Chapter Fifteen: Fever Dreams

The world had shrunk.

Or so it felt. Shrunken. Condensed from all of Norway, to Kattegat, to the beach, to the cabin, and, finally to her bedroom.

Just two days ago, she had been allowed to roam the beach. Just two days ago, she had walked in the sun and collected pretty shells and bits of sea glass in her apron pocket. But she had developed a cough and Helga feared the chill of the sea air would make it worse, so Rúna was restricted to the yard.

Just one day ago, Rúna had sat in the sweet-smelling, swaying grass as she sewed. Her training clothing had been burned when she came home, and she needed a new set. Helga had given her a length of forest green cloth to cut her new tunic from. Just one day ago, she was stitching a knotted embroidery pattern along the neckline of the shirt. But then she had come in with flushed cheeks, and Helga had worried she was developing a fever. Floki had gently reminded her that Rúna had been outside under the sun.

Helga's mother's intuition hadn't been wrong, though. Rúna's cheeks remained flushed and she never did cool down, though she still felt fine. Yet she stayed contained to her room. She could sew just as easily inside, as she did, but she missed the soft spring breeze, the birds flying and singing overhead, the cluck of the chickens not so far off in their pen, the lowing of the cow and her calf grazing in the field. Helga would not permit her to open her bedroom window, again fearing any kind of chill may make Rúna sicker.

Now Rúna sewed on the floor, sitting atop a pillow from her bed. Being a little sick wasn't so bad. Though she had to stay inside, Helga and Floki had doted on her. The latter had been forbidden from working on the boats by the former, lest he fall sick with no one the wiser. Floki had spent the second day whittling a hnefatafl board.

"I'm no Ivar," he had prefaced the gift, setting it before her at dinner, "but I think I might do."

They had played game after game in the firelight of the front room's hearth, trading victories and defeats. Floki was a good player, though playing did make Rúna miss Ivar's boastful smirks and playful jests. She wished they could play again tonight, but Helga wanted her to stay in her room while her fever ran. Really, Helga had wanted her in bed, but Rúna had gotten antsy and moved to the floor.

She had brought her food with her. Hot water and honey for her cough, though the simple drink had already worked wonders for her, soothing her throat in just a few days' time. Vegetables swimming in a chicken stock, hearty bread dotted with fresh butter. Rúna ate while she sewed, the hearth fire soothingly warm on her cheeks.

Confined to her room, Rúna had never bothered with dressing. Her bed socks warmed her feet, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders over her shift. The rest was probably good for her. Boat building, training with Lagertha and Astrid, testing the shield with Ivar… her muscles needed this rest, even if her mind was restless from a full day inside.

When she finished her food and tired of sewing, Rúna sorted through the shells and sea glass she had collected. She thought she had enough pieces to add another string to those patterning her ceiling. Floki had made those strings of sea glass for her, though, and she wasn't quite sure she remembered how he had secured the pieces. Perhaps twine? She shrugged to herself, adding the shells to the collection she kept in a big, shallow bowl on her bedside table.

Sighing, Rúna pulled her knees to her chest. I miss my friends. It had rained earlier. She heard it hitting softly off the roof. On a normal day, she would be outside with her skirts tied up and chasing frogs with Hvitserk. Or they would all go fishing. She would wade into the shallows with Ubbe, Hvitserk, and Sigurd to watch the waters and strike down, hoping to come up with a fix between their hands. Ivar always beat them at fishing. Sigurd always complained it was because Ivar laid on the bank, just his upper body leaning over the water, no submerged legs to twitch and give him away.

Rúna flopped back on her bed. She should be building the boats with Floki. She should be walking the forest with Helga, collecting meadowsweet and herbs and mushrooms. Instead she was stuck here in her bedroom.

Angrboda's name swam through her mind, making her sigh again. Though she understood why Helga was being so cautious, that didn't make the solitude easier to bear. Rolling onto her stomach, she pulled her doll from beneath her pillows again, thinking about the day Ivar gave it to her. They had been the same height then, she remembered, tracing a fingertip over the doll's stitched-on smile.

He was more than a whole head taller than her now. Sometimes she forgot that; it wasn't every day, after all, that Ivar stood beside her on his own feet. Was he taller than Sigurd? She wasn't certain. Ubbe was the tallest of Aslaug's sons, but none of the younger boys came close to Björn's hulking height.

"Rúna?" Helga's voice intruded on her musings, startling her. It must have been later than Rúna thought, for Helga to be here checking on her before bed. The hand her mother swept across her brow was pleasantly cool against her flushed, feverish skin. A scowl passed across Helga's face at the temperature. "You've still got fever."

"But I don't feel poorly."

Taking a blanket from the bed, Helga held it open to the face of the hearth fire. When she wrapped it around Rúna's shoulders, the fur was hot through her shift. Helga bid her to sit up, sitting beside her on the bed and running her fingers through Rúna's hair to loosen the strands.

"I pray to the gods that will hold true until this fever passes. Until then, I would like for you to remain inside, preferably resting in your bed." A nod toward the food tray still beside the hearth let Rúna know her disobedience hadn't gone unnoticed. She smiled ruefully, caught.

"I was restless," she said by way of explanation and defense. Helga merely clicked her tongue at her, continuing to finger-comb her long hair.

"I suppose such is the nature of a young girl. I know you would prefer to be in motion, but..."

When it seemed Helga would not be able to carry on that sentence, Rúna reached behind her to take the hand of the woman who had raised her. "I understand."

"I'm thankful that you do." Short lengths of leather expertly tied off the ends of her braids. Helga took Rúna gently by the shoulders, guiding her down to her bed. "Stayin in like this is not enjoyable, I know."

Helga pressed a kiss to her forehead before retrieving the food tray, blowing out candles as she went. "Goodnight, Rúna." A gentle rustling of the curtain signaled Helga's retreat.

"Goodnight, Helga! Goodnight, Floki!"

The boatbuilder's giggle drifted to her in the dark. "Get your rest, Rúna, my dear. I need my helper back sooner rather than later, or I fear we'll have a displeased son of Ragnar on our doorstep.

Though she had been told to rest, Rúna didn't feel particularly tired after her day of inactivity. She rolled herself tightly in her blankets, the closest one still warm from the hearth flame.

"Ask veit standa, heiter Yggdrasill…" Now it was Helga's voice that found her in the dark. A smile stretched across Rúna's face despite herself. She had been taught the song of Yggdrasill, the world tree that held the nine realms, soon after coming to live in Kattegat. Helga used to sing it to her as a lullaby, but only for the first year or so until Rúna finally, fully adjusted to her new life.

"Har badmr, ausinn hvita auri." The familiar words fell from Rúna's lips in a quiet whisper, echoing Helga's singing.

Sleep claimed her before Helga finished the last verse of the song, just as it always had when she was a little girl.

Across Kattegat, Ivar very much wished his sickroom confinement was solitary. Instead, he was stuck with Sigurd for the foreseeable future. Pity from their mother and brothers, Ivar could usually swallow, but Sigurd? His pity had always burned sour in the back of Ivar's throat. And now he was subjected to that pity again, just as he had been when they were boys and Ivar needed Ubbe's help getting out of bed and dressing.

He remembered the angry curiosity with which Sigurd used to stare at his pale, thin, twisted legs. At least they are mostly straight now, thanks to Floki. Yet still, Ivar had not changed from the pants Ubbe had given him after taking his contaminated clothing. Nor had he removed his boots in those three days, loath to even let Sigurd see his feet.

Why couldn't it have been Ubbe he was stuck with? There would still be pity, sure, but at least Ivar enjoyed Ubbe's company.

Ubbe had brought him some of his things, like the padded stool that helped him with getting in and out of bed and his pouch of dried feverfew so he might chew on the blossoms should his legs trouble him. Rúna would brew it for me. Feverfew and cloves made for the bitter tonic she often steeped for him. Though he always complained about the taste, Rúna's tea was the best pain medicine he had, better even than the healer's assortment of powders. Only Harbard's strange powers had ever done him better.

"Ivar, catch."

There was a window seat in their shared childhood bedroom, and Ivar had chosen that spot for his brooding, ignoring Sigurd across the room entirely. The small leather ball smacked his bare shoulder with an audible pop! Bending at the waist, he plucked it off the floor and threw it back at Sigurd's snickering face. "Have your arms gone as crippled as your legs?"

"That would make your life easier, hmm?" Ivar asked, tapping his temple. On Sigurd's own was a scab covering a cut not yet healed from their last fight. "Tell me, brother, would you feel better or worse when fighting me if I were a cripple all around and not just my legs?"

"It would have been easier to kill you when we were seven-and-six-winters apiece. Remember?" Sigurd was trying to be a bother, as he usually was. He need not ask if Ivar remembered when Sigurd had fallen screaming on top of him, pinning his shoulders with his knees and pressing both hands hard over Ivar's nose and mouth.

Ivar had shattered the blade of Sigurd's favorite knife on purpose, after Sigurd had kicked him in the legs. It had been dark, and both boys had gotten up in the middle of the night to relieve themselves. Sigurd hadn't seen him crawling in the deepest shadows along the floor and frightened when he tripped over Ivar's feet. In his embarrassment, he defaulted to anger and struck the younger boy, alighting Ivar's own ire. It was Ubbe who had heard their tussle, calmly lifting Sigurd off Ivar's chest and setting him on the floor before pulling Ivar into a sitting position.

"This did not happen," he chided them, crouching before them. "We will not mention this to Mother or Father." They still had a father then. It was only a week or so before Rúna would come to Kattegat, though none of them knew that then. "Sigurd, you may take my knife and go outside to relieve yourself. I'll take Ivar. Then we will all go to bed and leave this ugly thing to the night so that it is gone by morning."

Sigurd meant to rile him now, with that memory, but Ivar only shook his head. He didn't have the desire nor the strength to argue with his brother just then. Narrowing his eyes, he noticed Sigurd's braids hung limp, his hair curling more than usual along his forehead. His bare chest was slick with the sweat of a fever.

This second time when Ivar threw something at Sigurd, it was his bag of feverfew. "Eat a little. It tastes like ass, but it will help break your fever."

With that, he turned back to the window, crossing his arms along the shallow ledge and resting his head atop it all. Aslaug would not permit them to open the window, but the cool glass felt nice enough when he tipped his forehead against it. Behind him was only silence. Perhaps he thinks I mean to poison him. The thought made him smirk as his eyes drifted shut.

Only a handful of minutes had passed before Ivar couldn't help himself. "Do you miss Margrethe?"

Again, silence. A pause. "Do you miss Rúna?"

Ivar's eyes popped open but he didn't give Sigurd the satisfaction of seeing the surprise on his face. "I do not see how that is a feasible retort, brother."

Sigurd snorted. A moment later, the pouch of feverfew plopped into Ivar's lap without any of the sting the leather ball had brought. "Ivar, the Seer has no eyes, and I am certain he could see how you have mooned over Rúna for years. Save your breath and both our time and just say you love her."

"The fever's gone to your head. Perhaps you should sleep, Sigurd." But his brother only snickered. Ivar turned so quickly it was a wonder he didn't lose his seat.

"Why won't you admit it when it is so obvious?"

"Why do you not admit you love Margrethe? Are you scared she will not love you the same? Hvitserk told us she took him to her bed. Hmm? Are you afraid a slave girl won't think you're good enough?"

"Are you afraid Rúna won't think you are good enough, Ivar?"

The glare Sigurd earned burned hot despite the icy blue of his brother's eyes. The wooden seat creaked in Ivar's hand where he gripped the edge. Sigurd had touched something raw inside his little brother. Pain was evident on his face. Had he the strength, Ivar would have hauled himself across the long, narrow room for a continuation of the brawl that took place after the interrupted walking practice.

As it were, Ivar's legs felt leaden with his own fever even if they did not ache, and he lacked the strength and conviction in his body to do what his mind wanted. Instead, he carefully crawled down from the seat and across the room.

"I'm going to bed," he announced, pulling himself into Hvitserk's old bed. Very suddenly, his own was entirely too close to Sigurd's for either of their good. Ivar rolled onto his side, staring at the rough-hewn wooden wall inches from his face, shaking more from his anger than his fever.

Perhaps he would not have been so angry if Sigurd had not been so right.

But why did Sigurd have to insist on making him so angry all the time?

Rúna did not leave her bed the following day. Not out of obedience to Helga's wishes, but because of a bone-deep lethargy. She didn't even want to sit up. When she woke between her frequent naps, she only laid still, listening to the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the muffled rhythm of Floki and Helga's talking in the other room. Was she too hot under all her blankets? Or still cold, as she had been last night? Somehow, she couldn't tell.

Sleep took her so often and so easily, she might have been more worried if she weren't so exhausted. The other part of her problem, though, was that it was her dreams that exhausted her.

She dreamed first of Bodil and Gisli, the twin sisters she had played with when she lived at the brothel. In those dreams, she was an observer, watching her younger self and the other two little girls play dress-up in the older girls' clothing while doing their laundry chores. The three of them twirled in the too-big gowns, their tangled hair trailing behind them. Air filled with giggles, they took turns pantomiming the older girls and the clients they serviced.

Next, she dreamed of sailing, but Floki was not with her. She was alone in the ship, a replica of the raiding vessels they were building together. Yet the oars moved of their own volition. Perhaps ghosts she couldn't see sat the benches, doing the work of guiding this boat through the water. When she leaned over the edge of the ship to gaze at the water, her breath became stilled in her chest. Crystal clear waves allowed her to see deep, deep into the water.

Alongside the fishes and whales, there were sunken Viking ships dotting the sea floor. These ships were helmed by their sea-kings, resplendent with gold crowns and jewelry adorning their shriveled, decayed bodies. These sea-kings, they paid no mind to Rúna. She passed by the sea-kings and their decadent wreckage, the boat slipping through the water and passing over a crevasse. Here, the water turned dark as the boat began to pass over the depth, but a glimmer of white caught her attention.

Two massive, unblinking eyes stared up at her. Slowly, a ruddy shape moved upward toward her through the waves. As it unfurled, Rúna was able to see it for what it was: the massive tentacle of a kraken, reaching up from the deep.

She woke in a panic from that dream, just as the kraken took hold of the dragon head adorning the front of her ship. The shock of the kraken's awesome strength followed her into waking, so that she jerked in her waking.

"Shh, Rúna. It is only me."

That had not been icy ocean spray that wetted her face, then, but the gentle stroking of a damp cloth held by Helga. She calmed at the sound of her mother's voice, slipping easily back into a respite of easy sleep. Her blessed sleep wasn't meant to last long, though. Too soon for any rest to be had, a new dream started.

Now she dreamt of birds. Was she a bird? It was hard to say. Sometimes she was in the sky with the birds, looking at Kattegat from above. She knew it to be so from the placement of the ports, the long line of the market, and the sprawl of the great hall. But other times she was looking at the birds from below, watching the dizzying patterns of their flight. Rúna didn't like this part of the bird dream. It made her nauseas to watch the birds swoop and dive, soar and spin. She was not sad to see this dream go, fading seamlessly into the next.

This final dream would be longer, but Rúna had no way to know that. She was herself again, as she had been in the kraken dream, rather than an observer. Bare feet tickled as she walked the length of the beach, the sun-drenched sand warm against her skin. There was her home, Floki's simple cabin. Rúna tried to turn toward it, but her feet would not obey her. Rather, they kept her walking along the beach until she ran out of sand and had to turn to the forest.

The plant debris was not nearly as pleasant under barefoot as the warm beach sand had been. Yet her feet kept moving, carrying her deeper and deeper into the forest. I know this path, she realized. It was the same she and Lagertha had walked hardly a week earlier. That soothed some of the fear that had begun to rise in her. Surely she was only going back to the beach between the fjords, the one Lagertha had shown her.

Here, in the forest, the birds hopped and fluttered overhead as if she weren't there. Their songs filled the forest. A fox ran across her path, a fieldmouse limp in its jaws. Then there was the deer that seemed to be keeping pace beside her, a light-footed thing travelling with her fawn. But then the deer turned and took her baby with her, slipping through a grove of trees into a bright meadow Rúna barely had time to glimpse.

Her feet were still carrying her forward unbidden.

Just as she had suspected, she walked until she reached the fjord Lagertha had introduced her to. Then her feet just… stopped. She stood for several minutes, not realizing her body was her own again. Once she did, she stepped forward onto the beach. It was quiet again, just as it had been that day with Lagertha. No sounds save for the liquid rustle of the waves.

It must have rained recently, though she hadn't noticed any wetness to the foliage as she passed through the forest. Nor were there any dark clouds smudging the sky. The most vibrant rainbow she had ever seen painted itself across the sky, the arch seeming to erupt from the tall cliff to the left of the beach.

Turning back on her path felt wrong, somehow. Rúna couldn't place why she felt that way, but she knew it was not what she was supposed to do. Instead, she took a seat on the beach, arranging her shift so that the skirt draped across her knees. With nothing else to occupy her time, she began drawing in the sand.

Nonsensical patterns, at first. Just swirls and loops. Then one of the loops reminded her of the way Floki's eyes crinkled when he laughed, so he drew the other details in and a second eye to complete the pair. She smiled down at them, dragging her finger through the sand to mimic the black smudges Floki wore around those eyes of his. Next she drew the fall of Helga's hair, the way it cascaded freely down her back, adorned here and there with an errant braid or set of beads. There had never been any rhyme or reason to Helga's hair, unlike Torvi's elaborate styles…and then there was the pattern of Torvi's braiding etched into the sand as well.

Rúna kept drawing, filling her length of beach with pieces of people she knew and loved. There was Sigurd's oud, lined up with other characteristics of his brothers: Ubbe's crooked smile, Hvitserk's long braid, the expanse of Björn's massive shoulders. When it came to Ivar, though, she was suddenly stumped. She supposed his eyes were his most striking feature, but she had no way to make the sand the preternaturally bright blue of his gaze. Dissatisfied with that fact, she sketched his eyes anyway, but they didn't look quite right to her.

So she added in his eyebrows, which led her to the straight, proud line of his nose and then the smirking tilt of his mouth. She hemmed all his features in with the sharp cut of his jaw and the fringe of his cropped hair. Before she knew it, the entirety of Ivar's face was looking up at her from the sand. A soft smile played at her lips as she looked down at this rendering of the face she knew better than her own.

"You're a good drawer." A girl's voice startled Rúna from her reverie. "But you can't stay here."

Tipping her head back, Rúna's gaze focused on a young girl around her own age. This girl had the same pretty, golden hair as Lagertha and the same dark blue eyes as Björn.

"Gyda," Rúna breathed her name, face crumpling in confusion. What was this place she had found herself in, to see a dead girl so clearly? To hear her speak? Above her, Gyda smiled and extended her hand. It was cool and soft in Rúna's own. Standing side by side, Gyda looked fondly at Rúna's drawings.

"Floki and Helga," she said, pointing in turn. "And something for each of my brothers. It's funny, to me, how tall Björn is now. He was smaller than me when I got sick."

A shiver ran through Gyda, one that Rúna felt the echo of in their linked hands. "As I said, you cannot stay here. You must go home, Rúna. I would take you there myself, but Freya is waiting for me."

"Freya?" Rúna couldn't help but ask, her astonishment clear in her voice. Gyda smiled and nodded, taking Rúna by the shoulders and turning her. Waiting in the shallows some length down the beach stood a golden woman. Or, rather, her hair was golden, but not in the same way as Gyda's and Lagertha's. Freya's hair was like liquid gold, waves of it shimmering in the sunshine as the sea breeze ran through it. Her hair was dotted with spring flowers, their sweet scent wafting along with the salty air.

And when Freya smiled at her, it felt like a shaft of the warmest summer sun was shining on her.

"I reside with Freya in Folkvangr now. She brought me here to warn you back home, but you were a long time in your journey here." Rúna began to try to explain it hadn't been her fault, but the teasing twinkle in Gyda's eye left her smiling instead. "Go to Freya. She will tell you how to get back."

Would I not just walk back through the forest? Rúna wondered as she walked through the shallow, cool water. She stopped a few feet before the goddess, but Freya beckoned her closer with a flick of her hand.

"This is not your fate, sweetling," Freya whispered to her. The goddess plucked one of the flowers from her own hair and tucked it behind Rúna's ear. Silky petals stroked her cheek where the blossom brushed her skin. "You must do as Gyda says. Go home and wake up. They will make sure you get there safely."

Freya nodded behind her, at the unnamed they. Turning, Rúna saw three figures obscured by the shade of a tree. A gentle push from Freya sent her forward, but Gyda calling her name gave her pause.

"If you've a mind to, and you remember this, would you please tell my mother I love her? I heard the two of you talking here the other day. I do not want her to be sad."

"I will," Rúna promised before turning to face her mysterious guides once more. At the forest's edge, she found that one of the figures was familiar to her: a little girl with flaxen hair and Björn's features. "Siggy!"

She was still tiny, the same as she had been when she died, and she smiled up at Rúna.

"Yes, Siggy. Angrboda as well," a woman's voice told her. This voice was different than Freya's. Hers had been as warm and smooth as honey, but this voice sounded…distant, somehow.

On her other side was another little girl, this one with the same ash-blonde hair as Helga and Floki's dark, shining eyes. She smiled sweetly at Rúna, reaching her hand up toward her. Angrboda, as the woman had said. But who was she? The woman wore a hood, casting her face in deeper shadow, so that Rúna could not make out any of her features.

Rúna took Angrboda's proffered hand and turned to the woman, peering into the shadow of her hood. Just when it seemed she would not offer any explanation of her identity, she laughed softly and pushed the hood off her head.

Freya had worn flowers, but this woman had a crown of bones atop her head. One half of her hair shone just as golden as Freya's, but the other was the somber gray of ashes. Likewise, her face was also halved: the beautiful face of a young woman beneath the golden hair; a skeletal corpse beneath the gray.

"Hel," Rúna named her. She was not afraid, not even when only one side of Hel's face smiled at her and she reached her skeletal hand out to touch the flower Freya had put in Rúna's hair.

"Yes." That same skeletal hand stroked the length of Rúna's cheek. "So many of you mortals in Midgard are entirely focused on Valhalla…I am surprised any of you remember that I care for most of the dead."

Hel sighed, and her breath as cold as a grave washed over Rúna's face. "Come now. I thought it fitting that Angrboda walk you back home, but Siggy insisted she come to see you again."

The four of them formed a procession back through the forest. Siggy and Angrboda played along the way, running races and chasing butterflies that had no idea they were being tracked. Shadows stretched before them as the day drew to a close. It had been hard to judge time on the journey through the forest and along the beach, but Gyda was right. She had been away from home for quite some time if sunset was already upon them.

Home came into view before the last rays of the sun were snuffed out. Siggy stayed at the tree line with Hel, but Angrboda took Rúna's hand once again.

"Quickly, love," Hel cautioned her. "Do not linger. Get Rúna to bed and hug your mother and father, then I want you out here again."

Angrboda nodded solemnly and tugged at Rúna's hand.

The dream ended as soon as the two of them crossed the threshold.

"Do not trouble yourself today, Ivar. Your eyes are too blue. Mother'll have my skin if she sees you out of bed when she comes to check on you two."

His fever was gone, having burned harder and brighter than Sigurd's. For two days his brother had chewed on dried buds of feverfew, yet still the fever clung to him. Yet he knew he would be stuck in this sickroom for at least another day. Ubbe was not exaggerating the shade of his eyes, Ivar was sure. His legs ached terribly, even the light touch of his sheets irritating them.

"Would you help me take my boots off?" He asked, voice quiet and small.

"Your boots?" Ubbe asked, already peeling back the layers of bedcovers. "Why are you wearing your boots in bed, Ivar?"

"I was too cold," Ivar lied. With a shake of his head, Ubbe unlaced and discarded of his boots. Then he turned, placing a hand along Sigurd's brow beneath his bangs.

"And you, other little brother? How do you feel?"

Blankets rustled with Sigurd's shrug. "I've been better, but it will take more than a fever to take me out."

"He's been coughing," Ivar threw in. "It was not so yesterday. Tell Mother Sigurd needs different medicines to stop it if I'm to get any rest with him around."

"Shut your mouth, Ivar."

"I would tell you the same, dear Sigurd, but it would do no good. How will you cough your lungs out if your mouth is closed? Hmm?"

Ubbe laughed at the two of them, tousling the hair on each head. "Give Sigurd more of that feverfew, Ivar, and I will send for the healer to bring something for the both of you."

After Ubbe left, Ivar focused very hard on staying completely still. It was a game he used to play with himself when his legs hurt him as a child. The stiller he could stay, the sooner his pains would go away. Or at least that's what he would tell himself to get through days on end confined to his bed.

"Ivar." He did not turn his head at his brother calling his name, keeping his gaze focused on the ceiling instead. "Have you dreamed of Father?"

Now, that question gave him pause. He had expected another barb. Ivar cut his eyes toward Sigurd and whispered, "Yes."

"In my dreams," Sigurd continued, "Father is here with us. But he does not speak, not to any of us. Not even Mother or Björn. He is silent the entire time. Are your dreams like that?"

Ivar swallowed around the lump in his throat. How was it that they were having the same dreams? What trick of the gods was this? "Yes, Sigurd. My dreams are just like that."

"I wonder why…" Sigurd did not finish his musing, falling asleep mid-sentence. That left Ivar to contemplate alone. At least it was a distraction for his mind and kept his thoughts away from the aching in his legs.

When the dreams started two nights ago, he had already hypothesized that the dreams foretold Ragnar's return. The fact that Sigurd was having the same dreams strengthened his conviction in this belief. It all made sense to him… their mother was a volva, after all. Why should her sons not have premonitions of their own from time to time? Or perhaps they were just fever dreams… Ivar hadn't dreamt of their father since his own fever broke.

He had dreamed of Rúna instead. Or, watched memories of her in his dreams, rather. Sitting in the forest eating fresh summer strawberries, the way her eyes squinted when she smiled, watching the rain together from the window in his cabin. He dreamed of sunlight turning her hair to flames and the way she always smelled of sea air and fresh wood.

Remembering his dreams made him sigh, and even this miniscule movement sent bolts of pain down the lengths of his legs. Gritting his teeth, Ivar tried very hard to choke down the urge to cry out. He didn't care so much about waking Sigurd; rather, he didn't want his brother to know how he suffered. To add another tally to all the ways his legs were a weakness.

If Sigurd was going to sleep and leave him with no one to pester, Ivar reasoned he might as well try to sleep through his leg pains. Very carefully, he rolled himself over to face the wall and closed his eyes. But sleep did not come easy to him. Rúna's face manifested in his mind, as did Sigurd's stinging words.

"Are you afraid Rúna won't think you are good enough, Ivar?"

When Rúna next woke, it was to Helga's face hovering over hers.

"Oh, thank the gods." Liquid words to go with the tears streaming down Helga's face, tears that wet Rúna's shift when her mother buried her face against her shoulder. "Thank the gods."

Rúna tried to speak, only to find her throat entirely dry. Her attempt at words were strangled to an unsuccessful hiss of air. Helga stroked at her hair and face, kissing her on the forehead and calling for Floki to bring her some water. It was like a salve, a blessed rain for a parched desert, when she was finally allowed to drink. Floki had to get his hugs and kisses in, as well.

"You've been gone from us," Floki told her. He took a piece of her hair and twirled the lock around his finger. "We tried everything to get your fever to break."

Only then did Rúna realize the strand of hair Floki twirled was much shorter than she knew her hair to be. Unbraided, it had hung to her waist before. Now it barely brushed her shoulders.

"I am so sorry, Rúna," Helga was crying again. "The healer said it might help. I tried not to take more than necessary."

"It will grow back." She brushed a shaking hand through what was left of her hair. Even after the entire cup of water, she felt dry. And cold, despite all her blankets. When she asked, Helga was all too happy to warm a blanket before the fire for her. Rúna hunkered down beneath it while Helga stroked her hair and Floki told her how the plague had ravaged Kattegat.

"There are fires nearly every day," he explained. "Aslaug has designated a whole field for the bodies to be burned."

"Are Ivar and Sigurd alright? Björn? He was in the market, too."

Floki gave her a soft, reassuring smile. "Ivar is well. His fever ended two days ago. Sigurd is recovering; he got the worst of it. Björn was never sick, thank the gods. Torvi, Hali, and the baby likely wouldn't have survived if Björn had brought it home and they came down with it."

Rúna had gotten sick four days after the blacksmith incident, she was almost certain. Floki had said Ivar was two days recovered…

"How long was I sick?"

"You were in and out of sleep, burning with fever, for nearly a full week," Helga told her. "When you were awake, you only stared listlessly at the wall."

Had she? She couldn't remember waking, only her dreams. Her dreams… remembering them had her face crumpling in consternation.

"Do not worry," Helga soothed, smoothing her hand over Rúna's hair once again. "You are better now."

Floki and Helga ate with her in her bedroom that night, with Helga staying later to help her bathe. Her legs nearly gave out from under her when she stood from her bed, muscles weakened from disuse. The water was comfortingly warm this time, not the scald of the bath she had taken before falling ill.

She wished Helga could scrub the dreams from her head when she washed her hair. Alas, they plagued her into the night, occupying her mind while she struggled to fall asleep.

I am sick of sleep, she thought, but still too tired to do anything else. She hugged her doll close to her chest, thinking about the difference between the dreams. The first three had been nonsensical. Watching her younger self, the oars rowing themselves, soaring through the sky as a bird—something in all those dreams let her know they were not real. But the last dream…

She had felt the warm sand, smelled the earthy forest and salty sea breeze. And she remembered that dream more clearly, too, as if it were a memory. Siggy, Angrboda, Gyda, they were all dead. Did she dream of dead girls because she nearly was one herself? Or did she really pay Lagertha's beach a visit, somehow? The idea turned her blood to ice in her veins, sending her under her covers as if the furs might ward off such a possibility.

Eventually, she drifted off in the warm cocoon. This time, sleep was blessedly dreamless, devoid of dead girls and goddesses alike.

At her second waking, it was Ivar's face that Rúna saw. This waking wasn't without effort. Her eyelids were stones now, it seemed, rigid and unwilling to open. Wool now lined her mouth, rocks having taken the place of her bones. Considerable concentration was needed to turn her head. And when she did, the sight of a sleeping Ivar greeted her.

The dimness painted him mostly in shades of gray, from his inky hair to the paleness of his cheek. One arm was thrown across her bed for Ivar to rest his head on. The other was outstretched, a bare hand holding her own. His was very warm, calloused all over from years of wearing his braces and crawling. She rolled toward him slowly, not wanting to wake him.

In sleep, he was entirely relaxed. Ivar had Ragnar's brilliant blue eyes, but his mother's lashes. They were thick and dark, long enough to brush against his cheek. He was only fifteen, and only in sleep did he truly look so young. His brow was smooth, lacking his usual furrowed glare. Likewise, his mouth was slack rather than pursed in some form of contempt. She could almost laugh at the contrast, if her mouth weren't so dry.

Ashes, not wool. Her mouth felt stuffed of dry, sooty ashes when she tried to swallow. Reaching her free hand out, she brushed her fingers along his hairline, caressing his cheek with the ack of her hand.

"Ivar." Her voice might as well have originated from a grave than her chest. She tried again, forcing herself to speak louder through the ashes in her throat. "Ivar."

A sigh washed across the space of bed between them, ruffling her fur blankets, and then his eyes fluttered open. Ivar's first reaction after leaving sleep was to smile and squeeze her hand.

"Hello, Rúna. And here I thought perhaps you intended to leave me behind here in Midgard."

She smiled back at him. Neither made any effort to move as they looked at each other.

"I would never. In fact, I'm offended you would think such of me. You should know better, Ivar." Her voice was stronger now, though still muted and scratchy.

They continued in this way, quietly studying each other until Rúna asked, "Where is your brace?" To which a light dusting of blush crept into Ivar's cheeks.

"I didn't want it to disturb you while you slept. I'm used to it, but I didn't want it to be uncomfortable for you."

"I cannot imagine you are comfortable all bent over that way," she countered. "Come up here with me. I want to tell you my dreams, but I do not want anyone else to overhear."

Until just then, Rúna had not even questioned where Floki and Helga might be. Ivar had the good grace to hesitate, but Rúna only rolled her eyes.

"And you think me prude." She was, after all, in her bed clothes. "Lay on top of the blankets."

He did as she bid, pulling himself onto her bed. His bindings were quickly undone so he could remove his boots. When, at last, he laid down beside her, Rúna slipped her hand back into his. She slipped her fingers through his.

"What did you dream?" He asked, thinking of his own dreams of Ragnar.

She dropped her gaze, chewing at her lower lip. "In truth, Ivar, I am not so sure it was a dream."

In whispers, she told him about training with Lagertha first. The dream, she reasoned, wouldn't make sense without that context. Then she told him about walking through the forest, how she felt she had no choice but to go back to the beach. Gyda's name seemed to throw him, blue eyes growing wide. He nearly spoke, then, but she laid a finger to his lips to quiet him.

Freya and Hel were described in turn. "She was just like Floki's stories," Rúna told him, tracing her finger down the center of his face. From his hairline down his brow, over the slope of his nose, following the curves of lips and chin. "Half a lovely maiden, half a skeleton."

At Siggy's name, he averted his gaze. She told them how, together, Siggy, Angrboda, and Hel had brought her home.

"I am afraid to say it, Ivar, but I think I was close to death."

It was not until the tears rolled, hot and fast, down her face that Rúna admitted how much the thought frightened her.

"Shh." Ivar untwined their fingers, wiping her tears away with his thumb. He tilted her face up gently by the chin. "Freya told you it was not your fate, no? And here you are. Not in Hel or Folkvangr, but Midgard. Here with me."

She nodded. He was right. Ivar usually was. Here she was in Midgard, heart still beating. Taking his hand again, she studied their twined fingers for some time. Before she could think better of it, Rúna turned their hands so his was atop hers, and pressed a kiss to the back of his hand.

"Unless, of course, you died as well and now you're just trying to make me feel better."

"Now, Rúna," he admonished. "Why would I begin lying to you after all this time?"

They laid together, whispering in the hushed dark of her room. Ivar told her of his own dreams, the ones of Ragnar and what he thought they might mean. He even earned a weak laugh when he told her of his squabbles with Sigurd.

"How did you slip away? Surely Aslaug would be displeased to know you left town to come here."

"Ah, but I did not come through town. I came through the forest, and besides, Sigurd is feverish still. Mother is occupied with him and Ubbe and Hvitserk haven't a care where I go as long as I return."

Though the depth of the shadow better fit midnight, it was truly midday when they slipped into sleep. Hands clasped between them, curled toward one another.

That is how Helga and Floki found them some time later.

A/N: I was going to ramble here about all the cool things I learned about the Viking afterlife, Hel, and Freya to write this chapter, but I'll keep it short because this chapter is already so long. From what I could gather, most souls went to Hel with Hel (yes, her name is also the name of her domain). Freya took some for... really no concrete reason I could find. Of course, esteemed warriors went to Valhalla to reside with Odin and Thor. Ran, a god associated with the sea, sometimes took the souls of those who died at sea, but not always.

Anyway! Very important thing: Yes, I have finished the Vikings series. If you, too, obsessively watched it in a day on Prime Video PLEASE do not post any spoilers in reviews. Feel free to message me instead, though, I would love to talk to others about it.

Thanks to Puffgirl1952 the 2nd, mickypants, and Grace of the Damned for the Chapter 14 reviews! Mickypants: I already had the scene with Ivar and Rúna at the end planned when you mentioned the 'oh no there's only one bed' trope in your review... I hope this makes up for it!