Chapter Twelve: Angrboda

"For someone they call 'boneless', you are so heavy," Rúna grumped, shifting herself beneath Ivar's arm to carry his weight more comfortably. She still thought it was too soon for walking practice, after the sledding incident, and the persistent stiffness of Ivar's freshly healed leg seemed to agree with her. Ivar himself did not, however, and he was too stubborn to argue with most days. So there they were, snow falling silently outside the cabin, a fire roaring within while Ivar tried to force his legs to step forward. "Perhaps you should stop eating for a few months."

"Perhaps you should shut your mouth." Not his best retort to date, and it came through gritted teeth. Rúna couldn't help the smirk that took over her lips. Even if today's practice ended a total bust, he would never admit it.

His balance wasn't good enough, that day, for the braces and crutches alone. Rúna bolstered his left side, the right aided by the crutch. His right leg moved more easily. Each step always came lock-kneed and stiff-ankled; Ivar's joints had never been flexible, save his hips. All the movement of his legs came from his hips. That left leg, though. Ivar had been trying to move it for several minutes at that point.

"Maybe you should lead with the left? Take a step back with your right and start over?"

She could feel the sweat through his tunic, yet he shook his head. "No. The damned thing will move."

He shifted his weight, transferring it all to the right. When he withdrew from her, the chill left in the absence of his heat was shocking. A hot hand grabbed her shoulder, though, seeking a solid place to push off from. With a grunt that was nearly an angry growl, Ivar managed to lift his left leg. A cocky grin lit up his face when he looked back at her…but then he set his left foot down, completing the step and losing his balance entirely all in the same instance.

"Ivar!" She moved to catch him but only managed to break his fall somewhat. The side of Ivar's head cracked against her nose and mouth, blood blooming across her tongue from a split lip. She thought he was heavy before, but now his shoulder all but knocked all the wind from her chest. Still, she had achieved her goal: Ivar hadn't fallen atop his legs, but rather to the side, avoiding any further harm.

No new injuries did not mean no new pain, however. This was made evident enough by Ivar sucking his breath between his teeth as he tried to escape Rúna's twisted skirts. "I told you I will drown in this cursed fabric one day."

He batted at the 'cursed fabric' until he was able to sit up, leaving Rúna scowling at him. "I nearly lost my teeth on your hard head and all you are worried about is my dress."

When Rúna sneered at him, her bloodstained teeth were on full display. How her nose wasn't also streaming blood, she didn't know.

"I hurt you?" He asked, voice sounding hollow. Reaching for her, he cupped her chin in one hand to hold her steady. Using his thumb, he gently lifted her upper lip. The gash made by the impact was obvious, that tender skin wearing the torn imprint of her front teeth. "I didn't mean it. Here."

They had fallen not so far from the table. Ivar grabbed hold of the table's edge, hauling himself onto his knees though it made him grimace to do so. He quickly filled a cup with mead and handed it to her. "To rinse your mouth."

How different this scene was than when they were children. Ivar had struck her once, in the early days of their knowing one another. He had not cared, then, how much his palm had stung against her cheek. Though, to be fair, she had struck him right back, and she hadn't cared, either. Though frustrated, it was not like she wanted to bust his mouth the same as he had accidentally bust hers.

The mead burned on her broken skin, just as a blush began to burn in her cheeks. Rúna was trying desperately to ignore how her heart had sped when Ivar touched her mouth. She swallowed mouthfuls until she could no longer taste the tang of her blood in the mead. Sitting before her all the while, Ivar scrutinized every flinch she made while drinking.

"How are your teeth? I didn't mean it." A classic Ivar non-apology. Had she ever heard him truly say the words 'I'm sorry'? She didn't think so, but she knew that was his meaning, especially considering he had repeated it. His fretful hands were indication enough, picking at his leather wrist braces while he waited for her answer. Deciding to take her time, she ran her tongue slowly across her front teeth a few times. They didn't feel loose, though they still ached.

"I think, perhaps, I just might live."

Blue eyes narrowed at her. "You'd better. We have work to do here."

She pushed herself off the floor first, reaching down for him. Hands locked around the other's wrists, Rúna rocked her weight back on her heels, using all her strength to haul Ivar onto his feet once more. Withdrawing, she gave him a moment to find his balance on his own. Arms splayed, he rocked his weight from foot to foot until both heels were flat on the floor and his ankles were straight in his leg braces.

"Ready?" Rúna offered his crutch to him, waiting for him to become settled on that as well before moving toward him again.

"You ought to grow more, Rúna. It's quite the inconvenience." A bony jab in the ribs from her forefinger let him know just what she thought of that.

"You princes. So ungrateful."

This time, he swung his rigid left leg forward first. Never listens until he decides it's his idea. Rúna rolled her eyes, knowing he wouldn't be able to see them. She moved forward with his left step, his right coming not long after. So, she had been right. Leading with the left leg was easier for him. The pair crossed the room after some length of time, stopping here and there if Ivar lost his balance. They didn't stop until Ivar was close enough to lay the palm of his hand flat against the wall. Only then did he ever consider a lap of walking finished, when he was able to easily touch the wall.

Turning was always some difficulty. Ivar wedged his crutch beneath his arm, grabbing hold of his leg braces to swing his leg around. On his other side, Rúna helped guide his left leg in much the same way. This was easier when he could use both crutches, but his legs had always been frustratingly inconsistent. They made three full, grueling laps this way, and Ivar might have made a fourth on his own had they not been interrupted.

How had they forgotten to lock the door? The windows had been latched, per their routine, so neither had noticed the late-winter sun slip close to the horizon. When the door swung open, it revealed Sigurd, the sunset burning red at his back. His mouth was slack, poised to speak, but instead it stretched into a cruel, mocking smile.

Rúna shut her eyes. She hated when Ivar and Sigurd fought, and this was going to be a big one, she knew. A quick prayer of thanks was given to the gods that, at least, Sigurd had not interrupted until after Rúna had helped Ivar settle onto his crutches and moved away from him. It would have been worse had Sigurd seen her supporting his younger brother.

Still, this was bad enough. Sigurd took any opportunity to ridicule Ivar.

"Get out, Sigurd." But it was not Ivar's voice that spoke first. Rúna was surprised to hear her own voice, to find herself glaring into Sigurd's cocky face.

"What is this? Little Ivar finally sick of crawling around like a baby, hmm? Mummy will be so proud."

Ivar's anger was so quick and volatile that he didn't waste time framing a quip to throw back at Sigurd. Instead it erupted from him in a noise that was somewhere between a scream and a growl. He threw his crutches to the side, letting himself fall heavily to the floor. Ivar had always been faster when crawling, even on his good walking days. In a matter of seconds, Ivar was across the floor. Sigurd had no time to react before Ivar pulled him onto the ground, easily wrestling the older boy beneath him.

Physical altercations between the two were nothing out of the ordinary. Ivar knew how to make himself heavy; Sigurd was pinned beneath his weight as Ivar hit him across the head. Ivar was still wordlessly shouting his anger while Sigurd cried out at each blow. The scuffle was short. Ivar's anger always came in a maelstrom, burning hot and fast and physical. This time, it left Sigurd laying prone across the threshold, face already bruising beneath the blood streaming from his nose.

Rúna had watched the whole fight rooted in her spot next to the opposite wall, arms crossed. She knew better than to put herself in the middle of a bad fight with those two. When Ivar had tired of hitting his brother, he rolled off and crawled back into the cabin. "Go home, Rúna."

Tears shone on his face as he passed her. She moved to do as he asked but trailed her hand across his hair as he went by in what she hoped he would recognize as an attempt at comforting him. At the doorway, she paused to help Sigurd to his feet, gripping his arm hard in her hand lest he try to continue the fight. Rúna closed the cabin door softly behind them before spinning on her heel to take in Sigurd before her.

Was it the weak, fading winter sun that painted his face so gray or the pain? The blood was bright in contrast, his braids mussed and skewed. Sigurd turned his head and spit; the snow was left stained red and melting on the spot. She waited until he turned again and met her gaze.

"I do not want to hear any complaining from you." She had forgot her cloak. The air was growing colder fast around them, but Sigurd neither offered her his own cloak nor to walk her home. He simply stood before her, glaring and poking at his tender, swelling nose. "You brought that on yourself."

Despite the pervasive chill at night, the days were warming. By week's end, snow had begun to melt here and there, revealing the first signs of spring: wildflowers. Rúna watched the sweet pink, yellow, and white heads bob in the breezes heralding the warmer weather while she sewed. The blue silk Aslaug had gifted her at Yule felt entirely too rich and slick beneath her fingers. Working with such a fine fabric made her nervous. If it weren't for her thimble, the silver-blue would be marred with spots of blood with how often she nearly stabbed her needle into her fingers as she basted a lining to the fabric.

Helga had to cut the pieces for her, she was so worried she would ruin or waste the silk. Now, as she sat sewing, she regularly had to dry her clammy hands on her woolen skirt.

"That's a little fancy for boat building, but I suppose it will do," Floki teased, ducking into the cabin with a smile on his wind-chapped cheeks. "I expect we will begin late next week, if this wind holds. It's doing wonders for drying out the trees of snowmelt."

She scrunched her face at him, checking the pins holding the muslin lining in place before continuing along the sleeve she was working on. Helga had embroidered the fabric for her as well, in fine silver thread, creating a whirling, swirling pattern up the sleeves and across the bodice. The same pattern would hem the skirt once Helga was finished with it.

"Björn should be thanking the gods for your help. He would never get to this Mediterranean he seeks without your boats." Across from her, Helga worked the pieces for the skirt with practiced hands. There was no fear in her as she sewed the pattern across the edge. Floki giggled, plucking the heel of bread leftover from last night's supper off the table.

"He may well not make it with my boats. I don't know the waters we will sail into, and you know as well as I do that Björn's opinion of navigating a storm is to barrel through it with all the confidence of Thor himself."

Though she didn't say so aloud, Rúna would rather be building boats than sewing this dress. Was it the inherent expense of the silk fabric that made her so nervous? No, she knew the disquiet within her laid more with the gift giver than the gift itself. Even Helga seemed to scowl at the fabric as they worked.

Despite their mutual feelings about the way the silk came into Rúna's possession, the dress was coming along beautifully. The bodice was finished before the afternoon, and Helga ushered Rúna into her bedroom to try it on before the skirt was even finished. Rúna slipped out of her over- and under-dresses quickly, pulling the newly finished bodice over her plain white shift. Helga laced her up the back quickly, turning Rúna by the shoulders to get a good look.

Helga had cut this bodice differently than any dress she had worn before. It was slimmer, the silk forming to the curves of her body, sleeves fitted all the way to her wrists. The neckline dipped lower than her everyday dresses, exposing her collarbones. Behind her, Helga gathered her hair and twisted it, piling atop Rúna's head, and spearing it through with a hair stick to keep it in place. Then she grabbed the looking plate from her dresser, turning it so Rúna might see herself.

"You'll be a vision once we have it finished." The pride shone from Helga's face, but Rúna found herself looking at a stranger in her reflection. She looked older with her hair arranged this way, exposing the lines of her neck and shoulders, drawing attention to the low-cut of her bodice. But she couldn't deny Helga's skill. The bodice was lovely, sewed so expertly no seams showed, the silver-threaded embroidery shining as it caught the waning sunlight.

"It's beautiful," Rúna breathed, turning this way and that to take in Helga's full artistry.

"You are beautiful, sweetheart." Helga set the looking plate back in its spot, catching Rúna gently by the chin and placing a kiss on her forehead. "Now let's put your pretty things away for the day. We have seeds and starters to sort for planting before we start supper."

Rúna had a spring tradition. She used to perform it alone, until she was nine and Ivar caught on to her, insisting he come along. Now he scaled the hill beside her, spikes digging easily into the soft spring earth.

"How many years have you been doing this, again?" He asked between his grunts. It was no small task to pull his body weight behind him. Rúna helped him where she could, holding back low branches or kicking away rocks obstructing his path.

"Um, eight now? Since I had seven summers, and I'm coming up on fifteen now. Floki brought me the first year. I don't think he nor Helga know I still come here."

"Remind me why you insist on climbing a veritable mountain every spring?"

She stepped down on a root, flattening it to make it easier for Ivar to crawl over. "I owe it to her."

As they continued their ascent, Rúna paused here and there, picking pretty flowers they saw along the way. Her arms were full by the time they reached their destination. As he did every year, Ivar stopped to rest against a tree a short way off. He pulled a drink from their shared water skein and offered it to Rúna. She set aside her flowers, eating the cheese and bread they had brought with Ivar before sitting down for her work.

They were quiet as Rúna weaved the flowers together, creating a blanket of blossoms. The wildflowers were bright and sweet-smelling in her hands, pliant and easily shaped. When Rúna finished, she laid the blanket across the ground marked by a small collection of rocks. This funeral pyre reflected the size of the body it guarded, her name carved into the top stone.

Angrboda.

Only once her work was complete did she draw away from the grave and sit beside Ivar beneath his tree. The new leaves were bright, soft early spring sunshine dappling them through the green canopy. Rúna drew her knees up, resting her chin atop them. "I owe everything to her. I wouldn't be here if Angrboda hadn't gotten sick."

She felt Ivar's gaze on her cheek, nearly as warm as the sun. He seemed to be studying her face, but she didn't turn to him. "I think fate would have brought you to Kattegat regardless."

Smirking at his rebuttal, she turned her head to rest her cheek upon her knees and take him in. Ivar had grown over the winter; he would need new braces if they were to continue their walking practices. That was, if Ivar even wanted to. He hadn't asked since the evening Sigurd had caught them. She opened her mouth to speak, but Ivar raised a hand, silencing her.

Cocking his head to the side, Rúna mirrored his movement. A chattering sound carried on the soft breeze, barely audible over the birdsong filling the branches above them. Ivar mimicked the sound, calling the animal to him. A fox, Rúna thought, and she was right. Small, with ratted fur and dragging its back legs behind it.

Her heart gave a squeeze at the sight of the animal, but Ivar leaned forward slowly. He copied the fox's chattering once more, holding a hand open-palmed toward the animal. Keening softly, the fox came closer, sniffing his fingers. Ivar scratched beneath its chin, drawing it closer to him.

"Shhh. Come here, little one. Come now." He whispered softly. Where the sun hit the fox's fur, it shone a vibrant red despite the sorry state of the little creature. Perhaps it sensed some sort of kinship with Ivar; it did not protest when he lifted it into his lap, murmuring softly to it all the while. "Are you thirsty? There, now, is that better?"

The fox lapped water from his cupped hand and nibbled the cheese offered to it. Ivar's other hand smoothed over its fur, fingers gently prodding at hips and hind legs. He continued to comfort the fox as it relaxed into him, laying its head upon front paws and eyes drifting shut.

But Rúna knew the comfort would be short-lived. Once the fox was deeply slumbering, Ivar's hands gently took hold of its head. Her own breathing halted at the dull snap, closing her eyes against the fox's death. "Poor little thing."

"His back legs are crushed." Though the life was gone from the fox, Ivar continued to stroke his fur. "There would have been a worse death waiting for him had he not found us."

She knew he spoke the plain truth, ugly though it was to think of, making her shiver to think what fate the fox had escaped. The same damp, soft earth that had made it easy for Ivar to climb made it easy now for him to dig a grave for the little fox. Rúna busied herself with gathering rocks to lay upon it.

"Killing him was the only way?" She couldn't help but asking. There was a pause before Ivar gave his reply.

"Something else would have done it had I not, and not nearly as kindly. His was no life for a fox. Angrboda will no longer be alone up here," Ivar told her. Their hands worked together to cover the fox in dark, heady soil. "Our friend will keep her company."

Though Rúna had never told anyone, she considered Angrboda a sister of sorts. As she had told Ivar, she owed her life with Floki and Helga to the long-passed girl. She liked the thought of Angrboda having a companion through the days and seasons between her yearly visits.

Ivar stacked the stones all along the length of the fox's grave, to discourage any scavengers from making a meal of him. They sat vigil after the burying, between Angrboda's and the fox's graves. Rúna laid her head on Ivar's shoulder, the weight of his own head resting on hers. She thought about his words. His was no life for a fox.

"Ivar?"

"Hmm?"

She found herself at a loss to frame what she wanted to say. Thoughts zipped through her head, but what left her mouth was, "You are not a fox."

His amusement shook her when he chuckled. "I'm not? And here I thought perhaps—"

"You know what I meant!" she protested, cheeks burning. But did he? She pulled away from him, so that she might see his expression. He smirked at her, tugging the singular braid that framed her face on the right side.

"I do. You shouldn't worry your head over such things, Rúna. I would never give Sigurd or anyone else that satisfaction."

When her dress was finished, Helga and Rúna wore their silk gowns to dinner at their own table. The animals were returning to the fields with the spring, and it was the first meal after the Yule feast with fresh meat. The rabbits were spiced and roasted with root vegetables from the winter stores. Their bread and butter were fresh, as were the flowers in the center of the table.

"No one told me we would be feasting tonight." Floki was dust-covered, wearing old clothes after a long day of felling trees in preparation for the boat building. "And wearing silks!"

He took Rúna's hand, guiding her in a twirl to inspect her dress. The silk was heavier than she expected as it swished around her legs. Still, she giggled despite herself.

"A celebration before Rúna spends her days in a tunic and pants," Helga explained, motioning to the model boat that sat on the table beside the flowers.

Despite Helga's teasing, Rúna wanted to have her days taken up with boat building alongside Floki. The busier she was, the less time she would have to spend in Aslaug's presence. She loved the Midsummer feasting, but thinking of the next time she would wear her silk dress—in front of the queen—made her stomach give a nervous squeeze.

It was much better to focus on the feasting on hand, the rabbit meat nearly melting on her tongue and laughing with Floki and Helga.

A/N: A shorter chapter, compared to others in this story. I had the scene with Sigurd, the fox scene, and the Angrboda scene all in my head, put they didn't fit with anything else I have planned coming up. So I put them all together for this chapter. Hopefully it still works, because I think all these scenes help provide context though I couldn't seem to fit them in anywhere else!

I hope everyone is healthy and doing well!