approve of her presence there. Ivar seems to notice as well and is noticeably uncomfortable.

Inside the hut, a woman sits with a young girl clutched to her side. Helga, like her husband, wears dark makeup around her eyes, and her blonde hair falls in loose waves about her gentle face. To Rowan, it is obvious that the girl is distressed. Her expression has a blankness that she’s seen far too often in a mirror to mistake.

She greets Helga politely, who seems pleased to see Ivar with a friend, before turning to the girl, Tanaruz. Perhaps there was something she could do to help calm her? Not that Rowan blames her for her current mental state. From what she’s heard, the girl has been through a terrible ordeal. But remaining terrified and withdrawn isn’t going to help her survive long enough to perhaps return home.

“Salaam.” Rowan says with a nod, hoping that the greeting is familiar enough for Tanaruz to recognize.

Her reaction is instantaneous. She sits up abruptly, her face showing shock, and begins a stream of rapid words that Rowan can only assume are Andalusian Arabic.

Rowan holds up her hands to stop her, trying to somehow show that she doesn’t understand, that the greeting is all she knows. Tanaruz slumps back down, once again looking sad and defeated.

“How did you know that?” Floki asks with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

With a glance to Ivar, Rowan confirms that he’s told them about her memories before replying. “I have memories of learning about many people. The greeting is very common. It means ‘peace’.”

Something changes in Floki’s demeanor. “You know of her people, about their gods?”

“Yes.” Rowan nods, “They are Muslim, and they worship a single god called Allah.”

A strange sound comes from Tanaruz, and Helga immediately tries to ‘soothe’ her. She frowns at Rowan, displeased with her for upsetting the girl. Rowan tries to apologize and assure her that she means no harm, but the woman is like a lioness with her cub, fierce and defensive.

It quickly becomes apparent that her presence is only causing problems. With flushed cheeks, Rowan hurries to excuse herself, saying that she should return soon before Torvi starts to worry. Once outside, Floki again regards her carefully, only now with less hostility.

“Ivar says that you are a Christian who is not like other Christians. To be honest, if I had met you ten years ago, I would not have believed him but...”

“I suppose I am.” Rowan admitted, she unwittingly found herself standing by the horse, stroking his nose. For the first time in years, she’s calmed by the smell of leather and horse sweat instead of panicked.

“In my dreams, I have seen a world where my people have turned from our gods, forsaking them for the Christian’s dead god.”

She laughs humorlessly. “In the world I have seen, all gods are nearly dead. It’s not personal.”

Ivar, meanwhile, has situated himself on the chariot, and beckons impatiently for her to hurry up and join him. He has been disappointed by the visit, although Rowan isn’t sure what exactly he’d expected. She’s reminded of their first conversations when he’d expressed his loathing for people of her faith. And it occurs to her how much he’s chosen to set aside in order to be close to her.

They are silent for a long time on the ride back to the village. Ivar is obviously brooding, and Rowan can’t help but feel guilty. For what, precisely, she isn’t sure.

“I’m sorry.” she finally says, hoping that it’s enough to break him out of his mood. “I thought I could help.”

“Whether you believe it or not, Reynir, we survived quite well for a long time before you came.” He doesn’t say it cruelly, which just makes it sting all the more.

“I do know that, I…” she struggles for the words, “I don’t know how to explain so you’ll understand. Everything that I valued, everything that was vital to my existence, it all means nothing here. And every time I feel as if I’ve found some kind of… stability, something happens and it kicks my feet out from under me.”

He pouts thoughtfully before asking, “What kinds of things, what values?”

“Just… kindness. Being good to people no matter who they are. And yes, I know it’s a very Christian thought, but it’s the truth.”

Back in the village, he gives her an arm to help her down before turning to take his chariot back to the stable.

“Ivar!” Rowan calls after him, and he stops, “What is your horse’s name?”

Ivar shrugs. “He doesn’t have one.” he gives her a charismatic smile and, with a shake of the reins, sets off again, but not before saying, “Why don’t you think of one?”

~...~

The evening before Ubbe and Margrethe’s wedding, Rowan answers a knock at her door to find Ivar and Sigurd. Their presence isn’t so much of a surprise as the fact that they’re carrying all their belongings. When she only stands there in dumb silence, they brush past her to come inside and immediately start to argue over sleeping arrangements.

“Excuse me!” she asks, “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

“Ubbe and Margrethe are getting married tomorrow.” Sigurd explains.

Ivar makes a face. “And I refuse to be anywhere near the cabin tomorrow night.”

“So we thought that, since we’ll be leaving in only a few days, we would stay here with you. It will also make it easier for us to protect you if we’re right here.”

Rowan crosses her arms. “And where exactly do you intend to sleep?”

“On the floor.” Sigurd replies, as if it were an obvious response.

“No,” Ivar corrects him snidely, “you will sleep on the floor. I will take the bed.”

“And where will I sleep?” Rowan asks.

“On the bed.” Ivar rolls his eyes, and it takes all she has not to point out how much he sounds like his brother in that moment.

Sigurd immediately objects, but Ivar smiles at him unpleasantly.

“What are you worried about, brother?” He asks, and something about the question makes Sigurd sputter with indignation and give up his argument.

As for Rowan, she takes one look at Sigurd and agrees. His face is very much like that of a man who’s about to see the woman he loves married to his brother. She doesn’t have the heart to tell him he has to go back and, what, pretend to sleep while they consummate the marriage?

“What about Hvitserk?” She asks, looking at the door, worried that yet another Ragnarsson is about to burst in and demand a place in her small home.

Ivar dismisses him with a wave of his hand. “Who knows?”

Rowan has been weirded out enough by the strange affairs between Margrethe and the brothers, and decides not to put any more thought into the question.

~...~

Sitting high above the ground. A flickering in the corner of her eye. Something is coiled around her throat. A shrieking in her ears. Her seat rears up, throwing her off, but she’s caught and finds herself swinging and colliding with the wall. Stunned, she looks up in time to see a flash of silver as-

“Reynir! Reynir, wake up!”

She is awakened from her nightmare by Ivar shaking her by the shoulder. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, it takes her a moment to remember where she is.

The room is lit by the glow of the small fire. She can see Sigurd on the floor beside them, still fast asleep on his bed of furs. Ivar is propped up on his elbow beside her, regarding her with a worried expression, and she tries to give him a reassuring smile but her lips are trembling.

“I’m alright.” she says, “It was just a bad dream.”

Ivar lies back down. In the small bed, they are close enough that they can speak quietly and still be heard, without waking Sigurd.

“Tell me?” He asks.

Rowan sighs. It’s not something she’s talked about a great deal, even in her old life. Rather, it was one of the many things she’d tried to bury deep down, unable or unwilling to face it.

“In my memories I loved two things, swimming and riding.”

“You hate horses.” Ivar pointed out rather bluntly.

“I don’t hate them. I… I’m afraid.”

Ivar listened quietly while she told him the story. Her parents had bought her a mustang, a formerly wild horse that she would work with a trainer to tame. Even then, he would always be a little skittish, more in tune with his instinct to flee from possible predators than an animal born and raised in captivity.

She knew it wasn’t a good idea to wear a scarf, but she’d convinced herself that she knew what she was doing. She also knew it was a bad idea to mount the horse while he was still tied up. But she’d gotten it into her head one day that nothing would happen, she would just get on, lean over his head, and release the rope from the hook.

A wind had blown through and caught the end of her scarf. It had fluttered by the horse’s head and become tangled on the hook. The horse startled, throwing Rowan off. But she was attached to the wall by her neck and found herself hanging there, choking as she was too stunned to get her feet back under her.

The horse had still been tied up and, panicked, he’d reared up again, trying to get free. He’d come down right on her leg, several times. She didn’t remember what happened after that. Somehow he’d gotten free and, in the process, dislodged the scarf from the same hook. The next thing she knew she was looking at bits and pieces of her left leg spread out on the asphalt in front of her.

“The healers were skilled, and they saved my leg. But I was angry and bitter and I didn’t do what they told me to help it heal. You asked me once if there was anything I liked better here, and there is. Here, there’s no more pain.”

Ivar has taken all of this in without comment. He seems almost bewildered as he says, “So when you said that you have seen worse than my legs, that is what you meant.”

Rowan nods. “No matter how hard I try, I can’t get that image out of my head.”

“And the nightmares?” He asks.

“Come and go.” she replies, “I want you to understand, I know I can be… critical, but it’s because I know you can do better than I did. My mother protected me too. She let me give up because she didn’t want to push me and risk making me angry with her. And the only other person who might have made a difference was… indisposed.”

“Your father?”

She snorts. “Hardly. He was always rather absent, in mind if not in body. No, I was speaking of my brother.”

“What happened to him?”

“He…” She pauses, unsure of how to explain in a language that doesn’t have the word ‘addiction’, “There was a… something like an herb. It soothed his pain, but it hurt him too, and he would have done anything to get it.”

Ivar sits up on his elbows, agitated. “My father, my brothers tell me that he was similar just before he left us.”

“Then perhaps you know,” she muses, “people like them, they can become manipulative. Edmund was already charming. My mother is… was a uniquely brilliant woman. She could take a pig and turn it into a mountain of gold. My brother, on the other hand, could take your mountain of gold, give you a pig, and make you feel thankful for it.”

Rowan chuckles a little at her own joke, briefly lost in her memories of happier times, before she remembers herself and goes on.

“My parents told me that he wasn’t allowed in our home, but I didn’t listen. When they were away, I would let him stay there. One day, I realized that he’d stolen a necklace that was very precious to me. When I confronted him about it, he was under the effects of that… stuff, and he,” she has to take a deep breathe before she can admit, “he hit me.”

Ivar is angered by this. Offended that someone would harm her, even if it had been years ago and a millennia in the future. “His own sister? What kind of a man strikes his own sister?”

He seems to have conveniently forgotten what happened when they first met, when he’d reacted without thinking and hit Rowan to keep her from touching his legs.

“A very sick one. He was trying to change before I fell into the water. I truly thought things were going to be better.”

He strokes her head gently and says nothing. Likely, he doesn’t how what to say. But Rowan has determined to be more open with him, and confiding in him about the things that still haunt her seems like the best place to start.

Finally he tells her to go back to sleep, that he will wake her again if she has another nightmare. It isn’t necessary. Her sleep for the rest of the night is deep and peaceful, undisturbed by ghosts from the past.

~...~

The wedding goes surprisingly well. A chair is set up for Ivar, and Rowan sits in the grass beside him. She’s started to feel her energy coming back, but she still has moments where she’s suddenly overcome with fatigue and has to rest. He offers for her to sit in his lap with a cheeky grin, but she shakes her head and rests her head on his hip.

Torvi stands behind them, surprisingly tolerant of Ivar’s presence and the familiar way he pets Rowan’s hair.

Later, at the wedding feast in the brother’s cabin, Hvitserk has to serve everyone due to losing a footrace against Ubbe. Ivar and Sigurd are both deeply pleased by this, and join together in teasing him. It once again amazed Rowan how well they could get along when they were momentarily distracted from their usual, mutually abusive tendencies.

Near the evening, Rowan excuses herself to retire. As she steps outside, a small voice calls out to her. It is Margrethe, and Rowan feels compelled to show her the bare minimum of politeness only because it is the other woman’s wedding day.

“I wanted to thank you for the work you did on my dress. It is beautiful.”

Rowan shrugs dismissively. “I said I would.”

“But you didn’t have to,” Margrethe says, “after what happened. I want you to know that I will treasure it always.”

Rowan twists her mouth, trying to control herself, but she’s grown tired of this woman and her incessant expression of doe-eyed naivete.

“Margrethe, I wish the best for your marriage but, in truth, the people I hate the most are those lacking in integrity. And you seem to be a person who stands for nothing aside from that which is easiest for you. I hope you learn some sense of loyalty, for Ubbe’s sake if not your own.”

Margrethe’s sweet smile falls. “It is easy to be loyal when you were born free. Complete strangers are so eager to protect you, but I was born a slave. There are no laws to protect us. Our lives are about serving our masters and surviving any way we can.”

She cocks her head and regards Rowan. “You are very pretty, I’m sure your mother told you that when you were a girl.”

Rowan frowns, confused by the statement, but nods.

“My mother would tell me that too. She would tell me that one day, I would grow to be the prettiest girl in the village and then, at night when she thought I was sleeping, I would hear her weeping.”

Rowan’s stomach falls. It doesn’t take a lot of thought for her to realize the implication of that. Margrethe continues.

“The people we belonged to had no interest in shielding me. But then I was bought by Queen Aslaug, and I saw the way her sons looked at me, possessive. I knew that if I became something to even one of them, they would never allow another to lay a hand on me ever again.” she smiles without humor, “Ubbe was bold and charming. It was so easy just to… give in. He was different from other men. He treated me like I was more than just a warm place to put his prick. Then Hvitserk said he wanted me and I thought, wouldn’t two be better than one?”

“What about Sigurd?” Rowan asks, remembering the way the two would look at each other.

Margrethe’s expression turns wistful. “Sigurd was… different. He was too shy to pursue me, but I wanted to know what it would be like with a man like him. He is… tender, sensitive. He would ask me about my thoughts and dreams, like I was a real person.”

“You’re in love with him.”

The blonde doesn’t speak, but her expression confirms Rowan’s observation.

“And he loves you, but you chose to marry Ubbe.”

“Sigurd does not have the character to ever become a great leader of men. Ubbe is the oldest. He is the one with the most authority. People already respect him.” Margrethe replies. Her logic is impeccable and cold-blooded, and Rowan finds it completely infuriating.

“And yet you betrayed him, both of them.” she accuses, “Because of you they weren’t there when their mother was killed.”

Margrethe defends herself with an argument as old as time. “I had no choice!. Lagertha bought me. She told me to keep them occupied. I didn’t know that she intended to take Kattegat, or kill their mother.”

Rowan scoffs. “You’re not an idiot. You had to know she was planning something.”

Margrethe’s mouth forms a stubborn line. “Slaves do not question their master’s orders.”

“And people do not betray their friends,” Rowan almost shouts, “not even if it means risking their own lives! You can’t demand to be treated as an equal and then say you had no choice. You can’t have it both ways.”

With a sigh, she tries to calm herself, aware that it isn’t good for her to become irate in her current condition.

“I am truly, deeply sorry for what you’ve gone through, and I understand that you believe you’ve only done what you had to survive. But I really despise people like who use their circumstances as an excuse for doing terrible things. I only hope that, someday, Sigurd will find someone who truly values him.”

Margrethe doesn’t respond, and they are soon interrupted by Ivar and Sigurd coming out. They are surprised but pleased to see that Rowan is still there, having decided that it wasn’t safe for her to walk home alone. They usher her off, with Sigurd asking every few steps if she’s warm enough and Ivar rolling his eyes and huffing that Rowan obviously doesn’t want his smelly cloak, so stop bothering her.

~...~

Everyone had been mercifully understanding when Rowan had ‘politely declined’ attending the sacrifice to ask the gods for their favor. The final task complete, there is a tremendous bustle of excitement as The Great Heathen Army prepares to set off.

The docks are filled with families bidding their men goodbye; Bjorn is stomping around, barking like a mad chihuahua; and a small group are trying to figure out how to get Ivar’s horse onto one of the boats. They’d gotten the chariot on by rigging up a ramp, but the horse refused to set foot on it, unused to the swaying and rocking of the boat in front of him.

With a sigh, Rowan stepped forward and held out a shawl. “Put this around his eyes. If he can’t see where he’s going, he might be more cooperative.”

The men seemed surprised, but agreed that it was a good idea. The horse was already wearing a harness with blinkers, so he adjusted relatively quickly when they tied the cloth over just his eyes. Sure enough, with a little coaxing they finally managed to get him up the ramp and into the boat with only a little extra fuss.

“Have you thought of a name yet?” Ivar chuckled as Rowan startled at the sound of his voice.

“Fahrvergnügen.” She snaps, not really meaning it but annoyed at him for sneaking up on her, again.

His eyes light up. “I like it, Fahrvergnügen.”

For roughly the thousandth time, Rowan wishes Oddune was there. As it is, no one alive can fully appreciate why she has to fight to keep a straight face at Ivar’s intense pride in having a chariot horse named after the Volkswagen slogan.

“What is so funny?” He asks suspiciously.

“Oh, nothing.” she tries to shrug casually.

All of the Ragnarssons will sail on one boat, along with several others including Floki, Helga, and their adoptive daughter. Floki does not look pleased by this.

“I suspect,” Rowan says in a lame attempt to lighten the mood, “That we’re really going to England because Hvitserk… has eaten everything. If we starve on the way over you know who to blame.”

Ubbe and Sigurd snort in amusement, while Bjorn gives her a dark look.

“Does he… have a sense of humor?” She asks Ivar in an undertone, and he shrugs.

“Not that I know of.”

The moment has come. The boats head out, lead by the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok. As they reach the mouth of the inlet, Rowan turns back to get one last view of Kattegat, and nearly chokes with surprise.

The shape of the mountains, the shoreline, she knows now why it had seemed so familiar. She had been too overwrought when she first saw the village from this vantage, but now she realizes. The docks and the ships are different; there are no rows of shops and townhouses; and the house up in the mountains where her Mormor lives won’t be built for another thousand years, but she knows this place.

She has to laugh at the irony because, in a way, she’d been home this entire time.

*.*.*

It was happening again. I’d pushed too far, thought I knew what someone was capable of and didn’t. All I could think was that I can’t trust him to be calm and reasonable. So even though he was right, and I need to start treating him like an adult, I can’t help but want to wait until I can be sure before letting him be a father. Right now, there’s too much that’s uncertain. He’s unpredictable, a little unstable. I don’t know how he would react to knowing This is his.

~...~

My home has become infested with teenage boys. May have to burn it down.

~...~

Ivar wanted me to go to the sacrifice. I said, “Fuck no”. He looked shocked by my language and I was just, like, Hvitserk’s been really, really educational.

He didn’t come back until very late, long after Sigurd. Acted all weird. Wouldn’t look at me for awhile in the morning. Kind of seemed… guilty?

Whatever. Hard to say without a period to count from, but about 12(?) weeks now. No bump, but it’ll be awhile due to abdominal muscles.

Not sure of Bothild’s birthday. No one really celebrates them so they aren’t really kept track of. Definitely 15 by now, and it occurs to me, I may have misjudged physical maturity because of a couple things.

• Bothild’s build is different from what I was before. Generally less curvy. Probably more developed than I realized because I was expecting things to be… well… more dramatic.
• Been very physically active, so even when I put on weight it was muscle and not fat. Could that have delayed menarche?

General question comes down to, Rowan, why you so stupid?

Wish I remembered more from those classes. How big now? Lime? Plum? Not sure. Also not sure Ivar quite grasps that there is a little person involved here. Been very focused on me being comfortable/safe, but hasn’t asked about the Womb Gremlin directly. Ah well, lots of time.

Must get back to work. Nappies won’t sew themselves.

Chapter Text

Ivar bears the voyage much better this time. While his phobia isn’t completely relieved, knowing that he is capable of swimming seems to lessen it enough that he can put on a brave face in front of his brothers.

Or perhaps it is something else that draws his attention away from his fear. With every league they come closer to England, not only Ivar but all of his brothers grow more and more pensive. Rowan can feel him drawing away from her into the recesses of his own mind. She knows he must be remembering the last time he was in that country, the last time he saw his father alive.

The intensity of the emotions around her is unsettling. She tries to keep herself occupied with sewing, but her hands are too stiff from the breeze of the ocean to properly work the tiny stitches.

The strain is only increased by the presence of Helga, who clings to her adoptive daughter, completely unaware of the girl’s distress. In the end, Rowan finds herself singing quietly to herself, trying to soothe her frayed nerves.

“See the line where the sky meets the sea? It calls me. And no one knows, how far it goes.”

“Can it hear you?” Hvitserk hides his unease better than his brothers. Since learning of her special knowledge he asks her all sorts of questions, some she can answer and some she can’t.

“You mean…?” Rowan gestures towards her belly, and he nods, “No, not yet. But eventually, yes.”

“Even from inside?” He seems enthralled by the thought.

“Yes.” she gives a small, mischievous smile and is careful to keep her voice low, mindful of the solemn mood of their companions, “You’re eyebrows look good.”

Hvitserk ducks his head with a slight snicker. He’d been deeply amused when he woke from his drunken stupor to discover the prank, and there had been no animosity between them since. Luckily, his eyebrows grew quickly and are already filled back in for the most part.

Ivar’s voice cuts in, quiet and tense. “Leave her alone, Hvitserk. I was enjoying her singing.”

Rowan and Hvitserk exchange an amused glance. Of course, he himself could ignore her for however long, but Ivar still coveted every bit of her attention; jealously guarding it like a dragon with it’s hoard of wealth. Hvitserk, relentlessly amiable in the face of his brothers’ more dramatic tendencies, leaves her side with a smile and a cordial nod of his head.

~...~

They land near York. It’s strange for Rowan, knowing that her father’s ancestors are there at that moment. He would have known their names, occupations, and probably the exact number of goats in their possession. What would he say if he could see her now?

The non-combatants like Rowan and Helga remain with the boats for this first battle against the man directly responsible for Ragnar’s death, Aelle, the King of Northumbria. There’s a strange monotony to the waiting. Most keep themselves busy with various chores, cleaning salt from clothing or preparing food.

The warriors return several days later, victorious, and Rowan focuses on tending to any wounds. She pretends she’s some kind of Red Cross nurse, bound to use her skills without bias towards or against her patients.

The brothers are in all kinds of moods. Ivar is exultant, Sigurd troubled, Bjorn… Bjorn hides it well, but she can see in his eyes that he fights back tears. They saw where their father died.

She knows what has been done to Aelle, understands it on a physiological level, but can’t quite comprehend that these young men could do something like that. But then, if her father had been murdered in such a horrible way, would her anger be any less?

Ivar still maintains a distance from her. There is a restlessness about him. His mind is fixed completely on Wessex and the next battle, the next chance to fight. Rowan thinks, she should be horrified, but there are so many things in this world to be horrified by. She simply doesn’t have the energy to spend thinking about all of them.

At least it’s not so cold as on the open water. When she’s done what she can for the injured, she’s finally able to put more work into her sewing. She spends most of her days and nights in Floki and Helga’s tent.

Despite his hatred of Christians, Floki seems to have decided that his Gods have some sort of a purpose in mind for her. While he doesn’t treat her with the same affection he does Ivar, he is pleasant and always mindful of her condition. She wonders how much Ivar has said to Floki, whether he has told him of what happened between them the last time they were in England.

As for Rowan, she finds it more and more difficult to imagine broaching the subject every time she sees the wild, dangerous look in his eye as he argues with his brothers over the command of their army.

~...~

“It is called the River Trent.”

“And it will take us to Wessex?”

Rowan shrugs at Bjorn’s question. “I can’t say. From what I remember, it crosses into and across Mercia. There is a tributary, the Tame, that runs down into Wessex, but I don’t know that it is large enough.”

“We shall have to find a good place to leave the boats and go the rest of the way by land.” Says Ubbe.

And that is how, several days later, they find themselves camping nearby a village called Repton. They remain there for a short time to gather carts to carry their supplies overland as they march into Wessex.

Rowan, Helga and Tanaruz have mostly kept together. Despite the tension, they’re still the most familiar people around. They usually sit in silence while Rowan sews. But, one day, the girl notices what Rowan is working on and cranes her neck to get a better view. Pleased to see her showing interest in something, Rowan smiles at her and touches her belly to show where her abdomen is now visibly distended.

Tanaruz reaches out cautiously, and for once, Helga lets her go, curious about what she will do. Two small, brown hands touch Rowan’s rounded belly and, to both women’s surprise, the girl proceeds to examine her with obvious skill. She palpates specific areas with a firm touch, and when she’s finished, she looks up at Rowan and simply nods, indicating that all is well.

Tears well up in Rowan’s eyes, a combination of hormones and just being touched that this frightened girl would be willing to do such a kind thing for her. She hadn’t seen a midwife while in Kattegat despite Torvi’s urgings. She’d been afraid of what they might say considering her small frame and the age of her body.

Rowan thanks Tanaruz profusely, hands folded over her heart. Her expression is reserved and anxious, but she nods again to acknowledge that she understands. Behind her, Helga smiles wistfully.

~...~

They travel the main road boldly. No one dares to approach an army of several thousand strong. Ivar fairly orders Rowan to ride with him, insisting that she shouldn’t walk so much in her condition. Having had some time to calm down since their first battle, he and Sigurd have started taking turns fussing over every little thing she tries to do.

Near the border of Wessex, a scout arrives to tell them that the Saxon army is close. Bjorn decides that they will make camp where they are. Ivar wants to inspect the battlefield, to see if he could devise a strategy that the English won’t be expecting. His brothers disagree and, for a moment, tempers flare.

To Rowan’s surprise, it’s Bjorn who actually asks Ivar why he wants to change their tactics. To her even greater surprise, Ivar responds to him with a reasonable, convincing argument and invites his eldest brother to join him. Bjorn finally agrees, and mounts his stolen horse. Ivar nudges Rowan, telling her to go with the others. She fusses him a little, but finally dismounts with a chivalrous hand from Ubbe, and watches as the two brothers ride off.

They return later, Ivar buzzing with excitement. He has formulated a plan to confuse the Saxon army using the hills and forests, making them believe that their best bet would be to ride towards Repton to destroy their ships. Only the Vikings will keep half their army back, and the Saxons will end up surrounded on all sides by their forces.

The next day, Rowan waits again with Helga and Torvi. She knows that even if they win, there is a chance that one of her friends could be wounded or killed. For the first time in years, she feels compelled to pray. Even though the forces they’re fighting are Christian, still she bows her head and silently begs.

God, if my being here is somehow part of a plan, and not just a random trick of fate, please help me. I know it’s selfish of me, but I can’t mourn another friend just yet.

She leaves the tent, unable to bear another minute of sitting and pretending she’s not terrified. They have camped amidst a forest next to the road, and she stands for awhile, straining to listen for the sound of an approaching chariot. The only sounds come from the camp itself. With a sigh, she turns back to try and occupy herself with something useful.

~...~

Ivar’s chariot comes tearing into camp ahead of the others. It’s impossible for Rowan not to hear him with the whooping and hollering he’s doing. She races out of the tent where she’s been checking bandages, and he lights up when he sees her running to meet him.

“We won!” he crows, “The English are retreating!”

“Is everyone alright?” Rowan asks almost before he’s finished speaking.

He looks confused. “What? Yes! Did you hear me?”

“Yes, I heard you.” She assures him as she climbs up to look him over, making sure none of the blood spatter was his.

He tries to dodge out of her grasp, but Rowan persists despite his protests. There are no tears in his armor, no visible injuries to his face, and no arrow sticking out of anything, so she finally wraps her arms around him and buries her face into his neck.

Ivar freezes the instant her first sniffle reaches his ears. Casting a quick glance around at the people watching, he puts an arm around her shoulders and pats her head awkwardly. She knows that he’s trying to play it cool, but she can feel a tiny smile when he touches his lips to her forehead. Of course he’s enjoying the attention, the assurance that she was worried about him.

“Get your things together.” he says, ruffling her hair gently, “We will hound the English all the way back to their King. And you, my Reynir, will ride in by my side.”

~...~

She knows that he means it to be a moment of triumph for them both, but to Rowan, the sight of the royal villa looming ever closer fills her with dread. It’s like a nightmare, both for what is there and what is not.

When Bjorn gives the order for the men to charge on the village, Ivar holds back, riding slowly at the back of the army. His expression is serious, contemplative, lost in his own memories.

They break down the front gate to find the village empty. The inner gate to the villa is wide open. The English have abandoned this place to them. The Vikings scatter about, preparing to strip the buildings of everything of value, and Rowan’s first thought is to get to the infirmary and secure the valuable supplies there.

Ivar reaches out to stop her, but she shakes his hand off and hurries through the mud to the stone building. She halts before opening the door. It swings slowly, revealing the familiar room. Unlike the last time she saw it, there is no body lying on a cot. It is empty, Oddune was buried long ago.

Oddune! Rowan turns and races through the halls. All around her the Vikings are burning everything they can, laughing at the careless destruction. At the entrance to Oddune’s library, she stops and stares in horror.

“What are you doing?” She screams as Sigurd casually drops an armful of scrolls into a bonfire.

She runs at him, pushing and pounding on his chest as she curses him. He reacts with mute surprise, hands held out at his sides. Her blows mean nothing to him, her words are vicious and cut deep.

“You idiot! You ignorant, witless barbarian!”

With a sob, she rushes to gather as many of the precious scrolls and books as she can, heedless of the flames around her. Sigurd slowly moves to pick up a few rolls of paper that escaped the fire and hands them to her.

Rowan knows that he is trying to apologize, that he didn’t know what these things meant to her, but all she can think is of the hours Oddune spent meticulously translating, copying, and studying the words on these pages. Now all that knowledge is lost, destroyed because the people she lives with see it as worthless.

Gripping the precious items to her chest, she numbly returns to the infirmary, blind to the the continued destruction around her. It doesn’t matter to her. There’s nothing more that can be taken from her. Her family, her home, Oddune, and now even his memory has been defiled by the careless brutality of the world she’s been forced into.

“Bothild.”

The deep, quiet voice startles her from her dark thoughts, and she looks up only to be surprised again at the tall man standing in the doorway.

“Uncle.” Rowan’s voice is cold.

Lord Cat Butt Face himself approaches, his expression grave as examines her from head to toe. On instinct, she stands to greet him, the movement a little awkward as her center of gravity has started to shift. This detail does not go unnoticed by Bothild’s uncle. His gaze falls to her abdomen, and he pales.

“You are…” He can’t finish, his gruff voice choked with emotion. “I had hoped… I had prayed that they wouldn’t harm you but…”

He falls to his knees in front of her, head bowed. Rowan doesn’t know what to think. He’d always been so distant, so proud when she’d seen him.

“If you were so concerned, why did you want to send me away?”

“It was not my decision.” he shakes his bowed head, ”If it had been, I would never have allowed Botwine… my brother’s only child to be put in that situation.”

“You never seemed to care so much about me before.” Rowan snaps.

The man nods. “I know, I know. I wish I could deny it, but the truth is that I harbored resentment.”

“Because my mother was a pagan.”

He looks up at her in surprise. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

He sighs, standing slowly and gestures for her to sit back down on the cot behind her while he pulls up a stool. In any other situation it would strike Rowan as comical looking. He is an extremely tall man, even taller than Bjorn, and the stool is very short.

“I assumed you would have heard. My quarrel was never with your mother, but my brother.”

Rowan sits up straight, alarmed by the dark, sad expression on his face. He goes on, his manner uncomfortable, but determined to tell the story in its entirety.

His story starts many years ago. Their family had once been Thegns, landowners, Anglo-Saxon nobility. Only he and Botwine’s grandfather had become known for behaving in a corrupt manner, and his property was revoked by the King. Without land, the family was reduced to the status of Ceorls, simple freemen.

Their father was already a young man and married when this happened, and as the uncle told it, he spent the rest of his life trying to overcome the shame his own father had brought on them. But his greatest regret was that he was no longer able to give their mother, a kind woman with fragile health, the life she deserved.

With no other skills with which to earn a living, the brothers became members of the local Ealdorman’s household guard. The Ealdorman was not an inherited title, it was bestowed directly by the King himself. So as the brothers gained respect from their master, he was able to put in a good word for them. Eventually, their bravery earned them positions in the King’s personal bodyguard.

Botwine, the elder of the two, was especially favored by the Ealdorman. A betrothal was arranged between him and the Ealdorman’s daughter, who upon her marriage would receive a large inheritance. It was the perfect way to insure their family’s future. Their mother was ailing, but the marriage would have allowed them to make her final days comfortable.

Then they had gone to the settlement, and Botwine had met Hildegunn. Rowan can see the rage the uncle still bears as he describes the discovery that the pair were involved, and the reaction from her family.

“The Northmen did not take kindly to their daughter being dishonored. Ecbert and that she-wolf that led the Northmen wanted to maintain the peace, and came down on him like the wrath of Almighty God himself. And my brother, he didn’t even regret it. Said he was ‘in love’.”

His eyes take on a somber, far-away look as he describes spending the next few years far away from his brother. When he’d died, the uncle was left trying to find a way to grieve a brother he’d once loved and now resented. Not only that, but he’d found himself the guardian of a strange child that never spoke. He - Wulfgar, Rowan makes the conscious effort to think of him by his name - was a soldier, with no idea what to do with her.

Rowan nods. It’s not difficult for her to understand Wulfgar. Yes, he could have done much more for Bothild. But she can also see that he’s just a man, with as many strengths as he has flaws.

“Why are you here?” she asks, “Why aren’t you with Aethelwulf and the rest of the army?”

Wulfgar gives a derisive snort. “I decided I was through following the orders of arses.”

She bursts into laughter, and when he realizes that she isn’t offended by his language, he joins with a wry smile.

“I’d hoped you would be with the Northmen when they arrived. Wanted to see how you’d been treated.”

“They’ve treated me well.” she touches her belly, “This… happened before I left.”

Wulfgar takes this in stride. It seems that, as far as he’s concerned, she and the child are both family, and this time, he means to do his duty by them.

There’s one more question she needs to ask. “If you didn’t want it, why was I sent away?”

Wulfgar clenches his teeth in anger. “Ecbert commanded it, told me to let you believe it was my doing. I thought, he is my King, I must obey him. To refuse would mean my dishonor. It wasn’t until you had gone that I realized that the dishonor was in not you.”

She frowns. “What? Why would Ecbert want me to go with Ivar?”

“Ask him yourself.” is his gruff reply, “When I arrived, Aethelwulf was scarpering with his family, but Ecbert remained behind.”

Rowan cocks her head curiously. “You aren’t with him?”

“Ah,” Wulfgar scoffs, “like I said, there’s no honor in following an arse, even an arse appointed by God.”

Just then, the door swings open and Ivar crawls in. When he sees the pair of them, he frowns.

“Ivar, this is my uncle, Wulfgar. Uncle, I believe you should recognize Prince Ivar.” She introduces each in their own language.

Ivar pulls himself closer to Rowan, looking the grizzled warrior up and down. “The one with the face like a cat’s arse? Shall I kill him for you?”

Wulfgar may not understand his words, but he certainly comprehends the tone, as well as the distaste the younger man regards him with. But he is a man of far greater years than Ivar, and his own expression reveals nothing.

“If you would,” he nods to Rowan, “tell the Prince that I am grateful for the kindness he’s shown to my brother’s daughter.”

When she translates this, Ivar’s eyebrows raise subtly in surprise. “You can tell him that the gratitude of a Christian means nothing to me.”

Wulfgar smiles wryly at this, amused with the boy’s fervor. “Perhaps not, but will he accept the service of one?”

Both Ivar and Rowan are surprised this time. Wulfgar explains that his abandonment of Aethelwulf’s army means that he is as good as exiled. Now, his only interest is in seeing after the welfare of ‘Bothild’. It’s readily apparent to her that his dedication is not to her as an individual, but to the only child of a beloved brother who happens to be the only family he has left.

She also knows that Ivar really doesn’t want to let the man live. However, he’s made it clear that he wants to eventually lead the Great Heathen Army, and as that leader he won’t always be available to protect Rowan directly.  He is acutely aware that they are in hostile territory, and as he tells her, much as it rankles, it would be useful having a skilled warrior completely dedicated to her safety. So he reluctantly agrees.

“He says that Ecbert is here.” Rowan says, remembering their earlier conversation with a fresh burst of anger.

Ivar nods. “He is.”

“I want to see him.”

~...~

The sight of Ivar, crawling through the halls with Rowan and a giant Englishman following close behind, must be a strange one to the other Vikings, but they don’t dare try anything once Ivar makes it clear that this Christian is to remain alive.

Ecbert is in the same cage Ragnar was kept in, now hanging suspended far off the ground. As they enter, the King looks at her curiously for a moment before finally recognizing her. His gaze flicks between her and Ivar, and he appears greatly amused at what he sees.

“My uncle tells me that you were the one responsible for me being sent away.” She says, trying to keep her voice firm and steady.

He inclines his head in confirmation.

“Why?”

“I was the one who gave the order,” a strange, sly look crosses his face for a second and is then gone before he continues, “but it was King Ragnar who made the request that you go with his son.”

A jolt of shock goes through Rowan, closing her throat and churning her stomach. Ivar doesn’t understand their words, but Wulfgar does, and he steps forward.

“You told me nothing of this. Why would Ragnar Lothbrok care about the fate of my niece?” He sounds angry, betrayed knowing that he had put his trust in a monarch who had ended up deceiving him.

Ecbert smiles pleasantly as he casually shatters Rowan’s world once again, saying, “He was very impressed by your devotion to his son, even though you had only known each other for such a short time. It was his belief that, away from the only home you had ever known, you would have no other choice than to rely on his son. He seemed to feel that Ivar would benefit from having someone with no other loyalties other than him.”

Rowan feels like she may throw up right there. In the corner of her eye, she can see Ivar watching her with concern.

“Which meant, I’m afraid, that in the interest of securing our agreement and avoiding retribution for his death, I was forced to see to it that there were no lingering… connections for you here.”

She can’t process what he’s saying. It’s impossible. Those words simply don’t belong together in that order. All she wants to do is reach through the bars of his cage and claw that carefully crafted expression of deep sorrow and regret right off his face.

“Oddune.” She says.

“Indeed.” Ecbert nods sadly, “If it is any comfort, I truly believe that, if he had known what was at stake, he would have willingly given his life to protect Wessex. Alas, it seems all was for naught. At least we can be assured that poor Oddune’s soul is with God now.”

“Then we can rest assured that you will never see him again.” Rowan chokes out.

She can no longer bear to look at him. She turns and flees back to the infirmary, Wulfgar at her side. Ivar calls to her, demanding to know what Ecbert said, but she ignores him, and she moves too quickly for him to follow.

On the cot where she last saw her friend and mentor, she sits and weeps bitterly. Wulfgar stands at the door, a sentry, preventing anyone from entering and intruding on her grief.

~...~

Much later, there is a great bang as Bjorn comes striding in. For someone who’s just succeeded in his revenge against his father’s killers, he doesn’t look particularly pleased. Rowan nods to Wulfgar to let him in, and Bjorn strides past him with a glare. It vaguely amuses her that she was correct in thinking that her uncle is a good two inches taller than the brooding Viking.

He gets straight to the point with no preamble. “You can read these people’s writing?”

“I can.”

“Good,” he nods, “you will come with me.”

It seems he expects her to follow with no other explanation. She assures Wulfgar that she will be fine without him to the time being, and follows after Bjorn.

They arrive in a room Rowan isn’t very familiar with. It is a kind of office for the King that she never had any cause to enter during the two years she lived in the villa. Ecbert himself sits at a table. All the leaders of the Heathen Army stand before him. Only Ivar and then Bjorn sit across from him.

“Ecbert has agreed to sign over the legal claim to the kingdom of East Anglia to us. You will read this document so that we may be assured that it says what he says it does.” Bjorn explains briefly.

Rowan stops, looking between Ecbert and the Vikings. True, she doesn’t know the King that well, but what she does know is that he’s a conniving snake that never does anything except for his own benefit.

“In exchange for what?” She asks.

“He will be allowed die in a manner of his own choosing.” Ivar replies, obviously displeased with this. Noticing her expression, he tilts his head and asks, “What? Do you think it is a bad idea?”

“It is not a bad idea,” she answers tentatively, aware of the many eyes on her, “It is not a good one either.”

Bjorn, annoyed by this exchange, waves this off. With an impatient gesture he indicates the document laid out before them. Rowan steps forward to read it, casting a suspicious scowl at Ecbert.

“Does it say what he claims?” One of the other leaders, a man with face tattoos and a long braid, asks.

She’s puzzled to find that it is exactly what Ecbert said, the deeds of transfer to the lands of East Anglia. Though she still can’t shake the feeling that he’s up to something, she can only confirm what she sees before her own eyes.

So the document is confirmed with the King’s seal, and he is allowed to leave to meet his chosen death. Ivar is obviously angry about this, but he makes no move to stop him or otherwise break the agreement.

As they leave, a warrior steps up and whispers something to Bjorn, who frowns and takes his leave of the rest of them.

“What is it?” Ivar snaps.

The warrior pales and finally says, “The wife of Floki… she is dead.

~...~

As he says it, Helga had been walking through the halls of the villa when she’d realized that a burning beam was about to fall on her adoptive daughter. She’d quickly pushed the girl to safety, but in doing so had placed herself in harm’s way. When Floki had found them, the girl was hysterical, and he’d only had a few moments with his wife before she passed. From what the warrior said, in her final moments she had appeared strangely content, as if a great weight had finally been lifted from her shoulders.

Despite everything, there is still a great feast to celebrate their victory. Ivar sits at the head table, set on a raised dais before all the others. There are dark circles under his eyes against an almost sickly pallor. His expression is lifeless, like all the emotion of the past few weeks has caught up with him and his mind has shut down under the onslaught.

“This place is cursed.” Rowan mutters to him, “It must be. It takes and takes from us and…” Her throat closes up and she can’t finish.

“What did Ecbert say to you?” He asks numbly.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Of course you don’t.”

She doesn’t dignify that with a response. In her current state of mind, anything she might say would come out far harsher than she intended.

Bjorn makes a great speech about how they have fulfilled their duty to avenge their father, and that they have also achieved his dream of having the legal right to some of the fertile soil of England. To the cheers of those gathered, he also announces that he intends to return to his exploration of the Mediterranean Sea, feeling free to follow his own destiny now.

Ivar’s reaction is significantly less enthusiastic than the crowd’s. He has no desire to become a farmer. Instead, he wants to use the Great Army to attack and raid other places.

With a small smirk, Ubbe quietly states that Ivar cannot lead the army. Annoyed, Ivar replies that he wishes to lead those who are still looking to raid. Hvitserk points out that just staking their claim in England will be a difficult task, and Ivar sneers at him for not talking like a “real Viking.”

Rowan can feel a migraine coming on as Sigurd joins in, entreating Ivar not to try and break up the brothers.

“Frankly, dear Sigurd, I don’t care what you say.” Ivar replies, “The truth is, I wouldn’t even piss down your throat even if your lungs were on fire.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Rowan groans to herself, resting her face in her hands and, for a moment, wishing them all a slow and painful death.

More shouting. More arguing. Sigurd finally snaps that he would never follow Ivar, that he is crazy, with the mind of a child.

“And all you do is play music, Sigurd!”

“I’m just as much a son of Ragnar as you are.”

“I’m not so sure. As far as I remember, Ragnar didn’t play the oud. And he certainly didn’t offer his arse to other men!”

“You make me laugh.” Sigurd mocks, “Just like you do when you crawl around like a baby.”

“Shut your mouth!” Ivar shouts.

Rowan, finally at the end of her rope, stands up and slams her hands on the table. “Enough!”

Everyone goes quiet, startled by the bellow coming from her small frame. She looks between the pair, exhausted and angry beyond anything she’s felt in years.

“You both act like spoiled little children!” she finally yells, “You and your stupid, petty little disagreements. Do you truly have no understanding of how lucky you are? You have your brother beside you every day. A sibling is something that is irreplaceable because no one else in this world will understand your origins, your history the way they can.”

She’s started to cry… again, but she can’t stop the words pouring out.

“Even with everything he did, all the ways he hurt me, do you know what I would give to see my brother just one more time?”

Ivar and Sigurd both refuse to meet her eyes, expression stubborn. She can see that they resent her for calling them out like this in front of the whole army.

“You didn’t get enough love from your mother?” she turns to Sigurd, then Ivar, “You’re a cripple? Well, welcome to human existence where life is shit and then you die!”

All patience and energy drained from her, she turns to leave.

“What’s the matter, Ivar?” Sigurd starts in right away, “Finally realized that she only lets you cling to her out of pity? Do you know how pathetic you look, crawling after her, hoping to have some pretend little family with another man’s child?”

She can hear Ubbe growing anxious, trying to calm Ivar down, but she lowers her head and continues on.

“You can’t take it? No, I guess it must be hard for you now that your mommy’s dead, knowing she’s the only one who ever really loved you.”

Ubbe shouts Ivar’s name once, twice, then there is a roar and the whole gathering goes deathly silent. Rowan turns, horror filling her as she sees Ivar, leaning forward in his seat with a shocked expression. And across from him, Sigurd stands with an ax embedded in his right arm.

Chapter Text

“No! Don’t pull it out! Ubbe, Hvitserk, quick, help me get him to the infirmary!”

With a burst of adrenaline, Rowan shouts orders, and they are obeyed. Sigurd’s expression is terrified as he tries to process what is happening. She has to slap his hand from pulling the axe out every few minutes as his brothers carry him to the infirmary.

Wulfgar stands up in surprise as they burst in and watches in confusion as Sigurd is laid on one of the cots, groaning in pain. Rowan’s mind races to try and figure out what she needs to do. She’d helped Oddune tend to wounds at least as critical several times before, and she searches through the supplies to find what she needs. Wulfgar comes to stand beside her.

“What is happening?” he asks.

“His idiot brother threw an axe at him!” she snaps, rooting around frantically.

Wulfgar frowns at the sight of the injured boy, groaning in pain as his brothers try to soothe him. “What can I do?”

She turns to look at him, momentarily surprised. “Wine, the strongest you can find.” then switching languages she adds, “Hvitserk! Go with him. I need strong wine from the kitchens and you need to make sure no one stops him.”

Hvitserk gives a short nod of understanding and follows after the Saxon, relieved to have something to do. Rowan gets Ubbe started building up the hearth to boil water while she does her best to cleanse her hands with harsh soap before beginning to inspect Sigurd’s wound.

For the moment, the axe is helping to stem the flow of blood, but it must be removed for her to see what in all has been damaged. She cuts away the sleeve and tries to ascertain how deep it has gone.

“Rowan?”

Ivar has caught up with them, and sits in the doorway looking positively stricken. She turns to tell him to fuck off, but then realizes that she can’t afford to be angry right now. She needs all the helping hands she can get.

“Help me with this!” she commands, and he crawls over as quickly as he can. Showing him the rudimentary tourniquet she’s applied above the injury, she instructs him to hold it tight.

Taking a deep breath, she pulls the axe out with a quick, clean movement. Mercifully, the tourniquet is tight enough that the blood flow is properly restricted. It makes it much easier to find and stitch the larger vessels shut with a length of catgut.

“It is boiling, what now?” Ubbe calls over from the fire.

“Bring me a bowl. Mix in some of that vinegar on the table.”

He brings the mixture over and watches as she uses it to try and clean out the wound. Without all the slippery mess of blood, her hands are steadier as she begins to suture the wound shut in layers. By the time she’s finished, Wulfgar and Hvitserk have returned with the wine, and she uses it to soak the bandages that will cover the wound.

It’s the best Rowan knows how to do. She can’t even be sure if it’s right or not. All she has is some research from her previous life and Oddune’s teachings to go on. The brothers look at her with so much faith, but once the first rush of adrenaline passes, she’s as lost and shaken as they are.

“He will be alright now?” Ubbe asks.

“I don’t know.” she admits, shaking her head, “There may have been damage done that I cannot repair. Infection may set in. I can’t…”

She covers her face with her hands to try and stifle the sob. Ivar touches her arm, but she shakes him off.

“You’ve done enough.” Ubbe says to him, low and harsh.

Ivar looks around the room, at Ubbe and Hvitserk who regard him with open hostility, at Rowan crying softly into her bloodied hands as her uncle pats her on the shoulder awkwardly, and finally to Sigurd, who has long since fallen unconscious from the pain and loss of blood. Shamed and regretful, he crawls out of the room, leaving them to clean up the mess.

~...~

The next day when Sigurd awakes, Rowan is right beside him. She gives him what herbs she can to relieve his pain, but there is only so much she can do. Not only that, but it’s quickly apparent to her that he has some sort of nerve damage. His right hand hangs limp at the wrist, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t move it or his fingers. But still, it could have been much worse. From what Ubbe tells them, if Sigurd hadn’t turned at the last second, Ivar’s axe would have struck him right in the chest.

Rowan holds him as panic sets in. The realization that he may never hold a sword again is bad enough, but that he can’t play music either. Although she thinks the thing he struggles with the most is that Ivar’s aim hadn’t been to merely injure him, he’d meant to kill him.

And his is not the only trauma to be dealt with. Floki has already buried his wife, and Tanaruz hovers about him, her expression no longer quite so empty but still lost. She tries to cling to Floki as a familiar, friendly face, but he’s in no state to provide comfort and support to a desperately confused adolescent. So more often than not he sends her to the infirmary to help Rowan.

As for Rowan herself, for days she can’t bring herself to leave Sigurd’s side. She remains constantly vigilant for any signs of infection. She soon discovers that he isn’t inclined to tell her when he needs something, and from what Ubbe tells her this isn’t new behavior for him. He says that Sigurd has always been this way, ever since he was a small child. His quiet nature meant he’d often gone unnoticed in a family with so many louder brothers, in addition to having a younger brother with a condition that took so much of their mother’s time and attention.

So Rowan sets herself up on the cot beside his, and pesters him night and day until he learns that the only way to get her off his back is to promptly inform her when he needs water or his bandages changed.

Once he reaches a point where she feels more comfortable leaving him alone for longer than a few minutes, she spends some time wandering the halls of the villa. It’s strange to her that she had actually lived here far longer than she’d lived in Kattegat, and yet this place had never felt like a home. It had always seemed more like a stop on the way to someplace else.

She finds herself stepping carefully down a familiar flight of stairs and into the small cell she first met Ivar. It’s much the same as it was during those long days they’d spent there, just sitting together and talking. She sits on the narrow cot and remembers the calm she’d felt then. She’d been so sure that he was just a teenage boy; angry and hurting, yes, but still a boy.

Rowan sits there until she realizes that evening has come and it’s grown far too cold to stay any longer, and so she continues her wandering. She can’t bring herself to go near Oddune’s library, so instead she visits the weaving room, where she spent so much of her time, and her old bedroom.

And then, passing by some of the guest rooms, she sees that one particular door is slightly ajar. It’s the room Ivar had stayed in during those last few days, the room where…

Peeking through the gap, Rowan’s suspicions are confirmed when she spots Ivar, sitting quietly on the bed. From the looks of things he’s claimed it for his own, and has probably spent much of the past several days there.

He seems to sense her presence, or perhaps she makes some noise that she’s unaware of, but in any case he looks up at her. Rowan steels herself and steps in, arms hugging herself as they scrutinize each other warily, neither quite sure where they stand. The room itself doesn’t help. It’s an uncomfortable reminder for both of them, though for very different reasons.

“What can I say?” Ivar finally asks, “I am truly sorry for what I did.”

Rowan shakes her head helplessly. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to say either. I don’t want to be angry, Ivar, but you could have killed Sigurd. I can’t just forget that. You want so badly for people to fear you, well… I’m afraid.”

“You think I would hurt you?”

It’s clear that the mere suggestion angers him, but Rowan can’t back down to spare his feelings, not when there’s so much at stake.

“Not on purpose, no. But if you can lose your temper so that you nearly kill your own brother, then how can I believe that I’m any safer? I cannot make decisions only for myself anymore, Ivar, I have to protect my child.”

He looks at her for a moment, his mouth twisting bitterly. He seems to struggle with himself for a moment, and then opens his hand and shows her what he’s been clutching there all this time.

Bothild’s mother’s pin.

“How did you…?” she asks, brow wrinkled in confusion. It’s the first time she’s seen it since she bartered it for… well… her hand instinctively comes up to rest on her belly.

“One of the men found it in a cottage. Why would it have been there, Rowan, hm? Did someone take it from you?”

“No.”

“Then you gave it away willingly?”

She doesn’t respond. There’s something faintly accusatory in Ivar’s tone, and she knows that anything she says is likely to only make him more upset.

“Who?” he asks, and then when she doesn’t reply he adds with a cracking voice, “A lover? The father?”

She’s shocked by her own reaction to his question. That he should ask that here of all places. Was he so convinced he couldn’t father a child? Or did he actually want for there to be another man? Whatever the reason for his willful obtuseness, it brought a hot flush of indignation to her cheeks. Of course he seems to just interpret it as confirmation of her supposed ‘guilt’.

He draws himself up, squaring his shoulders with his thoughtlessly reclaimed feeling of superiority. But whatever he intends to say he never has the chance. Rowan gives a cry of frustration and marches forward to snatch the pin from his hand. Giving him a final glare for good measure, she stomps out of the room and back to the infirmary. There, Wulfgar listens in pained silence as she rails on about the pure, stupid evil that is Ivar Ragnarsson.

~...~

Wulfgar has remained by Rowan’s side throughout all. The Vikings haven’t been particularly pleased by his presence, but Bjorn has a much milder view of the Saxons than many of the others. After questioning the tall warrior, he makes it clear that his presence amongst them is allowed. Still, Wulfgar keeps mostly to the infirmary and out of the way of any who might be tempted to disobey their leader’s orders.

One night, several days after her last encounter with Ivar, Rowan is awoken by the sound of the door opening, followed by a soft scraping as he drags himself inside. She can faintly see that Wulfgar immediately moves to block him from coming closer to either her or the still sleeping Sigurd.

She can’t see Ivar’s face in the darkness, but she can hear the annoyance in his voice as he snaps, “Get out of my way, Christian.”

“No.”

The sound of his own language coming from the other man’s mouth is apparently enough of a surprise that Ivar is silent for a moment, then he cautiously asks, “You speak Norse?”

“I learned some, the settlement.” Wulfgar replies simply.

“What is with your family and pretending not to understand me?” Ivar mutters under his breath before addressing her ‘uncle’, “In that case, I have another task for you.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, you will teach me your language.”

Wulfgar remains silent, and apparently unmoved by Ivar’s order because she can hear the younger man’s tone grow even more irritated.

“It is in your best interest to be as useful to us as possible.”

“I am.”

Rowan has spent enough time with Wulfgar to know that he’s taking a tiny bit of enjoyment out of riling the young prince. In her mind’s eye, she can see Ivar twisting his mouth and scowling. One day, he would really have to work on not letting his every emotion show so plainly. That or start wearing a mask.

“Besides watching over Rowan. You will start tomorrow. Now get out of my way.”

“She’s sleeping.” Wulfgar stops him again, his tone firm but also oddly gentle.

Once again, Ivar pauses, then very quietly he asks, “She is well?”

“She is.”

The next morning, Wulfgar makes no mention of Ivar’s evening visit, and Rowan doesn’t ask. Nor does she comment when he starts meeting with Ivar each day to teach him the Saxon language.

Ivar comes to see her and test his knowledge. The limits of his vocabulary mean that they don’t speak of Sigurd, or of the pin and his accusations.

~...~

Sigurd slowly recovers… physically. Mentally, it isn’t hard for Rowan to see that he’s fallen into a deep depression. He and Ivar do not speak, and for once it occurs to her that it’s probably best to let the brothers sort things out in their own time. At least they aren’t actively antagonistic for now.

The winter days pass, and Rowan feels the first flutterings deep inside her, like a butterfly is trapped inside her belly. The first time it can be felt from the outside she is with Tanaruz, and she gasps and takes the girl’s hand to see if she feels it too. Tanaruz still doesn’t speak, but she understands a great deal and communicates through gestures. Her smiles are rare, but she nearly beams with excitement to feel the baby kick.

It’s something that all of the younger Ragnarssons seem to find utterly fascinating. Sigurd especially, since he was too young to be aware of his mother’s pregnancy, but Hvitserk and Ubbe are also pleased and comment on how strong the baby is. Although just as likely their amusement is due to the fact that she’s currently the most interesting thing happening at the villa.

Half of the Great Army has returned to Repton to guard the boats, while the other half remains where there is shelter and provisions to keep them through the winter. No one mentions that one small motive for staying is the relative safety and comfort of the villa for the birthing of a child.

Late in her pregnancy, Rowan makes a kind of a pilgrimage. The river she fell into, where she emerged in this new body, is a short walk from the gates. She’d gone to a part of it to swim when she’d lived there as Bothild, but she’s never returned to the part that is surrounded by a small forest.

Now she finds a fallen tree where she can sit and watch the water racing by, and for probably the thousandth time wonders at her presence in this place and time. Is there some sort of a purpose that brought her here, or merely some trick of fate? Was it due to a science not yet understood or by magic?

She senses a presence, and looks up to see the lone figure that stands watching her.

“Uncle.”

“There have been stories about the water here, as long as anyone has lived here.” Wulfgar muses, squinting out across the river, “Stories of people dying in or near it, and coming back changed.”

Like me, Rowan realizes with a jolt, he knows.

He continues. “I never put much faith in those stories. Relics of the time we were all pagans here, I thought. But my mother believed. She was a cunning woman, there’s some who would say she was a witch, but I never saw much Devilry in what she did. Seeing you, the way you tended to that boy, it reminded me of her.”

She can see in his face how much he misses her, something she can sympathize with. But she’s bewildered by the subtext of his words.

“I wish I could have met her.”

It sounds so silly once she says it, but Wulfgar nods. “She would have liked you.”

His hand, calloused and worn, comes to rest on her head, his thumb softly tracing the raised scar there. They silently watch the river, with its strange waters for a time before he interrupts the silence, his hand now held out to beckon her. “Come, you shouldn’t be out late, Rowan”

Rowan almost freezes before quickly recovering. He’s never called her that before, never commented on the name that all the Vikings call her. He knows. Perhaps he’s always known, but he still chose to seek her out. It may no longer be his niece’s mind, but it’s still her body. The blood of his brother and his family flows through her veins. She feels another pang of guilt as she rubs her rounded belly. The things she’s putting this body through, the things it’s about to go through…

*.*.*

Ivar hasn’t said anything else about my supposed Saxon lover. I get the feeling that it’s not so much he’s changed his mind as much as he regrets saying anything about it. I honestly don’t know what his deal is. He’s still obviously trying to fill in what his idea of a father role is, but I think it honest-to-god doesn’t occur to him that this baby is his.

Honestly, I’ve pretty much decided not to tell him until I can see with my own eyes how he is with him/her. I know that there’s some element of paranoia involved, but I keep seeing that fucking axe in Sigurd’s arm. Every day I see the reminder that Ivar’s not entirely stable, that he can be very, very dangerous.

The one good thing that’s come from that whole clusterfuck is that they haven’t been fighting anymore. In fact, they don’t really talk at all. It might be for the best. I never fully realized just how horrible some of the things Sigurd would say really were to Ivar. He’s an incredibly perceptive person, and he knows just where Ivar’s greatest weaknesses lie.

Some of the things I said were inexcusable too. I tried to apologize to Ivar, but he won’t let me talk about it. I’m not going to push him on it, just because I can tell how truly shaken he is. They all are. Ubbe doesn’t look at Ivar the same way anymore. I can’t imagine what it would have been like if Sigurd hadn’t turned away. I don’t want to even think about it.

I’ve been trying to help him with learning to use his off hand, but it’s slow going. He gets frustrated quickly. He’s lost the ability to do everything that gave him purpose, and I don’t know how to help him find a new one.

~...~

Wulfgar’s been surprisingly chill about the presence of the Womb Gremlin. Doesn’t seem too interested in the father as long as I wasn’t forced. Seems a bit squicked out by the topic, so he hasn’t pried.

Wonder about what he said about the water. How many others has this happened to? Is it the water itself? Why some people and not others?

I asked him about his mother. She was what will later be called a wise woman, a practitioner of folk magic that’s been used since pagan times. She used spells and charms to help local people, while still being a devout Christian. Very interesting. The church leaders don’t like it, but to the average person it’s an important way to try and control their existence. Prayer is one thing, but a charm is a tangible thing that can provide a lot of comfort even if it doesn’t actually do anything.

~...~

Punched Hvitserk again today. He deserved it. Not sure of exact translation for word he called me, but it could be used when describing size of whale. Even Bjorn told him he was asking for it.

~...~

He’s been very solitary lately, and I don’t have it in me to try and draw him out. I have so much on my plate already. At least he’s been occupying himself with learning Old English with Wulfgar. He hasn’t said why he wants to learn, but I know he still wants to use the army to fight the Saxons. I can only assume that he wants to know his enemies language.

Turns out that Wulfgar totally kicks ass. He’s a full-time soldier, which is pretty unusual for both Saxons and Vikings. So he’s been training some of them to pass the time. Not much else to do around here other than watch me gestate.

~...~

I know it’s not fair to blame Ivar for everything that’s happened, for his father’s choices, but I can’t help but feel resentful. Between that and attacking Sigurd, things have been pretty strained with us. Especially as time passes and I keep getting bigger and bigger.

It seems to make him uncomfortable, he doesn’t try to feel the Womb Gremlin kick like his brothers. It’s like he doesn’t want to acknowledge the reality that I’m inevitably going to have to give birth and then raise an actual flesh-and-blood human being. I don’t blame him, it’s scary for me too. I just hope that he’ll come to terms with it once the baby’s here. It’s important for a child to have a father, and I think he could be a really good one.

Only then I remember that he’s not even seventeen yet and I don’t know if I should demand too much of him. I hate myself for letting this happen. But now I’ve made this mess I have to do what I can not to compound the error, and it feels wrong to completely deny him the choice of being a father to his child or not.

I have to admit it to myself at least, I’m angry. I’ve been angry for so long that sometimes it’s hard to tell what I’m angry about.

Chapter Text

The days at the Saxon villa seem endless to Ivar. His brothers have become withdrawn from him, especially Ubbe. Floki has returned to Repton to care for the boats. Rowan is constantly preoccupied either caring for Sigurd or preparing for the child. There is little to do to pass the time, and even less that actually holds his interest.

His lessons with Wulfgar are one of the few things he truly enjoys. He teaches Ivar his language the same way he does most everything, with a general air of indifference. But his dry wit makes him a tolerable companion. His irreverent comments about life in the Wessex court are both amusing and enlightening. At the back of his mind, Ivar still imagines leading the Great Army to further battles, and any knowledge he can gain about his foe can be useful.

Other times he watches Sigurd float about the village, looking like his soul has already left him. It surprises Ivar how easy it is for them to avoid each other, to simply not speak except for the most mundane of exchanges.

He finds himself wondering whether he regrets his actions for the damage they’ve caused his brother, or for more selfish reasons. Even though Sigurd lives, he still feels the tarnish upon his honor for having nearly become a kinslayer. He spends hours training and working with the men, continuing long after most would be exhausted, all to try and regain the respect of his warriors.

Rowan often sits nearby and watches, her expression as gentle and as fond as ever. The Moorish girl, Tanaruz, becomes her constant companion, if only to help her to stand up. Her belly becomes heavy and round. The weight disrupting her every move in a way that Ivar and his brothers can’t help but find amusing.

And yet the more time passes, and the more her body expands for the babe inside her, the more Ivar cannot ignore that soon it will have to come out. He is torn between hiding from her and the inevitable, and spending every moment possible with her, knowing that this may be all the time they have.

~...~

The inescapable conclusion finally arrives one day. The days have been growing longer for two months, the chill of winter almost past. Ivar is sitting with Rowan, practicing his Saxon when he catches her wincing. She’s tried to hide it, but he’s seen signs of discomfort all day. But he doesn’t realize the significance until Tanaruz gestures to ask Rowan about the pains.

“I’m not sure.” she replies, “They happen every fifteen minutes or so?”

The girl gives her a significant look, and Rowan goes pale. She protests that it’s too early, that she still has two weeks more, but Tanaruz is insistent. She stubbornly insists, taking charge with a stern expression. Before Ivar can react, Rowan has been whisked away to her bedroom to be examined.

The moment he tells his brothers that Rowan might be in labor, they eagerly insist on going to see her. A few hours have passed since he last saw her, and Ivar’s stomach rolls as he hears a pained groan from outside her closed door.

Hvitserk opens the door, calling out in a boisterous voice as to whether “his little Saxon flower was preparing to bud”, and immediately halts at the sight of Rowan, surrounded by several other women, sweat beading on her forehead as she grits her teeth through another pain. She looks up at the brothers, face beet red from strain and then anger.

They have just enough time to dodge before a piece of crockery sailed past them, shattering against the wall behind them. Ubbe reaches forward to shut the door at the same time as they heard her scream at them to, “Get the fuck OUT!”

The brothers look at each other, frozen in shock both from the assault upon their persons, and the realization that it is coming. Rowan is in labor, and only time will tell how she and the child will fare.

“Well,” Hvitserk says cheerily, “her aim has certainly improved!”

~...~

His brothers agree that there is nothing for them to do but wait, and return to their respective amusements. But Ivar remains at the door, watching as women rush in and out. Every time it opens he asks what is happening, and they assure him that all is as expected. He listens as their voices try to soothe Rowan. She herself makes very little sound, although every once in awhile he hears her groan as the pains grow stronger.

Hours pass, there is silence for a worrying length of time, and Ivar is gripped with fear until one of the women steps out and tells him that Rowan has been sleeping. It is a good thing, she tells him, it will give her much needed energy. More hours pass and Ivar envies her the oblivion of sleep. Though he longs to return to his own room, he cannot pull himself away from his vigil.

In the wee hours of the night, the voices inside grow suddenly urgent. He cannot make out the words, but he feels in his heart that the time has finally come. Rowan is still so quiet. He presses his ear to the door and hears her give a long, low moan. Only a moments pause and then there is another. The women speak encouragingly, and now he can hear when they tell her to push. Keep pushing, that’s it, just a little more.

He jolts back. Finds himself pressed against the far wall, watching the door as if it were the mouth of a dragon. But even in his shaken state he hears the cries of praise, followed a minute after by a strange, piercing sound. It’s like a lamb bleating for it’s mother, and it takes Ivar a moment to realize that it’s the babe’s first cry.

His breath catches in his throat. There is an invisible hand constricting around his throat as he listens to the sounds of joy from inside. He can only imagine the scene that’s hidden from him. What does Rowan’s face look like, seeing her child for the first time?

More time passes, how much he can’t say, and then the door opens once more and the women step out quietly, closing it behind them. They carry bowls of red water, cloth stained with blood. Tanaruz is the last to leave, and when their eyes meet her expression is hard. Ivar knows she dislikes him, has ever since he frightened her the first time they met, but at that moment he couldn’t care less. All he cares about is whether his Reynir is well, if she still lives.

Tanaruz, pauses, considering him for a moment. Then, still stony-faced, she opens the door and steps to the side. He realizes that she is bidding him to enter, and he whispers his thanks in a voice hoarse from weariness and emotion.

The room is lit by a roaring fire. From the doorway, Ivar can see the large bed where Rowan lies sleeping, but his view of the occupants are blocked. He slowly pulls himself forward, a strange feeling of desperation gripping him. He doesn’t even notice when Tanaruz closes the door behind him.

Rowan lies on her side, her face peaceful as she sleeps. Her dark hair is damp, and frames sallow cheeks and eyes rimmed with dark circles from the many hours of pain she has endured. She seems even smaller and more delicate than ever before. Yet he swells with admiration as if she were the bravest of warriors, come straight from the battlefield.

“If you think you’re being quiet, I do hate to disabuse you of the notion.”

Ivar flinches, instinctively prepared to flee in case any more pieces of crockery start flying towards his head. But when he meets Rowan’s now open eyes, he sees no signs of distress. He comes closer carefully, and she adjusts herself on her pillow so that they can see each other better. In his mind he knows that this is hardly the most beautiful he’s ever seen her, but whether it is the glow from the fire or something that is radiating from within, the sight of her takes his breath away.

The weak smile she gives him encourages him to draw himself up against the side of the bed. His gaze is locked on her, assuring himself that she is alive and whole. He finally has to pry his eyes away from her to look at the small linen-wrapped bundle beside her.

The only part of the babe revealed by the swaddling is its face, and Ivar wonders, is this how they’re supposed to look? It doesn’t look quite human, all red and wrinkled. Rather like a very drunk, very old man. Despite the objective ugliness of this creature, he finds it surprisingly difficult to look away from it, to force his gaze down further to where its legs are concealed by the tightly wrapped blanket.

“Ivar.” Rowan’s voice is soft, her hand even softer where she lays it over his, trying to call his attention back to her.

“Ivar.” She repeats.

He doesn’t want to meet her intense, serious gaze. He knows his face is showing everything that he’s ever wanted to hide from her – apprehension, curiosity, affection, terror.

“Ivar, she’s healthy. She’s perfectly well.”

Those words send two simultaneous realizations catapulting through his mind. The first, that it is a girl. And the second, that Rowan is trying to assure him that the child has inherited no maladies. The only reason she would do that is if…

A daughter. His daughter. If he weren’t already on his knees the confirmation would have brought him to them like a Christian praying to their wretched god.

“Mine? You’re sure.” He whispers, needing to hear the words.

Rowan laughs a little. “I can’t help but feel a little insulted by that question.” Ivar’s glare only makes her laugh again. “Yes, I’m sure.”

He looks back at the baby, his daughter. Perhaps she isn’t so ugly after all. No, he can see now that even closed her eyes are very like his, the shape of her mouth too. Now that he’s taken a second look, she’s actually quite pretty. Beautiful really.

Despite Rowan’s reassurance, he feels a burning need to see with his own eyes. He plucks up his courage and reaches out to carefully tug the blanket loose. All four limbs flail about, accompanied by a small sound of indignation, the child unamused by her new lack of covering. When he wraps a calloused hand around her leg, it is firm and solid. She has come into the world unbroken.

“Do you want to hold her?”

Ivar looks at Rowan, shock and fear written all over his face.

“Here.” She scoots herself back on the bed, taking the baby with her to make room. “Come up.”

He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to be closer to this fragile little thing with his rough hands and awkward, useless legs. But somehow he finds himself obeying, carefully hoisting himself up and settling with his back against the headboard. With a wince and a little effort, Rowan sits herself up to match his position. With what looks to Ivar like astounding competence, she gathers the baby up in her hands and holds her out to him. Gently she instructs him how to hold his arms so she can place the child in the crook of one elbow.

She’s tiny, he’s sure that she’s too tiny even though Rowan assures him that she’s a healthy size for a newborn. A little early, but not at all the worse for it. Holding her feels like holding a bag of fish, all soft and wobbly. For a while all he can do is sit as stiffly as possible, sure that if he moves a muscle she’ll tumble out of his arms.

After a time, though, his confidence grows. He carefully moves his right arm, and is pleased to discover that he can hold her quite well with only his left. His hands seem to dwarf her, and he is gripped with fear that he doesn’t know how to handle something so delicate. He has never had to temper the strength he’s gained from dragging himself over the ground all his life. How does he touch her without hurting her?

At first, he just barely brushes a fingertip over her little face. It fascinates him. With every passing moment it looks more and more like a miniature of his own, especially when it wrinkles with indignation at having her sleep disturbed.

Her little mouth opens slightly when he traces over her cheek, and he finds something inexplicably funny about the perfect round shape it makes. It’s startling when he hears Rowan chuckling along with him. He’s forgotten she was even there, didn’t even notice when she started to lean against him to watch their daughter.

Theirs. This is their child, something they made together. Both of them. He blushes when he glances at Rowan and his thoughts stray. It seems inappropriate to think of such things after everything she’s gone through in the past months. Trying to distract himself from the memories, he returns to exploring the baby’s limbs.

Growing braver, he very carefully cups one foot in his palm. He’s captivated to see that each of her toes is capped by a perfect little toenail, and finds himself studying each one in turn. Then he has to look at each of her perfect little fingers with their own tiny nails. The hand he touches wraps instinctively around his finger, her grip already strong.

“What should we name her?”

Ivar is a little annoyed when his examination is interrupted by Rowan’s voice. But when he turns to frown he sees that she’s perched her chin on his shoulder, and she’s looking up at him with those sweet doe-eyes. His heart melts at the sight, the mother of his child smiling at him warmly.

“We must choose carefully.” He says, looking back at his daughter. She would have to have a name befitting her great lineage.

“Mm,” Rowan agrees. “Just as long as you don’t want to name her after your favorite skald.”

Ivar looks at her with horror. “A Viking child bears the virtues of their namesake, it is no wonder you are this way if that is truly how your father chose your name.”

“Really? Then you always name a child after someone important?” Rowan asks, ignoring his jibe.

He nods. “If a child is named for a relative who has died a part of the spirit of that person will enter the child, especially if that person died while the child was still in the womb.”

Rowan rubs his arm softly. “I suppose you will want to name her for your mother, then?”

He regards the child again from head to toe. It occurs to him how vulnerable she is, how entirely dependent she is on him for protection. “I loved my mother, but I know her spirit was burdened. I would not wish that for this one.”

They both silently contemplate the baby for some time, considering the possibilities.

“I suppose,” Rowan begins tentatively. “I was pregnant when your father died. I might have conceived very close to that day, anyway.” when Ivar gives her a confused look, she pats his arm patronizingly. “It doesn’t always happen right away. I’ll explain some other time.”

He’s too lost in euphoria to be annoyed the way he usually is when she suggests that his knowledge is somehow lacking. Her remark has struck something in him and he looks at the baby again. If what Rowan says is true, there is a possibility that she began the very moment his father’s life had ended. Tentatively, he rolls a name around in his mind and then off his tongue, testing the sound of it.

“Ragný.”

Rowan seems pleased by this suggestion, repeating it and asking him what it means.

“The first part, it means ‘power of the gods’, but it can also mean ‘counsel’. The second means ‘new.”

“I like it.” She says.

“Then that is what she will be named. Ragný Ivarsdóttir.”

~…~

Ivar doesn’t leave the whole night. While Rowan sleeps he stays awake, gently touching Ragný’s impossibly soft skin. He leans in, breathing deeply of her sweet scent. But eventually the baby begins to wake, making soft, angry noises.

Rowan is immediately awake and reaching out for her. Ivar’s first reaction is to pull back, until she rolls her eyes and tells him that the baby is hungry and, unless he is planning on finding a way to produce milk, will need to be returned. Reluctantly, he releases his daughter back to her mother.

Her gown is still fastened at the neck by a brooch and she can’t quite remove it with one hand. When he sees her struggling, Ivar reaches forward and carefully removes the brooch and pulls one side of her garment open for her.

He watches with fascination as Rowan holds her swollen breast and guides Ragny to it. It takes a few tries, but soon she is latched on and sucking voraciously. He pushes Rowan’s long hair behind her shoulder so it doesn’t obscure his view as his daughter sucks nourishment from her mother with happy little grunts.

Rowan hisses softly. When Ivar looks at her she is wincing and grinding her teeth softly.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, suddenly concerned that his baby isn’t receiving milk properly.

Rowan shakes her head. “It’s just a little tender. I can bear it.”

“Is that normal?” He worries.

She nods, eyes clenched in concentration. Ivar feels compelled to touch her cheek, comforting her the same way he had once before. He strokes her face and murmurs how well she’s doing, how proud he is of her, how strong she is for bearing all that she has for their child.

When Ragný has had her fill Rowan does some sort of patting ritual that makes the baby let out a surprisingly loud belch for such a small thing. She is then returned to the eager arms of her father while Rowan goes back to sleep.

~...~

Ivar’s thoughts drift. His memories of the night they’d had sex, already precious to him, have taken on a whole new level of importance to him.

He hadn’t even thought of Rowan that way before that night. He’d had a passing thought that she was pretty, had perhaps wanted to impress her a little with his knowledge. He’d clung to her as something vaguely familiar in a dark place, and he’d even started to think of her as a friend.

Then she’d looked at him with those big, sad eyes, her hair falling around her face in a tangled mess. And she’d let him touch her, trace the delicate curve of cheekbone and pet her cheek, and she’d taken comfort in it. She’d lain beside him and let him hold her like she trusted him. For the first time, someone – a woman – had come to him, had needed something of him, and it had made him dizzy with a kind of confidence he’d never known before.

The smell of her hair and skin had been intoxicating. Ivar had touched his lips to her neck without really thinking. It had muted the aching in his chest, and he’d found himself growing bolder the longer she allowed it. He’d been lost in the texture and taste of her skin when she’d pressed back against him, and he’d become uncomfortably aware that he was harder than he’d ever been in his life. Without any purposeful seduction on her part she’d roused his desire, and he’d held his breath, waiting for her to lash out at him in disgust or horror.

She hadn’t. Instead she’d done it again, deliberately, sparking a surge of pleasure so sharp it was almost painful. For a moment he couldn’t even comprehend what had happened. Then he had and he’d acted with desperate speed, before she could change her mind or his body could fail him. Before he fully knew what he was doing he was inside her.

He’d tried to hold himself back, but the heat of her had enveloped him and forced out all rational thought. And the wetness, he’d never felt anything like it before. His hips had begun to move wildly, entering that warmth again and again, not knowing or caring what helpless sounds he was making as the pleasure built. He vaguely remembers Rowan moving and disrupting his rhythm, and him holding her still, but she hadn’t been upset. Instead she’d turned her face back against his mouth, and he’d moaned and gasped into her ear as his end had finally come.

Afterwards a strange affection had overwhelmed him, and he’d nuzzled at her like a contended pup. But soon he’d fallen asleep, and the next morning he’d awoken to an empty bed and the ache in his chest had not only returned but doubled in intensity. He’d seen red on the sheets where they had lain and felt sick to his stomach. He hadn’t thought he’d been so rough, but he must have injured her badly if he’d made her bleed.

When he’d discovered she was pregnant, he’d already made a promise not to speak of that night to her. So he’d tried to tell himself he could be a friend, a brother to her. But even then a part of him had raged at the thought of another touching her the way he had; the thought that their encounter hadn’t meant the same to her. But the fear he dared not acknowledge held him back. That and learning that she hadn’t been a woman yet when they’d had sex. It was easier to believe there was another than to face his own lack of honor. His already critically low sense of self-worth simply wouldn’t allow it.

Only now, sitting beside her with a child - a healthy child - in his arms, Ivar knows he was only lying to himself. He’d had no way of knowing. Surely that was understandable? Whatever the consequences, he cannot ignore his responsibility now. This is his daughter, and Reynir is his person, his woman now, the only one who makes him feel as a man should.

The night of the sacrifice he’d felt it again, and he hadn’t been able to resist the urge to touch himself. He’d been ashamed to look at her when he’d returned to her bed after. It was bad enough that he, a Viking man and a prince, had taken his pleasure into his own hands instead of finding a thrall or other willing woman to lie with. But he’d found himself unable to climax until he’d involuntarily remembered the scent of Reynir’s hair and the wet heat he’d felt inside her womanhood. He’d realized then that he didn’t want other women, only her.

And now they have a child together, and she can no longer deny the bond between them. True, he’d been selfish on that night, but he would do better next time. He only had to convince her to give him another chance.

In a roundabout way, she’s already spoken of their night together. So he is freed from his promise to never speak of it. He can ask her why she kept this from him until now. But not just yet, for now he just wants to enjoy these precious moments, his first as a father.

The dark girl enters the room quietly, interrupting Ivar’s thoughts. She ignores his glare and walks quietly over to Rowan’s side of the bed, tapping her gently and asking her something with various gestures he doesn’t understand. Rowan nods in response, and the girl helps her to stand from the bed and walk slowly to the chamber pot.

Ivar clutches Ragný in an effort to ward off his embarrassment. It’s not so much that he’s shocked by a normal bodily function, but Rowan moves so slowly and stiffly, her delicate parts injured once again due to his carelessness. Where once the baby had seemed so small, now he looks down at her and can’t imagine her coming from inside Rowan’s small body.

And then he sees Tanaruz help Rowan replace a cloth she has placed between her legs. The old one is soaked in blood, and for the first time in his life he is horrified by the sight of it.

“It is normal.” Rowan reassures him gently, “It is only my womb cleansing itself. It will pass in a few days.”

A few days? She says it so calmly! As if losing such a quantity of blood would not cause any man to fear for his life. She returns to his side to nurse the baby, who has begun to fuss once again.

They repeat this routine several more times during the night with Ragný waking and Rowan feeding her while Ivar soothes her and admires them both. Tanaruz comes again to help her to the chamber pot and to change the soiled cloth, and Ivar feels a pang of frustration at finding yet another task he cannot perform. By rights, he should be the one assisting her in these small things. It is his child she has risked her life to birth. But once again, his legs hold him back. He cannot even carry his child across the room himself. In the quiet hours between feedings, he gazes at Ragný’s precious face and starts to formulate a plan.

~...~

When the door creaks open slowly and three blonde heads peek in, they are greeted by the sight of Ivar sitting with the baby in his arms, who is now awake and squinting at the strange man who keeps making strange and unfamiliar noises at her. Rowan is sitting up, working on consuming a whole loaf of bread and almost as much cheese, and smiling fondly at the pair beside her.

Ivar looks up and grins when he sees the shocked looks on his brother’s faces.

“Come in, my brothers!” He crows cheerfully. “Come and meet my daughter!”

Ubbe, Hvitserk and Sigurd step in cautiously, surprised to find their younger brother both already there and still alive. Not to mention the fact that he is sitting there like a proud mother cat, presiding over the introductions with smug pleasure.

Ubbe is the first to lean forward and pull the blanket away from the baby’s face to get a good look. Sigurd leans over his shoulder and frowns.

“Is she supposed to look like that?”

Ivar bristles. “You obviously know nothing about babies, Sigurd. She is exactly as she is supposed to be.”

Ubbe nods. “She is a fine child, Rowan. I congratulate you.”

Hvitserk pushes Sigurd aside to get a better look and smirks. “Her eyes are a very bright blue, aren’t they?”

“Most babies have blue eyes.” Rowan replies around a mouthful of bread and cheese.

Sigurd interrupts any further comments, fairly bursting with curiosity. “Have you decided who you would like to name her?”

“You know someone will have to claim her.” says Ubbe, “But it is still nine days before she must be water-sprinkled. Do not feel like you need to rush to a decision.”

“I will.” Ivar hisses, angered by his brothers ignoring him. All three look to him as he continues, gazing at each in turn to make sure they are paying attention. “I will name her, I will water-sprinkle her, and I will claim her, because I am her father.”

There is a long silence while his older brothers try to make sense of his statement and Rowan carefully avoids making eye contact with any of them. Finally, Ubbe suggests in a very soft voice that Ivar go and find something more for Rowan to eat. And why don’t Sigurd and Hvitserk go along as well?

Ivar tries to protest until Rowan lays a hand on his arm and beckons for him to hand her the baby. He has no desire to leave either of them, but she nods and smiles at him to go. He gently kisses Ragný’s forehead before reluctantly passing her back to Rowan, promising to return soon.

~…~

Sigurd and Hvitserk don’t speak to him. Hvitserk’s silence doesn’t bother him it’s largely to be expected at this point. But he finds it unexpectedly distressing that Sigurd refuses to acknowledge his declaration, won’t even look at him. For all their differences, he has to admit that Sigurd is the only one of his brothers who truly shares his regard for Rowan.

There was a time, before their father’s last raid on Paris and his subsequent abandonment of his family, when they had been friends. They were the youngest of Ragnar’s sons, the two who their mother had seen visions of before their birth, the two marked in body by the Gods. Ubbe and Hvitserk had always been a pair, always together, and as the years had passed and they had reached the cusp of manhood there were often times when they had no time for their little brothers. He and Sigurd were still children, still wanted to play their childish games.

They were never as close as the older pair of Ragnarssons, but he’d always been able to count on Sigurd to make him a clever little toy boat to send down the river. He’d never been able to make them the same way. He’d kept trying over and over, eager to see the impressed and proud expression on his older brother’s face when he showed him.

That day had never come. Things had changed, not only between them but in the whole family. He didn’t know what it was. All he knew was that one day his brother, the one who was supposed to be his friend, was gone. Like Ubbe and Hvitserk, he’d become serious and grown-up and left Ivar behind. Not only that, but he also became critical, always telling Ivar that this or that was wrong.

He became so self-righteous, his sense of honor so rigid and unforgiving. And Ivar had learned early on that he could never live up to Sigurd’s exacting standards. He would never be able to gain his respect or love so why even try?

Only now Ivar has committed not only one but two dishonorable acts, and all Ivar wants to do is shake him and yell that he didn’t know, he never meant to hurt either of them. But he’ll be better now. He’ll show them all that he could be a man worthy of respect and loyalty. His daughter deserves no less, and he will fight with every weak, worthless bone in his body so that one day, she will be proud to call herself Ragný Ivarsdottir.

*.*.*

That was awful. It wasn’t quite as bad as I was fearing, but it was still horrible. It felt like cramps, only worse. It didn’t really get bad until my water broke. After that point it was one contraction right after another. Although honestly, I would go through that any day over having my leg pulverized. But the moment they put her in my arms, it was like I completely forgot I’d just spent 10 hours in varying levels of agony.

Luckily there were a couple thralls who’ve had children of their own, so Tanaruz and I weren’t alone. They kept me up and walking around a lot, and that helped a little, but near the end all I could do was lie there and sweat and hope that it would be over soon. I think at some point I started blubbering for my mother, and Tanaruz was just totally calm and kept humming. It gave me something to focus on other than the pain.

Ragný is a little early, but not much. She’s on the smaller side of average, but I’m shit at judging weight without a scale, so I can’t really say anything about that. Her eyes are blue, but she doesn’t have a lick of hair.

The moment I saw the way Ivar looked at her, I knew I had to tell him. It was killing him not knowing. I think he might love her more than I do, although at this point that isn’t surprising because he doesn’t have to feed her every two hours ON THE DOT or else she starts wailing like she sees the shadow of death coming for her. Still, she’s a cute little Boob Vampire, so I guess I’ll keep her.

Chapter Text

When the other brothers have left, Ubbe takes a seat by Rowan’s feet. She keeps her gaze on Ragný, holding her tightly as if the baby might shield her from her uncle’s displeasure.

“May I?” Ubbe’s voice is gentle.

Rowan gives a small nod and loosens her grip, allowing him to take Ragný in his huge hands. When he stays silent she gathers the courage to look at him, and is shocked to see that his face is filled with something like grief.

“Is it true?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He clenches his eyes shut as if the word causes him physical pain. “I’m sorry.”

The apology shocks her, but before she can say anything he goes on.

“It is my fault. It was my duty to teach Ivar… I knew he was spoiled and reckless, but I never imagined… I let myself be blind, and now he’s…”

If he actually starts crying Rowan is fairly certain she’ll lose her mind, so she rushes to reassure him. “No, it wasn’t like that. We were both… vulnerable. It just happened.”

“But he is a man!” Ubbe rounds on her suddenly, “It is his responsibility to behave with honor,” he turns sharply back to the child in his arms, “But Sigurd, and now this…”

Rowan sits up straight, despite the sharp twinges of pain that shoot through her body. Maybe it’s because of the past night, seeing how gentle and careful Ivar was with both her and their child, but she finds herself suddenly filled with indignation.

“Ivar may be many things, but whatever things he’s done to harm his honor, this isn’t one of them. He was in a foreign land and had just learned his father was going to die. He just wanted some kind of comfort. He may be older than me, by one year, in body; but the same can’t be said for our minds or spirits. Christ, he didn’t even know she was his until last night because I wouldn’t talk to him, so don’t you dare act like he’s the only one at fault!”

Ubbe looks at her sadly all throughout her tirade. It’s a look that says, “There there, I’m sure you believe that.” and the only thing that keeps her from launching herself at him in a flurry of fists and postpartum hormones is the fact that he’s still holding Ragný.

“Now give me my daughter back and go, I don’t know, wallow in your personal failures somewhere else. I just had my arse stitched back together and am not in the mood for it here.”

He slowly, and wisely, hands the baby back to her, his expression obnoxiously sympathetic. It’s clear that he has strong opinions on the topic and isn’t about to budge from them on her word alone.

~...~

The next visitor is hardly unexpected. Sigurd knocks and enters hesitantly, but when he sees Rowan’s face light up he eagerly responds when she beckons him to come closer.

“How do you feel?”

Rowan smiles as she gently pats Ragný’s back. For the first time she’s grateful to her parents for making her babysit all those years instead of just giving her money. It’s made the transition much less stressful since she already knows how to do things like burping.

“I’m well.” she replies, “She’s demanding, but I suppose I should have expected that.”

Sigurd watches pensively before speaking slowly, as if he’s choosing his words with far greater care than normal. “Ubbe is angry.”

Rowan opens and closes her mouth before finally just giving in and asking what she really wants to know.

“And you?”

“Yes.” he admits after a moment, “How could you… with him?!”

“Ah, there’s the brotherly judgement I’ve been missing” Rowan says, giving a little amused smile at the nauseated look on Sigurd’s face.

“All this time I’ve been warning you about him, and you were already with child by him. You might have said something. Ivar might have said something. ”

“It’s complicated,” she says, looking away from the wounded expression on his face, “I never meant for any of this to happen, or to deceive you. I just… I was ashamed. I told myself that if someone were to ask me straight out I would tell them the truth, but no one ever asked. It became so easy to just say nothing.”

Again silence, and again more carefully chosen words. “We never asked because we believed that you had been… hurt. Ubbe says that Hvitserk should claim the child since everyone knows he couldn’t be the father.”

“What?!” Rowan regards him incredulously.

Sigurd doesn’t need to explain Ubbe’s reasoning. Any of them would lose honor if others thought they’d impregnated her as a “child”. Hvitserk, on the other hand, was far away during those first weeks after she arrived in Kattegat. It would maintain the story that the father was some unknown Saxon while still at least giving the child a name and rights under the Northmen’s laws.

“He says it would be best for you to allow people to believe the father is someone else. He thinks that Ivar may have… manipulated you. That you need to be protected from his influence.”

Rowan scoffs. “Of course, Ubbe knows what’s best for all women, whether they realize it or not.”

Sigurd ducks his head to hide a smile. He takes a moment to regain control before looking up again. “I- I wanted to tell you, if you wish it, I will marry you.”

She tries to speak but he holds up his hand for her to let him finish.

“Just claiming her will still leave her a bastard. It will make things difficult for her. Without a mund paid, she is not inheritance-born. If we marry now I can claim her as my legitimate daughter. I would protect you both, if you needed it. If you want, I could even become a Christian, like you.”

Rowan softens at his earnestness, even as she bristles at the suggestion that she or Ragný need protection from Ivar.

“You’re a far better friend than I deserve,” she whispers as she presses her hand over his, the one that now perpetually lies limp in a sling, “but I couldn’t make you do that. I couldn’t do that to Ivar either. I thought I was protecting him, but he’s lost so much already, I just couldn’t.”

Sigurd frowns. “How were you protecting him?”

“Because I’m so much older than him.”

Over the past months, they’ve spoken a great deal about her experiences and her memories of a past life. He knows what she means, but he still gives her a doubtful glance.

“You don’t act much like it.”

“What?” Rowan laughs. She’s used to his brutal candor by now. Instead of being offended, she’s started to be grateful for his honesty.

He shrugs. “It’s true. Sometimes I can see it; the way you understand people. But other times you are as childish as Ivar.”

She hates to admit that he has a point. People in this world bear responsibility from an early age, working even as children to help their families survive. Their brains would mature faster as a response. She knows that twenty-two years of being spoiled and overprotected has had an indelible effect on her mental and emotional development; not to mention the various traumas that had contributed to her depression. Even though her physical body is different now, it hasn’t seemed to have changed much.

“Since when were you the wise one?”

Sigurd gestures to his bad arm. “I’ve had a lot of time to think. And I meant what I said about marrying you. I’m of no use to anyone anymore, I have no place here. But if I could do this for you and the baby...”

“Oh, Sigurd.”

Rowan’s heart —already strained from having grown four sizes in one night— breaks for him. She tugs him by the sleeve until he relents, leaning over so she can wrap an arm around him. Ragný squints up at him from the other, still skeptical of all these people who insist on hanging about and doing nothing to feed her.

“Is this how Ivar’s felt all his life?”

His voice is muffled in her shoulder. She strokes his hair gently and tries to think how to answer such a question.

“I couldn’t say,” she finally admits, “But I think something very like it, at the least.”

“Please marry me.” Sigurd asks again.

Rowan sighs. “It wouldn’t work. You don’t see me that way, and to be honest, I wouldn’t want to marry a man who’s in love with another woman.”

Sigurd stiffens under her hand. She almost regrets reminding him of Margrethe. Now her refusal must seem like yet another rejection from a woman in his life. But she has no time to backpedal because just then, Ivar’s voice interrupts.

“What a cozy scene.” he says, voice dripping with dry sarcasm as he crawls over to once again take his place on the bed beside her.

He remains surprisingly calm as he reaches out to take Ragný in his arms, carefully restraining the annoyance he must feel. Rowan has to hand it to him, his temper has shown remarkable improvement over a very short space of time.

Sigurd glares at him, preparing to make some kind of a snippy response, but Rowan quickly silences him with a sharp elbow to the ribs.

“And what do you think of my daughter, brother?” Ivar continues in a haughty tone that leaves no question as to his own opinion.

“I’m happy that she is healthy, and that Rowan hasn’t suffered too greatly.” Sigurd’s voice is tense, and Ivar’s gaze flicks up on hearing it. Blue meets blue, and lightning crackles between them as a silent battle is waged.

To Rowan’s surprise Ivar is the first to look away, back to the child in his arms. He speaks very softly as he admits, “As am I.”

Sigurd looks like he could be knocked over with a feather. He stares at his brother and the baby in his arms like perhaps she’s some sort of tiny witch and maybe he should treat her with greater respect in the future, or risk falling under her spell. He takes his leave not long after that, and Rowan and Ivar are once again alone with their baby.

~...~

“What is that?”

“It’s shit.” Rowan rolls her eyes as she tries to clean up the sticky, tar-like substance and calm the screaming child; all while the father sits far away and watches with an expression of pure disgust.

“I have seen shit before, and that is not it.”

“No, it’s different.” she tries to reply as calmly as possible under the circumstances, “It’s what was inside her before she was born.”

Ivar continues to watch in horrified fascination as she struggles to finish wiping Ragný clean with a soft rag. Her frustration grows until she finally snaps and thrusts the baby into his arms. Even though he’s startled, it’s already instinctive for him to close his hands around her and hold her little body against his chest protectively.

“She needs to dry. Can you at least help with that?”

Ivar pats the squalling baby, looking both alarmed and offended at once as he replies, “It is not a father’s duty to handle such things.”

“What, pray tell, are a father’s duties. And stop wrinkling your nose like that, it doesn’t even smell!”

He appears lost in thought for a moment as he tries to think what Viking men actually did when their children are infants. “Fathers teach their children about the Gods and our laws, and how to be strong.”

Rowan can’t resist rolling her eyes again. “How astonishingly useful.”

“It is also a father’s duty to protect and provide for his children!” Ivar snaps defensively.

She takes a calming breath as she reminds herself that he’s even newer to this than she is. Ragný is still making cranky sounds, and Rowan smiles as Ivar tries to tuck a blanket around them both. “Take off your shirt.”

“Excuse me?”

She laughs at his incredulous expression. “Your skin will keep her warm, and it’s good for her to feel you.” She comes over to help him rearrange himself so Ragný can lie on his bare chest, with a blanket draped around his shoulders.

She scrapes the soiled cloth off into the chamber pot before setting it into an old basket. Once she has several she will rinse them more thoroughly before boiling them. Ragný is likely dry by now so she grabs a fresh cloth, but as she turns she finds herself pausing at the sight before her. The baby is fast asleep, and Ivar looks down at her tenderly as she snores peacefully.

Rowan quietly stretches out beside them, propping her chin on her hand and marvelling at the sight of the angry, vengeful man turned gentle and adoring.

“Must we disturb her?” he asks, nodding at the cloth in Rowan’s hands.

“Not if you don’t mind if she pisses on you.”

Ivar seriously considers this for a moment before sighing and reaching out to take the cloth. He doesn’t know how to properly put it on Ragný, but he’s at least able to wrap it around her bottom enough for her to be covered. She frowns and grunts in her sleep, but doesn’t wake as he tries not to jostle her too much.

“Have you seen Ubbe?” Rowan asks as they watch the baby sleeping.

He shakes his head. “Neither he nor Bjorn are speaking to me.”

“I’m sorry.” she says, “I wish there was something I could say. I tried to talk to Ubbe, but...”

“I know. It’s difficult to explain something to someone that you can’t even explain to yourself.”

Rowan winces. Whether he intends it or not, there’s a note of accusation that she can’t ignore. She can’t tell herself it’s unwarranted either.

“I’ve made a mess of everything, haven’t I?”

Ivar doesn’t respond, but he gives her a look that suggests he doesn’t intend to argue with that sentiment.

“This is exactly the sort of situation I was trying to avoid. I thought if I stayed silent, the only one who would suffer would be me. I could take all the blame for - for whatever reason that anyone chose to give it.”

“I would never have let that happen.” Ivar says softly, “Even if she weren’t my child, you are mine. You have been since you dumped that basin of water on my head.”

She gives a snort. “Are you saying I owe you?”

The way Ivar looks at her is like nothing she’s ever seen from him. His eyes are gentle, and yet there is a tension there. The little smile at the corners of his mouth is firm. “I am saying what I always have. You are my person, and I will always care for you.”

Rowan clears her throat, adjusting herself uncomfortably and averting her gaze from the intensity of his. “I suppose we should make some sort of plan. Deal with any issues now before they get out of hand.”

Ivar nods in agreement. “It will be nine more days until the water-sprinkling, but I agree. We should call a meeting beforehand to clear up any problems.”

“Could there be a lot of trouble for you?”

“Possibly, but if there are those who feel I have broken our laws, I will accept that.”

He says this calmly, but Rowan can already see his clever mind working, and she isn’t sure if she’s relieved or apprehensive for him to be taking over the issue. He had brilliant plans, true, but he was also catastrophically bad at feigning humility when it was expected of him. It was possible would find a way to come out on top and smelling like roses. Then there was the possibility that Rowan had completely fucked up history and he was about to destroy the last remaining shred of his reputation and end any chance of the Great Heathen Army ever following him.

~...~

It takes Rowan longer than she expected to walk to the throne room where Ivar has asked his brothers and the other leaders among them to gather. Tanaruz walks beside her, lending her strong shoulder to lean on. Even though the other women had made her get up and move almost as soon as possible after the birth, saying that Norse women do not lay about in bed and grow weak, it’s still slow going. By the time she arrives everyone else is already there, and they turn to watch as she goes to take the seat that’s been left empty for her, far on the other side of the room from Ivar.

There are many men gathered there, and several women as well. The Great Army is far too large for all freemen to be present, but it appears that all major groups have sent a representative. All bear somber expressions as they talk amongst themselves. Rowan tries to catch Ivar’s gaze to get some kind of a reassurance that he’s thought of a plan, but he appears deep in conversation with Sigurd. Their heads are nearly touching as they lean together, whispering earnestly amongst themselves. Even their other brothers who stand nearby appear to be excluded from their discussion.

All talk dies down as a man with face tattoos and a long braid steps out and raises his hands. Rowan vaguely recognizes him as someone important. He and his creepy shadow are always at the head of the army, although she can never remember what it is that makes him so special.

“We all know why we are here today.” the man says in a low, throaty voice, “Word has spread that Ivar Ragnarsson has claimed this child as his own.”

As if she knows she’s been mentioned, Ragný starts to fuss in Rowan’s arms. She rocks her softly, gaze darting from face to face as she tries to ascertain the general disposition of the crowd.

“We have also heard that the mother of this child, the freeborn woman called Rowan Hildigunnsdóttir, had not yet reached womanhood at the time the child was conceived.”

A ripple passes through the gathering. She catches muttered questions as to whether such a thing is possible. Those who had previously appeared merely curious who are now looking at Ivar with open hostility. He sits in his chair, hands fidgeting, the picture of concern and remorse.

“To his credit,” the man continues, “he has come forward to confess, and has expressed the desire to make compensation.”

More muttering, more indignation, and Rowan takes the chance to speak up. “I want to be clear. I place no blame on Ivar. He did not force me.”

Someone speaks from the crowd. “If he is the father, why was he not in the room at the birth? My thrall was one of the women attending, and she told me that there was no man present at all as witness.”

“I kept the truth from him. I allowed him, and others, to harbor doubts as to the father because I wanted to protect him.” Rowan says. She gives herself a mental pat on the back that her voice isn’t shaking.

“Is there no male relative to speak for this girl?”

Rowan draws herself up straight in her seat, bristling with indignation. The man who spoke looks irritated, and several others are nodding in agreement.

“Where is Wulfgar?” Ubbe is the first of the brothers to speak, glancing about with a frown.

“Yes,” says another man, “but he is English and a Christian.”

Bjorn interrupts with a faintly bored tone. “He has lived among our people for some months now, and has shown nothing but respect for our ways. As her only living relative, he should be here to speak for her family.”

“He went with the last hunting party. They are expected to return at any moment.”

The important man throws his hands up with a sound of exasperation, as if fed up with the shoddy way this whole matter has been handled. Rowan spots the shadow turn to hide a snicker. At least someone was finding amusement in the whole clusterfuck.

There is some discussion of what should be done. Should the assembly be postponed until Wulfgar arrived? She herself had been so indisposed the past day that she hadn’t even stopped to think what she might tell Bothild’s uncle when he learned that Ivar had fathered her child.

Luckily for someone who isn’t Ivar, they don’t have to talk about it long. The next thing there is a loud bang as the doors to the throne room are thrown open so loudly that Rowan jumps hard enough to wake Ragný, who immediately starts to wail at finding herself awake and not instantly presented with a breast.

“WHERE IS THAT LITTLE BASTARD?!”

Wulfgar comes through the doorway, sword drawn, like an avenging angel in dirty leather and maille. Several men hang from him in a futile attempt to keep the huge warrior from his goal, which now sits across the room from him looking as truly shocked and afraid as he ever has in his life.

“Uncle!” Rowan leaps forward despite the surge of pain and the cries of the child in her arms.

“I thought he was just a besotted fool! Now he’ll be a dead one!” Wulfgar snarls, sword poised, his whole body ready to charge forward and strike.

“Uncle, please!”

Ragný’s cries seem to be what finally breaks through his rage. He glances down at her, then at the baby and back again.

“He dishonored you.” he chokes out, “He tried to hide from his responsibility and I… I—.”

“You did nothing wrong, and I swear he has done nothing worse than I have.” she says in an undertone.

“But—”

“Please, all of this commotion is upsetting the baby.”

Wulfgar looks down again at Ragný, who has worked herself into a fit, face purple and ear-piercing wails ringing throughout the hall. Rowan bounces her, pleading silently with him to calm down so she can sit back down and tend to the enraged infant.

Finally, Wulfgar gives a short nod and visibly pulls himself back together. When Rowan returns to her seat, he stands by her shoulder, hand resting on the pommel of his sheathed sword. Everyone else waits patiently for her to calm Ragný with the offer of a breast, and she almost instantly quiets at the offer. Rowan wipes the little tears from her cheeks and croons softly until at last the baby settles into nursing.

“It seems to me that there are several matters which must be addressed.” Ubbe says, “The first of which is who will pay for the upkeep of the child? Rowan is an orphan with no inheritance, someone must see to it that both she and the child are provided for.”

“Ubbe.” Rowan growls.

“I am only trying to help.”

“You’ve helped quite enough, thank you. Please stop.” she retorts, and Wulfgar lays a hand on her shoulder.

“Women are not permitted to speak at assemblies!” says the man who’d first protested her speaking.

Wulfgar’s grip on her tightens subtly, urging her not to do anything rash. “My niece is of Wessex, and our women are allowed to speak for themselves during legal proceedings.”

Rowan looks up at him in shock. It may be the first time in years, or at least in recent memory, that a man has spoken up to defend her rights. Truthfully, she’s never paid much attention to Saxon or Norse legal matters. She’s acutely aware that she’s at a disadvantage in this situation, and she squeezes her uncle’s hand in gratitude.

“And she is not without inheritance.” he goes on, “She is my brother’s daughter, and she is entitled to what he left behind. She is my heir as well. It is not much, but she is not destitute.”

Even Ivar seems genuinely surprised by this pronouncement, and Rowan has to struggle to not break down as the proud man makes it clear that he still sees her as family, and supports her.

“She is not only of Wessex.” Sigurd’s soft voice stands out amidst all the loud, posturing men around him. When he’s certain he has everyone’s attention, he goes on, “Her mother was of our people, and she would have gained an inheritance from her family if they had not been slaughtered.”

Where is this going? Rowan wonders. Sigurd’s expression is mysterious. Beside him, Ivar appears just as curious as everyone else. Still, she can’t shake the feeling that something is going on. Ivar never looks that innocent unless he’s actively working at it.

“It is something that has weighed heavy on my mind for some time now. We have gained justice for my father, but what of the people he himself wronged? He hid the deaths of the settlers. Their families never had the opportunity to take revenge.”

“What is your point?” asks the important man. Harald! That was his name. Harald Something-or-other.

“I propose that as the only survivor, Rowan should be paid the wergild for them. Every single member of her family killed by the English.”

The room almost vibrates with the reaction. Rowan is only vaguely aware of the history of the Norse settlement and the overall feelings of resentment over its fate, but it quickly becomes clear to her that there is no one present who doesn’t have a strong opinion about it. It’s as if Sigurd’s reminder has broken open, and all the emotions connected to it are pouring out. Anger, bitterness, and grief are at the forefront.

“Olaf went to the settlement with his entire family. He and his wife had five living children. His brother’s family was with him as well. The wergild for all of them would be a princely sum.” says an older warrior.

Sigurd gives a small smile. “And I suggest a prince should pay it. We have all taken our share of English gold, much of it from the very men who killed Rowan’s family. Let the weregild be taken from Ivar’s share.”

Ivar appears appropriately aghast at this suggestion, but Rowan isn’t buying it for a second. Her mind flashes back to seeing them talking before, and she has to restrain a bark of laughter as it all comes together.

When Ivar had maimed Sigurd, it was an attack of one family member on another, and it was left up to the family to deal with it. But it was still seen as a black mark on Ivar’s honor. This latest scandal, however, couldn’t be brushed under the rug so easily. He had to be seen to suffer, and paying an ungodly sum to the mother of his illegitimate child would definitely be seen as a fitting punishment. And who better to suggest it than the man he’d previously wronged? It would settle everything in the eyes of the people with a nice, neatly tied bow on top for good measure.

Harald frowns, considering carefully before saying, “The punishment for lying with a girl who is not of age is outlawry.”

Several people nod vigorously in agreement, and Rowan suddenly understands why everyone has been so serious about the whole thing. A man who was outlawed was banished from the community, and anyone could kill him without retribution. It was essentially a death sentence.

“However, this is an unusual situation. As she bore a child, she is clearly a woman by our law now. Still, Ivar Ragnarsson is guilty, by his own admission, of fathering a child on a freeborn woman. No mund was paid, and he attempted to conceal his guilt. Her uncle may yet wish to kill him for such an insult to his family.”

Then there’s that. Ivar sits up very straight, honestly alarmed as the armored warrior takes one, long moment to consider this. It seems to Rowan that he hadn’t fully accounted for Wulfgar in his grand plan, and her uncle is now taking a wee bit too much satisfaction in drawing out his apprehension.

“My niece seems to prefer the welp alive.” he finally grumbles, “As long as he takes responsibility from now on, I will let the matter rest.”

Rowan breathes a sigh of relief. Ragný lets out a loud burp of satisfaction from her shoulder, and several people, including one or two of her uncles, have to stifle chuckles of amusement.

Harald nods. “Then, it seems to me that a fine, equal to the weregild for all of Rowan Hildigunnsdóttir’s family who died by English hands, is a fitting punishment. Do we all agree?”

The majority of the men assembled nod in agreement. There may be those who don’t, but they choose to remain silent.

Ivar appears contrite and remorseful as he crawls over to Rowan, but he can’t hide a faint smile when he tickles Ragný’s cheek and she yawns. Hvitserk also approaches to give his brother a pat on the shoulder. Sigurd remains back to maintain the show of hostility, but he watches them and smiles when his niece flails one small fist and manages to catch Hvitserk on the nose.

And Ubbe and Bjorn speak together in a corner, the former clearly irked, and the latter just as clearly done with all of it.

*.*.*

Giving birth wasn’t nearly the traumatic experience I expected it to be. It wasn’t particularly pleasant, but still not as bad as I’d worried. Tanaruz was like a general, and totally in her element. Apparently, as a midwife-in-training, she’s already seen at least a hundred births, so I figured I was in pretty good hands.

She and the other women who came to help kept me up and walking a lot. I honestly expected to be screaming and shouting at some point, but even near the end when the contractions were at their worst I was so focused on just breathing and staying calm. Somehow I ended up going through the whole thing with just a lot of groaning and panting.

It felt like it was going on forever. Then my water broke and suddenly everything was moving so fast. I guess she decided she was ready to come right then and there, because the next thing I knew I was squatting with one of the women supporting me from behind and Tanaruz in front to catch her.

I now fully understand what’s meant by “the ring of fire”. I think just because she came so fast, I tore like a motherfucker. Tanaruz was, as usual, totally calm. Can’t say I was too happy having my taint stitched back together without anesthetic, but by that time I was holding my baby in my arms, so I was at least distracted.

Ragný’s a pretty good baby for the most part. She lets whoever wants to hold and coo at her, and just gives them odd looks like, “Who the F are you? Why aren’t you feeding me?”

I’m afraid she’s taken after her Uncle Hvitserk in that way. If there’s more than two seconds between her feeling a bit peckish and being presented with a boob, she absolutely loses her little mind. I realize her stomach is the size of a teaspoon, but seriously, Boob Vampire, chill.

She had her first meconium poop. Ivar was less than stellar at helping with that. I realize expectations are different here than in my time, but still. I may have to think of my own Great Plan to convince him that diaper duty is all manly and shit.

Heh, shit.

~...~

Lots and lots and lots of nursing. Still producing colostrum, so I feel like I should get as much into her as possible before my milk comes in. It’s the best thing I can do at this point to give her immune system a boost. At least there hasn’t been too much sickness going through.

~...~

I don’t have nightmares about being thrown anymore, but I still have a lot of nightmares. I dream of people coming for Ragný because of Ivar, because of Ragnar, or even because of me. I wake up and I think for a moment that I can still see that woman’s blood on my hands, and I dream of her sister or someone else coming for Ragný because of me. Sometimes it feels like I don’t have the right to touch my own child after taking someone else’s life. But then, can I in some way make up for it by being the best mother I possibly can? By protecting her with every fiber of my being?

I like Ivar, I really do. He’s smart and funny and sometimes I think he could be good, but I worry sometimes that that’s not why I want to stick close to him. I know what he’ll one day become. Out of everyone here, I know that he’s the one who can keep us safe. He is Ivar the Boneless, and one day he will have the power to make sure that she’s never in danger again. Does it make me a terrible person that I always have that in the back of my mind now?