Rollo is quiet. And angry. Ragnar watches him closely across the fire, how his eyebrows come together over his nose, how his hands clench and unclench. Father would not take him hunting, even though at eleven he is already taller and sturdier than most of the boys even three years his senior; Father says that Rollo is not ready and should not be too eager to grow up. Ragnar thinks it is because Rollo does not know when to be still. He does not think, sometimes, not the way Father does. Not the way Ragnar does.
They eat herring and drink ale together and sit with Mother around the campfire. Rollo scowls the whole time, but Ragnar is happy enough. His belly is full and though it is beginning to get cold outside, in their home it is warm.
"Time for sleep," Mother says. She squeezes Rollo's shoulder but Rollo does not respond beyond a grunt and continues to glare. Mother offers a tiny smile that only Ragnar sees, then crosses to crouch in front of him. "And what about you, son? Are you ready to sleep?"
Ragnar nods and Mother extends her hand. Ragnar takes it- it is thin and calloused- and rises. Rollo climbs to his feet and they silently take off their clothes, shucking thick outer layers and trousers until they are left in their long undershirts. When they are settled in their beds, soft furs pulled up around their chins, Mother sits between them.
"What story tonight?" She asks.
Ragnar looks closely at Rollo; only a few days ago, his brother attempted to seem more adult in Father's eyes by berating Ragnar for loving the stories as only a small boy should. Upon hearing it, Father knelt down and took Ragnar by the shoulders, with Rollo watching, and spoke in a serious tone, blue eyes boring into Ragnar's.
"Ragnar," he said. "Never stop listening to the stories of the gods. They are fickle, our gods, and we must show that we respect them. Yes? Telling their stories is one of the ways we show that we revere them. You want the favor of the gods, no?"
Ragnar nodded, eyes wide.
"Good boy," Father said, ruffling his hair. "You will get it."
"How do you know?" Ragnar asked.
Father leaned in close so that Ragnar could feel the warmth of his breath. "I have asked the Seer," Father said. "And he has told me that my sons will be great men."
"Rollo?" Mother says, drawing Ragnar back to the present. Rollo remains sullen, head turned away from Mother. "If you want to go on a hunt with your father so badly, why do you act like a child?"
Rollo's head snaps around, dark eyes hooded. "I am sorry, Mother," he says, voice quiet. Ragnar cannot tell if he is angry still, or of he feels guilty.
Mother sighs and shakes her head, but when she turns round to face Ragnar, she winks.
"I think," she says, "we shall hear of Fenrir, hmm?"
Ragnar shares her secret smile; Rollo has always loved the story of Fenrir and even in his dark mood he cannot quite hide his excitement at the story.
Ragnar leans back and loops his arms behind his head and lets his mother's story wash over him, listens to the tale of Fenrir, of his bondage by the gods, of his escape, of how he killed Odin himself during Ragnarok. This story always frightens Ragnar, just a bit, but Rollo listens with wide eyes and an almost-smile on his mouth and Ragnar knows how his brother's heart races with excitement. He knows there is something in his brother's heart that sings for blood.
The story finishes and Mother stands, stooping down to kiss Ragnar on the forehead.
"What is it you think of that makes your face so serious?" She asks.
Ragnar quirks his mouth to the side. "Nothing," he says. "Just thinking."
"You are always thinking," Mother says, tweaking his nose with a smile. She stands straight and crosses the room to Rollo's bed and kneels down next to it. Ragnar cannot hear what she says before she kisses Rollo and then goes to her own bed.
Ragnar burrows beneath his furs and stares into the darkness until, before he knows it, the next day has begun.
xxxx
Father comes home a few days later, shoulders laden with deer. They salt most of the meat so that it will last them through the winter but some of it they eat fresh. It is tender and delicious and everyone smiles and is happy.
The winter is long and hard, the snow thick and heavy. It passes though, as it always does, and with the spring comes the announcement of where the men will be raiding.
"Well?" Rollo asks, springing upon Father as soon as he comes home.
Father laughs. "To the east!" He says. "Where else?"
Later, Ragnar and Rollo are out by the water. Rollo is using his new sword, a gift from Father, swinging in clumsy, blocky movements that are powerful and fierce for all their lack of grace.
"What is west?" Ragnar asks, watching his brother lunge forward.
"What?" Rollo asks without looking at Ragnar.
"What is west?" Ragnar repeats. "Why do we always go east?"
Rollo stops and looks at Ragnar with a half-grin. "There is nothing west," Rollo says, "just ocean that goes on and on until you reach the edge of the world and fall off."
Ragnar frowns. "I do not think so," he says. Rollo shrugs and smiles and starts swinging his sword again.
"Perhaps one day you'll prove me wrong brother," he says.
xxxx
They go down to the docks with Mother and watch the ships sail away.
"I want to go," Rollo says. "I want to fight."
"You will fight soon enough," Mother says. "For now, enjoy being a boy." She tugs lightly at Rollo's hair-he likes it long and it hangs just past his shoulders. Rollo gives her an exasperated look before breaking into a grin.
"You too," Mother adds, ruffling Ragnar's short hair. "We have sheep that need feeding. Go on."
Ragnar shoves at Rollo's shoulder and takes off running. He doesn't get far before he hears Rollo's heavy steps behind him and then a push from behind sends him sprawling. Rollo's laugh tumbles over his ears as his brother steps around him and runs for their house. Ragnar spits out dirt and shakes his head and runs after him.
xxxx
The ships come home, but Father doesn't.
Hallr, Father's friend, comes off the boat wearing a grave face and with Father's knife in his hand.
"He died valiantly," he says when he hands the knife to Mother. "He is in Valhalla now."
"Thank you," Mother says. She does not cry, but Ragnar can see the sadness in her eyes and how her lips quiver like they might crumble. Rollo does not say anything but storms away, footsteps heavier than normal. Ragnar does not know what to do. He knows he should be happy that his Father is in Valhalla, drinking and fighting with the gods- and he is, a little bit. But his heart is uneasy and burdened with sadness and will not settle.
xxxx
Ragnar creeps to the beach where he and Rollo play together. He can hear Rollo in the woods, a solid thunking noise as he swings his axe, wildly striking out and connecting sporadically with trees. The noise stops after a moment and then Rollo roars. The sound of it makes the hair on Ragnar's arms stand on end; it is full of heartbreak and agony and everything that is in Ragnar's own heart.
He sits on the sand and looks out to the water and imagines Father as he stood on the boat to leave, how he'd looked to Ragnar and raised his hand. Ragnar pictures him coming back, arms open and eyes laughing. He pictures his body burning on a pier in some distant land Ragnar has yet to see.
He is not ashamed when he cries, though he wonders if he should be. Perhaps Odin is looking down at him and laughing at his weakness.
A hand on his shoulder startles him and he twists, looking up and wiping tears from his face. Rollo looks down at him, dark eyes stormy and, Ragnar is surprised to see, reddened. For once Rollo says nothing, just grips him a little tighter before going on his way.
xxxx
Rollo begins hunting after Father dies. He is still too young to go raiding, but he prepares as best he can, practices with shield, sword, and spear.
"You must learn too, little brother," he says, handing a sword to Ragnar. "We will be the greatest warriors Kattegat has ever seen."
Ragnar grips the sword in his hand. He likes the feel of it, its weight and balance, how it is like an extension of his arm. It makes him feel powerful and dangerous, like there is nothing he cannot conquer. He looks up and sees Rollo staring at him.
"You feel that?" Rollo asks. Ragnar nods and Rollo grins then claps him on the shoulder. "There is some Viking in you after all," he says.
They fight for hours until they are both bruised and bloodied then stumble home together. Ragnar cannot remember feeling more content.
xxxx
Winter comes again. It seems much colder and more desolate in their home without Father to help fill the space. Rollo takes Ragnar on a hunt. They go out, just the two of them, the snow and wind biting at their faces, ice crunching beneath their boots.
"There," Rollo whispers, pointing to a deer. "You can make the shot from here."
Ragnar nods and draws back his bowstring, breathes out slowly and lets loose an arrow. It flies true and hits the deer, but does not kill it immediately. The deer bucks at the impact and runs, off-balance, into the woods.
"Come," says Rollo. "We will find her." They track the trail left by her blood, stark against the snow, and soon find her lying dead by a tree. Ragnar has seen animals killed before, nearly every day, but this is the first time he has killed one and it is different somehow. They kneel down next to her and Ragnar swallows thickly.
"Ragnar?" Rollo says, looking at him with a strange expression.
"I am alright," Ragnar says. He wipes at his nose and takes a deep breath and then begins to remove her innards.
"You will kill many more," Rollo says. "It is our fate. Just as it was hers to be killed."
Ragnar nods but says nothing.
"It was Father's fate to die," Rollo says. "It was a good death."
"I miss him," Ragnar mutters. "I wish he would come home."
Rollo is quiet for a moment.
"Me too," he says, finally.
xxxx
The part of Ragnar that fears death fades through the winter as he and Rollo continue to hunt. His pulse quickens and his blood sings with every kill, and he begins to understand Rollo's desire to raid.
Rollo starts coughing on one of their hunts. It sounds like it is deep in his chest and, though he tries to hide it, he winces with every cough. Ragnar watches him and feels a seed of unease take root in his stomach, trying to burrow its way up under his ribs and into his heart.
"I am fine," Rollo says when Ragnar watches him too closely. "Do not worry so much."
But he is not fine; he is stumbling by the time they get out of the trees and the weight of their kills seems almost too much for him to carry.
Mother puts him to bed straight away and starts a pot of soup on the fire.
"Ragnar, go and chop some wood, hmm? We must keep the fire hot," Mother says.
Later, when he is in bed with warm soup in his belly and warm furs pulled up to his ears, Mother sits next to Rollo, stroking her hand through his sweaty hair, and tells them the story of Hati and Skoll, Fenrir's sons.
"They were the only ones who defended Fenrir when the gods captured him," Mother says, "and were themselves captured not long after that. Do you know how Odin punished them?"
Ragnar shakes his head, eyes wide and sees Rollo mirroring his action.
"He cursed them," she says. "He cursed Skoll to chase the sun and Hati to chase the moon, to make sure that they stay on course and do not wander away. They must do this every day until Ragnarok."
Ragnar shivers when she says that and looks at her with wide eyes.
"Are they angry?" He asks. Mother shakes her head gravely.
"Would not you be? She asks.
"I would fight them," Rollo says, his voice low and raspy. "I would fight them every day."
"Ah," Mother says. "You are like Hati. He is very angry and he resents the curse with every bit of his heart."
"And I am like Skoll?" Ragnar asks.
"Yes," Mother says. "Skoll does not like his curse but he is quiet. He knows it could be worse. He knows he could be imprisoned like his father."
Mother is quiet a moment as she looks fondly down at Ragnar before shifting her gaze to Rollo.
"You have always been different, my sons," she says quietly. She looks at Ragnar. "When we presented you to the Earl after you were born, you did not cry. You looked into his eyes and he looked into yours, and he was surprised by the wisdom he saw there."
Ragnar blinks. He has never heard this story before.
"When Rollo was presented, he balled his tiny fists and kicked his little legs and he screamed until his lungs nearly burst," Mother says. She laughs softly and tangles her fingers in Rollo's hair. "There was not much wisdom to be found in him. Just passion, and heat."
Ragnar listens to his Mother's voice, how it rises and falls. It makes him feel warm.
"Ragnar," Mother says suddenly, looking at him fiercely. "You are brothers. You are different as night and day, but you will always be brothers. You must look out for one another. Do you understand?"
Ragnar nods seriously. He does understand, but he does not know why Mother is speaking so. Still, it seems important to her. "I understand," he says gravely.
"Good," Mother says. "Good."
xxxx
The next morning Rollo does not wake. He coughs and shivers, face flushed and sometimes he mumbles, but he does not open his eyes. Mother gets a look on her face that Ragnar rarely sees, her eyes hard and her jaw set. She is readying for battle.
She braids Rollo's hair so it does not lay hot on his neck and dabs a wet cloth over his face and chest. Rollo murmurs something that Ragnar cannot understand and tries weakly to get away, but Mother shushes him and sings softly and he stills.
Ragnar is frightened. He does not say so, not aloud, but the seed of worry that had sprouted when Rollo first began to cough has grown to become a large tree, branches reaching up into his guts and his heart and threatening to come out in an uncontrollable rush.
"Can I help?" He asks Mother. She looks up at him, tired and scared, her emotions incredibly easy to see.
"Get some of last night's soup," she says finally. "We will try to feed him."
Rollo cannot keep anything down, not even when Ragnar sits behind him, chest pressed up to his brother's back. He can hear Rollo's breathing, how it shakes and rattles inside of him before coming out in a wheezy gasp.
Listening to his brother's labored breaths, Ragnar realizes with some surprise that he loves his brother. He had always known that, maybe, but usually they argued and fought and pushed each other and the word love was never a part of it.
Now, though, he loves his brother and he knows that he will not be the same if Rollo dies. The fear-tree inside of him grows larger and pokes out of him and Ragnar lets out a stifled sob, burying his face in Rollo's hot shoulder.
"Ssh," Mother says, her hand rubbing his back. Ragnar breathes deeply, trying to control his cries, but he cannot stop. "Go outside," Mother says, tilting Ragnar's head so that he is looking at her. "Go. The air will do you some good."
Ragnar nods and wipes at his eyes and leaves. He sits on the beach for a long time, looking out at the water. He does not understand why the gods would allow both his father and his brother to die, why Rollo would be fated to such a death.
"Ragnar," a voice says. He turns to see Assur, one of the smaller boys that lives near them. "Your mother sent me to get you."
Ragnar runs.
When he gets inside, he sees that Rollo is worse. His chest is heaving and his lips look dusky, the same color he's seen when men are outside in the snow for too long.
"Ragnar," Mother says. "Stay with your brother."
"Where are you going?" Ragnar asks, clutching Rollo's hand in his.
"I will be back," Mother says, and then she is gone and it is just Ragnar and his dying brother.
"You must not die," Ragnar says to Rollo, getting fresh water on the rag and drawing it across his brother's hot skin. "Please."
When Mother comes back there is blood smeared on her forehead. Ragnar knows she has made a sacrifice to the gods. He also knows that they can scarcely afford to kill one of their sheep. Looking down at Rollo though, he decides that he would sacrifice all of their sheep if it made a difference.
"He will be alright," Mother says. "He is strong. My little Hati."
xxxx
In the morning Rollo wakes, and Ragnar knows that the gods have heard them.