Ivar raised his arms above his head and stretched luxuriously, arching his back as he stretched and flexed every muscle from his fingertips down to the tips of his toes. It felt wonderful, and for a moment he was struck by confusion as he noted the complete absence of pain.
It took him a moment for his brain to fully emerge from the fog of sleep, and for him to realise why. He hadn't forgotten, not really. He remembered that he was trapped inside his brother's body, but the full implications of that still surprised him from time to time, most often in the moments after he first woke.
The time it took for him to remember was getting shorter each day though, and he wondered vaguely, in the back of his mind, how many more mornings it would take for him not to need to remember, for him not to even be surprised by the absence of pain, but to simply take it for granted.
He wondered, too, whether Sigurd had had the same thought but in reverse.
With a sigh, he stretched one more time, then threw off the furs that had kept him warm during the night, kicked off the blanket that had inexplicably wrapped itself around his legs as he slept, then climbed out of bed. He dressed quickly, and headed out to face however much of the day he hadn't slept away.
The house was quiet; not the quiet that he found in the middle of the night, but a different kind. He could hear two servants talking quietly in another room as they went about their work, and sounds from outside the house entered through the walls. The door to his own - currently Sigurd's - room was closed, and instead of the quiet music that he could sometimes hear beyond the door, there was nothing but silence. He was tempted to open the door and look inside, but he resisted the urge. If his brother had managed to fall asleep after they had talked the night before, Ivar did not want to be the one to wake him and force him back to harsh reality.
The room that Ubbe and Hvitserk shared was empty, the door left hanging open. As he passed the door to his mother's room, the room that, once upon a time, the whole family had shared, he caught a glimpse of her sitting in a chair alone. She appeared relaxed, holding a short drinking horn in her hand.
As he saw her, a pang of loneliness gripped him tightly. It felt like far too long since he had spoken to his mother in anything but the briefest way, and he missed it. He missed her. He missed the way that she would smile at him, and the affection in her gentle touch as she would brush his hair back off his face when it grew a little too long, to get a better look at his eyes. Although her protectiveness could drive him a little crazy at times, his mother had always made him feel safe, and loved, and important in a way that nobody else could.
He missed her, even though she was right there. He hated that the face and the body that he was being forced to wear separated them, and the things that Sigurd had said the night before; the casual way that he had challenged Ivar to try to speak to her and see the indifference in her eyes, had served as a reminder of what his switch with Sigurd had cost him.
He knew that he was her favourite. He had figured out that much from an early age, observing that she did not treat his brothers the same way as she did him. Sigurd had probably been right the night before; if he went to their mother to tell her something that Ivar had done wrong, she would not believe him. Even if she did consider believing him, a few reassuring words and a smile from Ivar would help her to realise that it was all all a lie. But just because he had been right about that, didn't mean that he was right about everything.
It didn't mean that he hadn't exaggerated things in his mind; taken the reality - that their mother had a favourite child and that it was not him - and added to it in his own mind to make himself a victim, to give himself a justification for the way that he treated his younger brother. After all, he had never heard either of their older brothers complain. Instead, they had always revelled in the freedom that she had given to them, while Ivar had been forced to look on jealously as they rushed off together to explore the city, or the woods; things that he had been allowed to do only rarely as a child, and never without somebody to accompany him.
Sigurd had that freedom too. All those years he could have been off running through the streets of Kattegat playing Vikings and Christians with his older brothers. In fact, he had very often done just that, while Ivar had been trapped at home wishing he could be with them even if he could only watch the fun from a distance, but held prisoner by his brittle bones and the colour of his eyes.
"Sigurd?" His mother's voice cut unexpectedly through his musings, and Ivar froze. "What are you doing out there?"
He took a moment to think; he had moved past the door, and although he was still close by, his mother would not be able to see him from where he was standing. He must have given himself away somehow. Whatever had happened, she obviously knew he was there, so he had no choice but to answer.
Reluctantly, he moved back toward the doorway. He stopped directly outside and looked at her. She was seated in her favourite chair next to a small table where she rested the bottom of the drinking horn that she held in her hand. Next to it, a jug stood on the same table. At the other side of the room, a servant girl was going about her work while keeping one eye on his mother so that she could refill her drink when needed.
"Ah," Aslaug said, "So you were standing out there. I thought so. What were you doing lurking outside my door just out of sight? Was there something you needed?"
She looked at him questioningly, and Ivar found himself hesitating, not sure how to reply. He hadn't intended to be there. He wasn't sure why he had paused where he did instead of continuing on his way. "No," he said. "I don't need anything. I was just…" he hesitated again. He had no good answer to give her. "...just thinking."
Aslaug frowned. "An odd place for it," she told him.
Ivar didn't reply. He looked at her closely. Despite the drink in her hand, she didn't appear to be drunk. Maybe she would be later, of she continued, but for now she was still herself; still his kind and beautiful mother whom he loved.
She looked back at him through narrowed eyes full of mistrust.
"I was just about to go outside," he tried.
Aslaug nodded. She gave him a smile filled with fake tolerance. "That still doesn't explain why you were lurking outside my door, Sigurd. Was there something that you wanted to tell me? Or ask me?"
He shook his head.
"I see." Aslaug leaned back in her chair and took a sip of her drink. "Where were you going to go?" she asked. "The last time you snuck away without telling anybody, you took Ivar with you, and I thought you weren't going to come back."
That wasn't entirely true. Neither of them had wanted to disappear from their beds in the middle of the night and wake up in the woods wearing the wrong body, but of course even if he tried to explain that to her, she would not believe him.
Her mistrustful glare intensified. "He hasn't been the same since, you know. Whatever you did to him - and don't try to tell me you were just teaching him to play that instrument of yours - whatever it is that you did to him…"
"I didn't do anything to Ivar," Ivar assured her.
She sighed. "So you keep saying. And so he keeps saying too, but something is wrong, Sigurd. I am worried about him."
Just about him. Not about her other son. "He's fine," Ivar assured her. It was a lie of course, he was anything but fine.
She shook her head. "Something is wrong," she insisted. "But I suppose I should be glad that the two of you seem to be getting along so much better. So, where were you about to sneak off to?"
Ivar frowned. He didn't bother to respond this time to the accusation that he and Sigurd were getting along this time. He had heard it so many times over the past few days that he barely even registered it. Instead, he hesitated, unsure how to respond to her question. There had been something confrontational about it. Normally when his mother drank, she became more affectionate, not less.
He had no answer to give her. He hadn't actually planned to go anywhere. He supposed that he could so and visit Floki and Helga again; it was far easier and far less exhausting to make the journey in Sigurd's body than in his own, but he could hardly tell his mother that. She would be confused about why Sigurd would want to spend time with Floki when he had shown no interest in speaking to him before.
Although… maybe that thought wouldn't even occur to her. If Sigurd were to be believed, if their mother truly paid as little attention to him as he claimed, then she might not even know who he did and did not like to visit with. Even if she did find it strange, experience had taught him that the magic, or the curse, or whatever it was that prevented her from believing him and made her forget the truth when they told her, would keep her from thinking too hard about it.
Aslaug pressed her lips together in irritation. "Sigurd, you are being rude," she told him. "If you refuse to answer me, I am going to…" She stopped, worry crossing her face suddenly. "Where is Ivar? You're not taking him somewhere again, are you?"
"No, of course not!" Ivar insisted. "As far as I know, he is still sleeping."
"Then what are you doing, and why are you being so evasive? I thought I raised you better than this. Answer your mother."
It occurred to him that he could have avoided this whole thing if he had simply thought of a better answer for her when she had first called him into the room. Or better yet, if he had chosen not to lurk outside of her room in the first place. He sighed. "I am just going for a walk," he told her.
It wasn't a lie. Wherever it was that he ended up, while he was in this body, he would be walking there.
Aslaug leaned forward and looked at him, staring so hard that it almost felt like she was looking for something. As he watched, her suspicious expression softened to something more like the one that he was used to seeing on her face. For a moment, he almost felt as though she could see him - see Ivar - behind his brother's eyes. It was gone almost as soon as he noticed it, if it had even been there at all.
"Okay then," she told him, and sat back in her chair.
Ivar waited for a moment, then turned to glance away, trying to calculate whether he could actually just leave, and then looked back to her for confirmation. Was that it? He had been stopped by her on his way out of the house before, and while he had never been met with suspicion and accusations before, he would usually have to give a better explanation than that.
Often, he would have to explain exactly where he was going, which of his brothers were going with him, and precisely when he would be back. If he was going alone, she would usually insist on checking the colour of his eyes, and if he was going with his brothers, she would make sure that they had done it for him. If, after she was satisfied with his answers, she decided to allow him to go, she would always remind him to be home by dinner, or by nightfall, whichever came first.
Over the years, Ivar had become quite adept at sneaking out of the house without her noticing. There were times when it was far easier to apologise for 'forgetting' to tell her he was going out than to try to convince her that it was just a trick of the light, and his eyes were not quite so blue as she thought.
In comparison to that, this seemed so easy that it almost felt like cheating.
"I'll…" He wave a hand in the direction of the door behind him, "I'll just go, then."
He had always known that as Sigurd he would be able to get away with more, it had simply never occurred to him before, what that really meant.
Aslaug frowned as she looked at him. "Yes, I thought that was what you were going to do."
His smile faded, and he found himself hesitating. The night before, as they had sat together in their mother and father's thrones, Sigurd had issued him with a challenge; to speak to their mother and to see how little interest she had in her second youngest son. Maybe, he thought, he should try it. Not with Sigurd there to watch as he had requested, but now, while it was just the two of them, for his own peace of mind. He needed to know that if the unthinkable happened and their swap was permanent he wouldn't lose her.
"Well?" Aslaug asked. She looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to leave.
It couldn't be as bad as Sigurd had claimed. Could it? If she was really so indifferent to him, she wouldn't have bothered to speak to him now. Although he was aware that she had done so mostly because she was worried about what he might be doing with her precious Ivar.
Now even he found himself resenting Ivar. It was a confusing feeling to resent his own self, and it did make him aware of why Sigurd seemed to hate him so much. Ivar took a deep breath, steeling himself, stepped closer, and rested a hand on the back of another chair that stood near to the table. "Before I go, I was just wondering," he said, "whether you might want to talk for a while."
For a second, he saw irritation flash across her face. She quickly smoothed it out and instead gave a tight smile, the kind he had seen her use on visiting Jarls and other assorted people that she needed to entertain when she would rather be doing something else. "What would you like to talk about?" she asked him.
"About... " Ivar began, then hesitated. A conversation didn't normally work that way. It was not normal to ask someone to talk if there was not something very specific and important that you wanted to talk about. Otherwise, you simply go up to someone and say something. He tried to think of something to say, but nothing sprung to mind. When he was himself, they never ran out of things to say, and his mother was always happy to talk with him.
She would tell him stories about his father, the kinds of stories that Floki either did not know or was not interested in. Ivar knew well, from so many retellings, the story of how she and his father had met, and the clever ways that she had risen to the challenges he had set for her.
Ivar would tell her about his day, the things that he had done and that had happened to him. Occasionally. Not often, but at those times when he could no longer keep it in, he would tell her about the hurtful things that he had overheard, or that had been said to him, the sideways glances and the pity. At times like that, she would lovingly run her fingers through his hair and promise him that everything would be okay. She would remind him that he was descended from Odin himself, and that the gods would always take care of their own, and she would assure him that anybody who had wronged him would one day face the consequences.
Still watching him, waiting for a reply. Aslaug's smile grew tighter still. "If you need to think about it for this long, it can't be all that important, can it?"
By far her favourite stories to tell were about Ivar. He had heard about the day that he was born more times than he could count, about the prophecy that she had made before, and the guilt that she had felt when she had seen it come true, even though the fault was not hers. She had told him how the moment that she had set eyes on him, she had known, deep down inside her, that he was going to do great things. She had told him of his childhood, the first words that he had spoken, and how afraid she had been the first time Ubbe and Hvitserk had convinced her to let them take him outside without her there to protect him.
But he could hardly ask to hear about that now, it would rouse her suspicions. She would probably imagine that 'Sigurd' had some ulterior motive for asking. But, if she liked to tell Ivar about his childhood, it stood to reason that she would be happy to do the same for her other sons.
Decisively, he pulled out the chair that he had been leaning on, and sat down. The servant girl had abandoned all pretense of working, and was now watching the exchange with undisguised interest. "You," Ivar said to her, "Go and fetch me a cup. I would like to share a drink with my mother."
The girl glanced briefly at Aslaug, who gave her a barely perceptible nod of agreement. Having received permission, she turned quickly and left the room. The moment they were alone, Aslaug's smile faded into a disapproving frown and she shook her head. "My thrall is not yours to command, Sigurd. If you wanted a drink so badly, you could have fetched your own cup." She raised her own drink to her lips and tilted back her head, drained the cup and placed it back on the table. "And now my cup is empty, and she is not here to refill it."
Ivar frowned, feeling taken aback slightly. He reached for the jug of ale and poured it for her, filled the cup then placed it down on the table with a smile.
Aslaug pressed her lips together until they formed a thin line, then picked up her drink and took a sip. "So tell me, what is it that you wanted to talk to me about?"
"I don't mind," he told her. "Anything you like. It would be nice for the two of us to just talk though, wouldn't it? Why don't you tell me about your day?"
She shook her head. "My day has only just begun, there is very little to tell yet."
Ivar sighed. In that case, he only had one other idea. "You could tell me about my birth," he said, meaning Sigurd's, "The story of it."
She blinked, then looked at him with obvious surprise. "Why would you ask me about that?"
"Because…" Ivar hesitated. The servant returned with a second cup, placed it on the table in front of Ivar, and poured from the jug until it was full. "Because I am interested," Ivar said. "It wasn't such an outlandish request. Even if she had told Sigurd the story before, there would be nothing unusual in asking to hear it again. It was not as though she disliked re-telling stories.
Yet, she did not appear eager to tell him anything. She gave a small shrug of her shoulders. "It is not a very interesting story," she told him. "Why don't you finish your drink, and then run along and do whatever it is you were planning to do. Leave me in peace."
"I hadn't realised that I was disturbing you so much," Ivar told her. He allows a sulking tone to creep into his voice.
"That is not what I said. Don't put words into my mouth."
That was good; that was what he had been hoping for, because now he had the opportunity to apologise, and to start to win her over. He gave her his sweetest smile. It was an expression that had always worked for him when he had been wearing his own face, but in Sigurd's body he wasn't completely sure how it would look. It felt right though, and as though it might work. "I'm sorry," he said. "I know that isn't what you meant. But please mother, I would really like to hear it again."
"Again?" Aslaug, whose expression had been softening slightly, frowned again, curious. "Did I tell you this before?"
He had no way of knowing. He has assumed that she must have, at least once, even if it was many years ago. After all, he had heard his own story so many times that he had lost count. He knew where she had been when she had felt the first pains of labour, and how loudly he had screamed when he had been forced from the comfort of the womb out into the harsh reality of the world, the bones of his legs shattering as he was. He knew how she had chosen his name, and of course he knew what his father had tried to do to him, and how she had saved him from that fate. He knew everything, and the idea that she might never have spoken even once to Sigurd about his own arrival into the world seemed inconceivable.
But at the same time, he was beginning to believe that it might be true.
"Well, if I have, you don't need to hear it again, do you?" she asked him. "I'll talk to you later if you like, but I'm not feeling my best this morning."
Ivar hesitated. "Is something wrong?" he asked
She shook her head. "Nothing that you need to concern yourself with." She looked annoyed now, but as she glanced at him and registered the concern on his face, her expression softened slightly. "I'm fine, Sigurd. Really. If there is something you need, let me know and I will try to help you with it. Otherwise, please leave. It is not a good time."
Briefly, he wondered whether something might have happened; whether she had received some bad news, or whether she might be unwell. Either might explain the way that she was acting. It might even excuse it. He considered whether he should do as she asked, then try again tomorrow, but deep down he knew that it would make no difference.
No, the way that she was treating him had nothing to do with how she was feeling, and everything to do with how she felt about him. Or, more specifically, how she felt about Sigurd. She would rather sit alone with a slave pouring drinks for her than spend time with her son. That hurt. Even though he knew that it was not actually directed at him, it hurt.
Wordlessly, he got to his feet. The feet of the chair scraped loudly on the floor as he pushed it backward with the backs of his knees, and he turned to leave. Suddenly, he felt very lonely. He found himself longing for his mother's company, and her kind words. He wanted her to kiss his forehead like she had when he had been young, and for her to listen as he told her about everything that was happening. He wanted to be able to tell her what it was like to walk for the first time, how it felt to stand strong and tall. He wanted to admit to her how afraid he was, both that he would never be himself again, and that he would. More than anything else, he wanted her to tell him that everything was going to be okay.
Even if it was a lie, he wanted to hear it.
He turned back to face her again. "Mother, please," he said. He was no longer trying to manipulate her into speaking with him. Now, he was simply begging for her attention; her love. "Please, I really need to talk to you."
She took another sip of her drink, then pointed to the bed. The covers had been pulled back and the furs carefully rearranged on the top by the slave who was still waiting nearby in case she was needed. "You were born right there," she told him. "Your father was absent at the time, away in England. Not long after your birth, we were forced to flee from our home by an invading army. I thought that we were all going to die. Your father first set eyes on you in the hovel that had become our home. It is not a time that I particularly enjoy reminiscing over."
Ivar frowned, then nodded. He could understand that. Besides, he wasn't actually interested in learning about Sigurd's birth, it had simply been a way to get her talking, something he could use to begin to convince himself that he hadn't lost his mother forever. All he really wanted was for things to feel normal again, because he was scared, and he wanted his mother. He wanted her to tell him he didn't need to be afraid.
Maybe that was what he needed to ask for. Because she had never turned him down before when he had really needed her, and even if she couldn't believe him, he had to assume that she wouldn't turn down any of her children.
"Mother, I'm scared," he said. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded quiet and uncertain. He could hear the pleading note in his voice, hopeful that she would try to help him, but not able to rely on it the way that he usually could. He hated that uncertainty. All his life, she and Floki had been the only two people that he had always been able to rely on, and he couldn't lose one of them. Not like this.
Aslaug looked at him, but her expression gave no indication of how she might be about to respond.
"I know you won't believe me," he added, "so there is no point trying to tell you again what has happened, but I am afraid that things are never going to go back to the way they are supposed to be, and I am afraid that they will. I wish that this had never happened. I don't want it to be over, I want it to have never been at all."
For a moment, he almost convinced himself that he saw a glimmer of the mother that he knew behind her eyes. He saw concern, perhaps even recognition, but before he could be sure that it had been there at all, she blinked, and it was gone. "What are you talking about?" she asked him.
"I…" Ivar began, then faltered.
It was so tempting to try to tell the truth again, but he knew there would be no point attempting it. He had seet for himself the way she had reacted the last time he had tried, and the way his brothers had reacted. The only person that could believe him, other than Sigurd of course, was Floki, and while he was grateful for him, it wasn't the same. He needed his mother.
"Something has happened," he tried. "Something that…" he stopped again. He had no way of explaining it that she wouldn't simply reject, and so instead of bothering to try, he reached for her. He took her hands in his own, and felt her surprise in the way that she stiffened under his touch. "I can't tell you," he said. "You wouldn't understand, but please, would you just… just tell me it's going to be okay?"
Aslaug pulled back her hands from his, and he allowed them to slip out of his grip. "I don't know what it is that you are trying to say," she told him, "but if you have done something you shouldn't have, or if you have made a food of yourself, or…" she stopped abruptly as a thought seemed to occur suddenly. "You didn't get Marguerite pregnant, did you?"
"What? No!" At least, he didn't think that Sigurd had done that. He was sure that he would have known about it by now if he had. There wasn't much his brothers did that escaped his notice.
Aslaug looked at him as though she was searching for a lie. When she found none, she nodded, apparently satisfied by his denial. "Good. Please see that you don't. Good servants are difficult to come by. Now please Sigurd, either tell me what it is that is bothering you so much, or go away and find something else to do."
He could still feel the touch of her hands where he had held her, and the way that she had stiffened with surprise before she had pulled away, as though that was such a strange and unfamiliar thing for him to do. Feeling defeated and desperate, he reached for her again. This time she moved her hands out of the way before he could touch them. "I'm Ivar," he said. "I'm not Sigurd, I'm Ivar.
She had told him to tell her what was bothering him, or to leave, and he wasn't ready to leave. He no longer cared that she wouldn't believe him, he needed her to know. Maybe if he kept trying, eventually he would be able to break through whatever magic was keeping her from believing him.
"It's the truth, mother. It's me. Please, you have to believe me." She had to. He stared pleadingly into her eyes. He needed her to believe him, to recognise him behind his brother's eyes. "It's me, it really is. Sigurd and I have switched places; switched bodies. We didn't mean to, we don't know why, and we want to go back, but it's been days now, and I'm starting to get scared."
He could already see that he was getting nowhere. She didn't believe him. More than that, while she had been tolerating his presence before, she looked angry now. He drew in a deep breath and wrapped his arms around himself.
"I'm Ivar," he said again. "I know you won't believe me, but I need you to try. Please. I'm starting to think we might not be able to undo it. I'm starting to think I will be Sigurd for the rest of my life."
Aslaug stared wordlessly at him for a moment, then got to her feet. She shook her head. "Whatever game it is that you are playing, Sigurd, it is not funny. You are far too old to be playing games."
With that, she quickly walked past him and out the door without looking back.
The servant girl gave him a confused but vaguely sympathetic look, then glanced uncertainly after Aslaug. Ivar sank into his chair, leaned on the table and placed his head in his hands. "You should go," he told her. "Wherever it is that she has gone, she will probably be thirsty."
The girl nodded. She pulled up the jug and Aslaug's discarded cup from the table and left after her, heading to whichever part of the house his mother had chosen to move to in order to get away from her son. She left Ivar sitting alone at the table, staring down into the bottom of a cup of ale.
With a sigh, he raised the cup to his lips, tilted back his head and downed the drink in one large gulp. It didn't make him feel any better. He snarled in anger and frustration and threw the cup as hard as he could across the room. It hit the wall with a bang, then fell soundlessly onto the thick furs that covered the floor of the room.
That didn't help either. He wanted to scream. He wanted to chase after her, to shout and cry, to take her by the shoulders and shake her, and to make her believe him. He wanted to make everybody believe him. But he couldn't. He didn't know how.
It had been a long night, and so far a tiring day, and all he wanted was for somebody to tell him that it was going to be okay. He didn't even care if they believed him. But he had a feeling that nobody was going to do that for him. Even Floki, if he did go and visit him again, was unlikely to be so accommodating. Besides, he didn't think that he could deal with the boatbuilder's optimism today, or his insistence that this was a good thing.
He was ready for it to be over. If he couldn't make it that it had never happened at all - and he knew that he could not - all he wanted was to go to sleep, and to wake up as Ivar again, with everything that would mean.
He felt now-familiar tears begin to prickle at the corners of his eyes, and he angrily brushed them away with his fingers. He sucked in a deep breath. He refused to let Sigurd's body get the better of him; he refused to cry. Even now, alone, it would be… humiliating. Nothing had happened that he could not deal with. Yes, his mother had rejected him, but he had expected that. He had known that he -Ivar - was her favourite. He had always known that she favoured him over his brothers, and it had never bothered him before. He refused to care now, just because he was temporarily out of favour.
Because it was temporary. It was. It had to be.
He prayed to all the gods that it was temporary.
If Floki was right, and this really was something that the gods had done for fun, he hoped that he would never find himself on their bad side.
He pressed his fingers into his scalp and ran them back through his hair until they caught on one of Sigurd's braids. He winced at the unexpected pain as it pulled, then began to explore the braid with the tips of his fingers. It was a mess, he could tell that much just by touch. If it had not been a mess before, a night of tossing and turning in bed last night would have made certain of it.
He continued to explore further down the braid, feeling the loose strands of hair that had worked their way free. He pulled the end of the braid forward to examine it with his eyes and saw that he had been right. He ran a flat palm over the top of his head, imagining the mess that his brother's hair must look by now. He began to pick at the knot in the cord Sigurd had used to tie off the braid, and when it came loose, began to slowly unfasten the braid itself. There were several to do, and then he would need to re-braid them. Because he kept his hair short, he had never done it before, but all of his brothers managed it, so how hard could it be?
He got to his feet, still holding the piece of cord between two fingers, and headed back to Sigurd's room in search of a comb, his fingers still unpicking the braid as he went.
If nothing else, at least he had found something to do.