Chapter Ten: Sticks and Stones
The air felt heavy, like solid ice was falling from the sky rather than snow flurries. Rúna pulled her hood up, seeking the soft, warm comfort of the fox fur Helga had lined it with. The sun wasn't yet up as she combed the chicken nests for eggs, stowing her stash in her apron pocket. There was breakfast to eat, and bread to make, which was unfortunate for the chickens. They pecked at her hand, displeased with being roused from their sleep.
"You will live," Rúna chastised them. "Unless you want to become stew."
She hurried back to the cabin, the warm air diffusing her as soon as she opened the door. Helga had stoked up the fire; Rúna could smell porridge sweetened with honey and dried summer berries warming over the flames. She set her collection of eggs softly in Helga's waiting basket, careful not to crack any of the shells.
"I think we must be in for a blizzard." Helga spooned a portion of the porridge into a bowl, setting it at Rúna's place at the table. There was hot mead in her cup, she saw, as she shook her cloak out before the fire. She was only allowed whole cups of mead during the coldest days of winter, to warm her from the inside out, Helga would say.
"A blizzard?" Floki echoed, stepping through the doorway of his and Helga's bedroom. He held a tiny model boat in his hands. "Perhaps. But the gods are close today."
As he made his way through the big front room, Floki stopped to kiss first Helga then Rúna on the cheek. "Can't you feel it crackling in the air?"
"What's that?" Rúna asked, motioning toward the structure in his hands with her spoon. Floki set it on the table before her, where she could better see it in the candlelight.
"This, dear Rúna, is a replica of the new longboats that will carry Björn to the Mediterranean. We will begin building them in the spring."
The little ship was not so different from the ones she had helped build and repair in the past. On the front reared the great head of a dragon; the tail rose along the end. It was hard to tell for sure, in miniature, but it appeared the mast was taller and wider. The only discernable change was the number of tiny oars sticking out along the side. Whereas the boats Rúna had worked on before had twelve places for rowers, this boat had sixteen.
"See here," Floki pointed to the mast, dark eyes alight with excitement, "the mast is both taller and wider, which affords for a larger sail, which in turn affords for more wind. But a larger sail demands a larger crew, so I added the four rowers on either side. A simple solution, but somehow it eluded me for months."
No wonder Floki felt the gods were close, for the vision of Björn's boats to come to him so clearly after months of trial and error.
"A busy spring, then." Helga smiled lovingly when her eyes landed on Floki's beaming, proud face. "I hope Torvi hasn't made too much progress on the sails she already started."
Their breakfast was filled with talk of boat building plans. When all the dishes had been cleared away and cleaned, Rúna slipped back into her room to change into her big, old apron. She had plans to go to Ivar's cabin later that day, and she didn't want flour all over herself after the breadmaking with Helga. She took hold of her hair and twisted it tightly, coiling it along the back of her head before spearing it through with a hair stick.
Rúna liked the routine of the housework in the winter, when the fire was lively and the cabin was cozy. She liked most things about winter, aside from Ivar's attitude during the season. Not that she could blame him for that. Anyone would be upset over being basically trapped inside for months on end. Especially with how much snow they had gotten so far.
"Come home if you hear the winds pick up," Helga cautioned her as they worked, their hands gritty with flour as they kneaded the dough together. "I don't want you lost in the snow."
Hearth flames warmed her face when Rúna slid the bread into the heart of it to bake. With just the three of them, they didn't go through bread quickly, but there was an extra loaf on the fire that morning for Ivar.
That loaf was warm against her side, protected from the still-falling snow beneath her cloak. She had shed her old apron, replacing it with her gray wool overdress. Her hair was properly dressed, now, hair stick abandoned, and the top layer of hair braided back off her face. She hated having all her hair up or braided in the winter, leaving her back and shoulders exposed to the cold.
Hurrying into the heart of town, where the great hall and subsequent cabins lay, Rúna was thankful she had put her leggings on beneath her dress. Each quick step had her thick winter boots kicking snow up beneath her skirts. She was in such a hurry that she entirely overlooked the sled perched atop the snow just outside Ivar's cabin.
Rúna let herself in, shaking the snowflakes from her hair as she stepped over the threshold and into the warmth. It took a second for her ears to adjust from the howl of the winter winds to the crackling fire and the voices of Hvitserk and Ivar.
"Oh, hi, Hvitserk." She had expected a quiet afternoon of hnefatafl with Ivar, eating the fresh bread Helga had sent along with her. The mischief in Hvitserk's eyes spoke of different plans—or, they did until his eyes landed upon the loaf of bread, wrapped in a simple linen cloth, when Rúna set in on the table.
"Is that bread? Nobody brings me bread!" Beside him, Ivar rolled his eyes, clearly irritated with his brother.
"Margrethe can bring you all the bread you want, when she's not too busy bedding Sigurd."
"Who? Oh, that slave girl Mother has now." Hvitserk reached for the bread, helping himself and tearing off a hunk. He didn't wait to swallow it, speaking around the food instead. "She doesn't cook like Helga, though."
"I made that!" Rúna corrected, indignant. Hvitserk only shrugged, pulling off another piece before Ivar swiped it from his hands.
"But you learned from Helga, didn't you? We're not here to sit around and eat bread, not today. Rúna, we're taking Ivar sledding."
That gave her pause, both Hvitserk's declaration and Ivar's contemptuous expression. Kattegat had several days of snow; Ivar, she knew, had not been out of his cabin in just as many. The winter, as always, has brought with it heaps of snow. When snowfall was too frequent, it was impossible to clear the roads in time to make easy walking paths. Or crawling paths, in Ivar's case. While others could break through the layers of snow with boots and some determined steps. The same was not true for Ivar. There was no way he would be able to move his body through the snow, not without becoming soaked to the bone in the process.
Typically, sleds were used much in the same way as carts: for hauling. But it wasn't atypical for little children to use sleds to race downhill or pull each other across the snow. Ivar had a sled in the past, she remembered, for the winter months when his cart was no longer feasible. Rúna herself had been sledding with Ubbe, Hvitserk, and Sigurd, along with other local children, in the past. But Ivar had never been allowed to go. Aslaug had forbidden it, for fear Ivar would get hurt. They always went sledding in secret, when Ivar was bedbound from his leg pains, so as not to make him feel left out.
"Do you want to go sledding?" Rúna asked, turning her attention to Ivar. His face softened, some of the ire melting away as he shrugged. There was conflict in his bright eyes, though, and she could guess why. He would need to be pulled along on the sled behind either herself or Hvitserk. With all the snow, it would be too difficult to carry him along on Hvitserk's back. "It is fun."
"It can feel like flying, if you get going fast enough." It had been years since they went sledding, but Rúna remembered the feeling Hvitserk was speaking of. "And you sit down the whole time. You really don't need your legs to go sledding, Little Ivar."
He scowled at Hvitserk's nickname but shrugged once more. "I suppose."
"Yes! Rúna, help me get him to the sled."
After Ivar had slipped on his gloves and clasped his cloak, Hvitserk and Rúna stood on either side of him, wrapping their arms around his waist while Ivar flung his own around their shoulders.
"You good?" Rúna asked as Ivar shifted his weight, trying to find balance between them. Rúna was much shorter than Hvitserk, leaving Ivar at an angle suspended between them. He nodded once he was comfortable, holding his feet above the ground as well as he could to make it easier on the two of them. A bit awkwardly, they settled Ivar in the sled. Hvitserk took the rope in his hand, giving a rather flippant bow and smile before taking the lead and pulling Ivar along. Rúna followed behind, placing her footsteps in the ruts left by the sled. They took a winding path through the trees, Hvitserk leading them to a forest valley where they found Ubbe and Sigurd waiting, a second sled between them.
"What kind of bribery did the two of you use to get Ivar out in the snow?" Ubbe asked, all smiles and good humor. He could be so serious, at times, that it was easy to forget the light of his smile. His smile paused when he took in Rúna's skirts. "You didn't warn her beforehand?"
"Hvitserk does not plan, we all know that. Don't worry yourself over my honor, Ubbe, I have leggings on beneath my dress." The relief that flooded Ubbe's face left Rúna giggling. Hvitserk was not in the mood for logistics. He plopped himself behind Ivar on the sled, reaching around his little brother to grab hold of the rope handle.
"Use your honor to give us a push, Rúna."
She rolled her eyes, but did as Hvitserk bid, splaying her hands along his back and using all her strength to send the brothers over the crest and down into the valley. Just before they went over, she heard Ivar suck his breath in. Hvitserk whooped and hollered all the way down until the sled lost momentum and petered out just before the tree line, but Ivar went down silently.
"See?" Hvitserk's voice cut through the cold quiet. "Easy! All you must do is hold on tight after someone gives you your starting push!"
He disentangled himself from Ivar, pulling the younger boy back up the incline of the hill. As the sled had no back—just a space up front to tuck one's feet under—Ivar had to clutch onto the sides lest he slide right out.
They carried on this way, racing against each other on their own or in pairs. Rúna, Hvitserk, and Ubbe took turns going down with Ivar so that he always had someone to pull him back up. Sigurd did not offer, but for once, there was no bickering between the youngest brothers. Laughter and jests rang through the valley.
"Push your feet flat," Rúna whispered in Ivar's ear, holding tight to his shirt. "If we shift our weight forward, we'll go down faster and beat Sigurd."
When they beat Sigurd, it was with a shriek of Rúna's laughter. She grabbed hold of Ivar about the waist, throwing them sideways and sending them tumbling and laughing as they rolled off their sled in a heap of limbs and cloaks to avoid crashing into a tree. The snow was cold but soft, cushioning their fall. To Rúna's surprise, Sigurd laughed with them. Hooking a hand under Ivar's arm, he even helped Rúna right him on the sled once again before the trio trekked back up the hill.
All was truly fun and games until the final time Ubbe and Ivar went down together. Ubbe was the oldest and the largest of Aslaug's sons. The goal was to have as much weight on the sled as possible, to make it go faster downhill. Sigurd and Hvitserk both placed their hands on Ubbe's back, using their combined strength to get their brother's going.
Rúna would remember the snow falling harder, the wild flight of Ubbe's long braid streaming behind them, the sudden appearance of the deer, her hoofs silent on the snow. She was large, bounding into the valley and stopping in the path of the sled, eyes wide and frightened as she froze in fear. Ubbe yelled; the deer didn't move. He jerked the rope, but he and Ivar were going too fast and the deer did not flinch.
The wooden sled cracked and splintered loudly, and the deer made no small noise at being hit, but Ivar's screams of pain drowned out both sounds. Beside her, Hvitserk cursed, though Rúna couldn't say what that curse was. She was already running downhill, her feet plowing through the snow. Ubbe was sitting up at that point, blood streaming down his face from a gash in his forehead, but Ivar was still screaming upon the ground. Steam rose from the fresh blood, the air was so cold. It burned in Rúna's lungs as she pulled in gasps of air, dropping to her knees beside Ivar.
Her hands fluttered along his face, over his brow and down his cheeks, trying to draw his attention to her. She was vaguely aware of Ubbe and Hvitserk undoing the binds on Ivar's legs to examine them. How many years had it been since Ivar had broken a bone? Five? Six? The last break had been horrific; Ivar had passed out from the pain that time.
"Ivar," she forced her voice to be calm and low, so he might hear it over his own yelling. "Look at me, Ivar."
When he finally, slowly, followed her commands, his face was white as the snow beneath him, eyes hazy and unfocused with pain. But his hand raised, clutching her sleeve while his head lolled toward her. She lifted his head, settling it in her lap though his hair was already soaked through with snow and dampening her skirt.
She tried to give him a smile, stroking his cheek. "You're okay. We'll get you home so you can rest."
But her chest tightened even as she spoke, the image of Aslaug's furious face swimming into her mind.
"It didn't break the skin," Ubbe breathed. Peeking up, he had pushed Ivar's pant leg up to reveal swelling and bruising along the right shin. Rúna was relieved to see his leg was still straight despite the injury. She let loose a deep sigh, tipping her head over Ivar's.
"Did you hear Ubbe? It's not so bad, it's just been a while, huh?" His hand still gripped her sleeve, fingers digging into her skin, but she could see that he was coming out of the fog of pain and back into himself. Ragged breaths evening out, Ivar lifted his head from her lap to see for himself.
"It's a long way from your heart, Ivar," Hvitserk's smile was more successful than Rúna's had been. "I'm almost certain you'll live once a healer sets it. Now, how are we going to get you there?"
Ubbe and Rúna worked together to settle Ivar on Hvitserk's back, upon the younger boy's request. At first, no one realized that Sigurd was gone. No one commented, either, once the realization sunk in. No one was surprised. Sigurd and Ivar's contemptuous relationship left the former to receive the brunt of Aslaug's ire even when he wasn't involved. More than likely, he was with Björn.
Perhaps he is with Margrethe now, Rúna pondered. She pulled the surviving sled behind her, leaving the ruins of the other behind in the bloodstained snow. Ivar had kindly sacrificed one of his gloves to Ubbe, so that he might staunch his bleeding some while they made their way back to Kattegat.
A pall as cold and heavy as the winter air had settled over them. Did Ivar feel it? Surely, though he had his face buried in the crook of Hvitserk's shoulder. They would have to take Ivar to Aslaug. Had it just been a cut, or bruising, they might have hidden that. A broken leg was another beast entirely, and not one that Aslaug was going to take kindly to, Rúna knew. The closer they got to the great hall, the harder she found it to gulp down breaths of the icy air.
Any hopes they might have harbored to find the great hall empty were immediately squashed by the sound of Aslaug's voice. There might have been a small chance she was speaking to a vendor from town or a resident, but that was dashed when Ubbe pushed the door open to reveal Aslaug correcting Margrethe on her sewing. Not kindly, either.
"…stupid girl." They only caught the tail end of Queen Aslaug's reprimanding before her attention shifted to the doors. Ubbe came in first, followed by Hvitserk and Ivar, with Rúna gently closing the door behind them. It was not unusual for Ivar to be carried on someone's back, so Queen Aslaug didn't immediately realize her youngest son was hurt.
"Ubbe!" She said instead, taking his jaw gently in her hand, turning his face so that it caught the light and she could see his cut. Aslaug tutted over him, discarding Ivar's blood-soaked glove on a close-by table, using the hem of her apron to dab around the wound. "When will you boys learn not to play so rough?"
In that moment, she was doting and loving… until Hvitserk cleared his throat and spoke up.
"Mother," he said, but didn't manage to go farther. It was enough for Aslaug's hazel eyes to slide over to Hvitserk, an almost-bemused smile playing at her lips. Rambunctious boys, nothing more.
"Don't tell me you are hurt as well, Hvitserk. What is it you've all been up to this afternoon?"
"Well, not myself, Mother. I am not hurt, I mean. Me and Rúna, we convinced Ivar to go sledding with us. We never let him go down alone, Mother, one of us was always with Ivar. He was sledding with Ubbe and this deer came and it didn't move and it was too late, Ubbe couldn't swing the sled to miss it, so they hit the deer and… and we think Ivar broke a leg."
The words tumbled from Hvitserk's mouth with alarming speed, and Aslaug's smile slid off her face with the same caliber. Her features settled into a scowl, eyes alighting with fire rather than the amusement she held moments ago. The hand that had been tenderly cupping Ubbe's face fell away.
"You what?" Aslaug asked, voice low, steady. Dangerous. It was obvious where she was placing the blame when those burning eyes fixed themselves on Hvitserk and Rúna. "You stupid children. Did you even stop to check his eyes? Or, better yet, to think?"
"It was an accident, Mother. I wanted to go." If Queen Aslaug heard Ivar speak, she gave no indication. With Ivar on Hvitserk's back, Aslaug couldn't risk slapping him and hurting Ivar instead. That train of thought didn't occur, to Hvitserk, though. When Aslaug raised her hand, he flinched away from a strike that wasn't intended for him. Rather, her raised hand was poised for Rúna's face.
So many years had passed since the last time Aslaug had moved to strike Rúna that she didn't immediately realize she was the target. She made no move to block it; in fact, she was still glancing at Ivar, trying to guess what might happen next. It wasn't until Ivar threw himself forward over Hvitserk's shoulder to grab his mother's wrist that Rúna understood she was the current object of Aslaug's anger.
Ivar grunted in pain at the movement, hand flashing past Rúna's face so his fingers could curl and tighten around Aslaug's wrist. Only then did Rúna flinch away.
"No!" Ivar's voice was a roar of anger, deep and guttural and primal, so unlike his typically measured speaking voice. "You will not hit her, Mother!"
His anger had stolen all the air from the room. Behind Aslaug, Margrethe was frozen as still as a statue, her sewing needle falling from her shocked hand. Ubbe, Hvitserk, and Rúna had turned to stone as well, all eye flicking between Ivar's pale, sweaty face, blue eyes fever-bright as he leveled a glower at his mother and Aslaug's aghast, bewildered expression.
Rúna made a move to touch Ivar's shoulder, heaving with the expense of his pain-labored breathing, at the same time that Ubbe's hand curled around her elbow. He dipped his head low to whisper in her ear. "Go home, Rúna. Quickly."
Ubbe all but pushed her out the doors of the great hall, leaving her tripping over the sled she had left in the doorway, but she did as he told her. Somehow, her feet turned homeward even as her head still buzzed with thoughts of the chaotic afternoon. She pulled her hood up, drawing her cloak closely around her more for comfort than warmth.
Thank the gods her feet carried her home, for Rúna had no recollection of anything she passed until the cabin door was before her face.
The night brought Helga's predicted blizzard, though it was unlike any that Rúna had ever known. Rising winds left her sleep undisturbed, accustomed to them as she was. They beat against all sides of the cabin, sending icy fingers through every unseen gap in the boards. In her sleep, Rúna pulled her furs and blankets more securely around herself, the little doll Ivar had given her in their childhood pressed against her cheek as always.
No, it wasn't the wind that woke her, causing her to pick her sleep-heavy head up from her pillows. At first, Rúna couldn't place what, exactly, was amiss. The air felt…not right, but she couldn't say how. Not until the thunder sounded, rumbling so low and close that it set the cabin to shaking and stole Rúna's breath from her chest.
Faintly, she heard Floki's giggle managing to cut through the din of the storm. "Remind me, my dear Helga, to ask Thor what I've done to anger him so in the morning. I think that lightning might have lit the whole cabin in flames, if it weren't for all this snow."
Just that morning, Floki had said how the gods were close to Midgard. Perhaps he is right, Rúna thought to herself, snuggling back into her bed. She pulled her doll close to her pounding heart, trying to will herself back into sleep. The gods may be close, but Thor is furious.
She gave herself no time to ponder the reason. Her dreams claimed her again too quickly.
When Rúna saw Ivar again—three days after the sledding incident, thanks to the blizzard—he was in shockingly good spirits. Most of the color had returned to his face, and though he kept his injured leg still, his upper body was animated as he made a show of his moves in hnefatafl.
They had to play with the board balanced between them on Ivar's bed. Rúna sat beside the bed in a chair, making delicate moves so as not to tip the whole game board into the blankets. Ivar apparently had no such qualms, moving each of his pieces with a flourish and smirk.
"You're in a shockingly good mood for someone with a broken leg," Rúna eventually commented, apparently to Ivar's satisfaction. A wide smile spread across his face at her words.
"I dreamed of I, the night after." He didn't bother to clarify who the him was, leaving Rúna scrunching her brow in confusion.
"Ragnar?" Ivar rarely mentioned his father, missing for nearly a full decade by then. Ivar shook his head, leaning over the hnefatafl board to whisper to her. Even now, they said his name in secret, the shadow of Aslaug's banning somehow still hanging over them.
"No, Harbard."
The gods are close… of course Ivar would dream of Odin-as-Harbard on that night. "Oh. What did you dream of?"
That sly smile was back. Though they were in the middle of a game, Ivar put the board aside and patted his bed where the board once lay. She pushed herself onto the bed beside him, tucking her legs and skirts beneath her. He kept his voice at a whisper as he pulled her in with a retelling of his dream.
"He was here, sitting just where you are now. I was sleeping even in my dream, and he woke me when he touched my shoulder. Then he lifted a finger to his lips, telling me to be quiet. When I was small, and Harbard would come to Kattegat, he would take the pain from my legs." Ivar took her hand here, extending her arm out and pressing his thumb into the crook of her elbow. "He would start at my knee and press his thumb there, running it down the length of my leg. I could feel it in my bones, the way he would pull the pain down through my legs."
Her breath felt tight in her chest as Ivar mirrored his words, running his thumb down the length of her forearm. He continued up her palm, before running his fingers over hers and clenching his hand into a fist. "He always said, 'I'll take some of your pain and put it into myself'. And after that, my legs always hurt a little less. And they grew a little straighter."
"Did he do that for you last night?" Rúna asked, her voice so breathy it nearly failed her. He still had hold of her hand, resting palm-up in his own.
"Mmm. He did. Harbard told me my leg will be healed by Yule." The bones in Ivar's legs were brittle, as was well known in Kattegat, typically taking at least a month to heal. Yule was a few days shy of two weeks away. Ivar smiled again, curving his fingers over Rúna's so that her fist was encased in his own. He gave it a squeeze before dropping her hand back into her lap.
The tale of Harbard in Ivar's dream had cast a strange spell over the room. A shiver ran down Rúna's back, the air feeling heavy once more as it had before the blizzard came. She felt they might always sit there, on Ivar's bed, with a fire cracking and an abandoned game of hnefatafl beside them. Then Ivar laughed, breaking the spell and settling the board between them once more. How he managed to move it around without disrupting the game pieces was beyond her.
"I've been waiting days to tell anyone! You know my brothers would rather eat slugs than talk of Harbard, and I think Mother might cut her ears off should she hear his name again."
They fell back into the rhythm of the game, but that didn't stop Rúna from peeking at the good cheer coloring his features and wondering just how much the gods truly did favor the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok.
A/N: Thank you all for continuing to support this story!