Master of My Sea


Oi, I got this chapter out way faster than I thought I would, especially since Chapter 24 is quite lengthy, and I wasn't entirely sure how I was going to write a certain scene. So I'm just as surprised and happy as you all are to see another update so soon.

No other notes to be said, other than I am super happy at the reception I got in the last chapter. I'm glad it met everyone's expectations :3.

Enjoy~


chapter twenty-three:
THE DIRT AND MIRE


It was still raining when morning came. The sun illuminated from above the dense clouds, but couldn't break through them. The house was no longer in darkness, but in a dim hue of grey. The rain had slowed at least, so when Ivar slowly roused to consciousness, he wasn't sure what time of the day it was, or if he had just been sleeping a few short hours. When his eyes fluttered open, he was slow to realize several things. The first was that he was not in his quarters at the Longhouse. The second was that he was uncharacteristically warm despite the early spring chill that wafted in the open window. The third thing was that he had slept undisturbed with no nightmares, which was different to his norm. The fourth thing was that he was not alone.

He lay on his back staring at the ceiling when he felt movement at his side, and then a slight twitch on his palm. Slowly he turned his head and saw her laying next to him. Her hand was loosely placed in his; her knees pulled up to her stomach, and her hair had freed itself out of the braid halfway and curtained her face.

Now he remembered… along with everything else. He wasn't sure how he remembered, even if it was fragments here and there. It was almost like looking into a sheet of ice that covered a clear lake. He could make out forms, but the weeds at the bottom obstructed details. And in some cases, it almost felt like they weren't his memories. Like dreams, or stories told to him that he would play out in his head. He did remember meeting her under the tree, although the kiss escaped his memory. He did remember going to Floki to fix his wound, and then the man teasing him about his encounter. He remembered winning her bow, and how upset she was. He even remembered when she ran away for a few days, and he went out to find her only to end up nearly drowning. He remembered she saved him. But he didn't remember the kiss that followed. It was as if he couldn't believe that those small yet intimate details ever happened.

Kára stirred again, but this time her body stretched out and she jerked when her toes found his calves. It seemed she also forgot she didn't go to bed alone. With her other hand, she pushed back her hair from her eyes, blearily looking around until she settled on Ivar. A crack of a smile came before she let her head fall back on the flattened makeshift pillow.

"Is it morning?" She asked, her voice rough with sleep.

Giving a soft laugh through his nose, Ivar shook his head, "I have no idea." He moved his hand to his eye to pick out the sands of sleep that rested in the corner.

He heard her groan and move closer to him until she was nestled under his arm, head resting on his chest. This action caught him off guard. He had never had a woman lay next to him in such an intimate way, much less one he only met… well he supposed that he hadn't just met her. Though despite his memory coming into focus more and more since the night before, she still felt new to him. Even if he had all his memory back, or if he hadn't lost it all, there was a huge gap of time missed. The Kára tucked in his arm was a grown woman, whereas Kára in his memory was a girl; a girl he knew when he was a child.

Ivar let his arm rest around her; his movements slow to start, but relaxed once he settled into the position. He idly inhaled, content in his senses being filled with her natural scent.

"You never told me where you were this entire time," Ivar mused. He suspected it wasn't here, just by the state of this old house. Even though it had signs of being lived in, it was only recently. Which meant that she had just come back to it.

"Hm," she cleared her throat and adjusted herself at his side. "I was in Hedeby. I trained as a shieldmaiden under Lagertha."

Ivar was not surprised that she was trained to be a shieldmaiden, but he was surprised that it was under the ex-wife of his father. Even if Hedeby was a day and a half's ride away from Kattegat, it still felt so close to him. She was just under his nose the entire time, and he had no idea.

Ivar tilted his head, "How did you end up there?"

"That is a long story," she answered.

He noted her idle fingers, draped over her side, kneading the hem of her tunic.

"It is still raining. That is the best time to tell long stories."

She gave a soft snort and he could feel her shake her head, "Fine."

Kára moved her hand to where her head lay, and Ivar found the skin underneath his tunic burn from the touch. He wanted those fingers to move along the muscles of his stomach, to relax the tension he felt building in his abdomen. But they instead drummed next to her face. Slender digits, uneven nails, rough pads, and nicked and damaged cuticles. The hands of an archer, a shieldmaiden, and a working woman. So unlike the hands of women he was used to seeing.

"Me and my mother remained here after being exiled from Kattegat. Nothing much happened during the beginning… it was just the two of us for some time. I don't know how long, I was too distraught over what happened. Then, suddenly, it wasn't just the two of us, and after that, everything changed."

Ivar furrowed his brow, "What do you mean?"

Kára struggled to find her words, not knowing how Ivar would take to what she would confess. She could say it was just a stranger, but hiding the truth would only fester his distrust of her like an untreated wound. If she wanted Ivar back, she would have to be honest with him. Especially since no one has been honest with him this entire time.

"Ragnar," she swallowed, her mouth feeling drier than when she woke up. "He came to my mother when he returned from Paris."

She could feel his muscles tense underneath her, and she feared to move, hoping that the weight of her head would ground him. But when she felt the rumble of his words come from his chest, she knew that there was no way this news would go smoothly with him. His breathing atop her head felt laboured, so Kára remained quiet, waiting to see if he would let her continue or comment on it. It ended up being the latter.

"We all thought he left the area completely," his voice was on edge. Kára didn't need to look to know that he was probably glaring a hole into the wall. "But he was just a short walk from the city the entire time."

"He was not well," Kára immediately continued, trying to explain.

"How long was he here?" He questioned, and Kára winced.

She slowly sat up, then twisted herself so she was looking at him, and as she suspected, he was glaring into the air. Not long after, hat glare moved over to her. He was gritting his jaw so tightly, she could see the muscles of his face twitch.

"How long was he here, Kára?" He repeated the question; the sound of her name coming from his lips that way felt like a slap.

Her mouth hung open, wishing she should've just lied in the first place. Her righteous logic was failing her. She recalled a time as a child when she called a woman ugly, and her mother had slapped her mouth and told her that some truths were too cruel to be said. Would she think this was a truth too cruel to be said?

"About three winters-"

"Three winters?!"

Kára winced at his words. She pinched her eyes closed, and ran a hand over her forehead as he shuffled himself off the cot.

"Ivar-" Kára reached out for him, wishing he'd come back let her explain the situation. "You don't understand."

"I understand perfectly!" He grabbed his crutch, pulled it under his shoulder with ease, and hobbled back over to where he left his clothes drying near the hearth. "He was not only ashamed of his failure in Paris, but of his failure as a father. Of his failure of a family. A drunk and unfaithful wife, a crippled son-"

"Ivar, that isn't it at all!" Kára pulled herself up, moving over to him as he gathered his effects and hurriedly pulled them on. She put her hand on his shoulder, and he roughly shook her off before turning to her like a viper ready to strike.

"I remember, Kára. I now remember you. I also remember how my father looked at you, wishing you were the child he was gifted instead of me. He left his family in favour of one he wished he had."

A pit settled deep in Kára's stomach; she felt herself speechless. She opened her mouth, but all she could say, or could do, was to deny his claims. That he didn't leave because he was ashamed of his family. He didn't leave because of Ivar. He didn't even leave because of Aslaug. But for some reason, she couldn't even deny herself one thing, and that was that Ragnar wished for something different, or something that used to be. And he found that with Hulda and Kára.

Ivar pushed open the door and began to briskly walk out of it. Kára rushed after him, stopping just a few feet outside the door. The rain hadn't relented at all last night. The ground was soft and tender; every step Ivar took sank into the earth. The spike of his crutch plunged into the ground like a hot knife through butter.

"Ivar! You shouldn't go back on your own!" She called out, then went into a light jog to follow him.

"I don't need anyone!" He barked back. His shoulders hunched, and his head tilted to the side he favoured as he marched onward. Her angrily blinked back the rain drops that met his lashes. He had been on his own his entire life, both mentally and physically. He never allowed anyone to aid him to walk since he was a small child. His mother worried herself over his safety, but her love was selfish and self fulfilling. It was as if she loved him out of guilt for ever bringing him to life. Ragnar, Ivar's father, was not there from the start. He was aware that Ragnar tried to kill him when he was a newborn, a fact that Aslaug seemed to throw at him every time she was in a drunken rage. A bitter reminder that she was the reason he was alive.

Ivar was abandoned by his father from the first days he was alive. This second abandonment merely confirmed his belief that Ragnar did not like him, nor love him enough to be around and raise him. All Ragnar cared about was his own happiness, and he was not happy to be Ivar's father.

She was following him shortly behind, calling his name and pleading with him to listen to her. The only thing he could hear was the pounding in his head, the rain softly pelting his shoulders and face, and the squishy sounds of his feet trying to trudge through the thickening mud.

Ivar's anger and frustration spiked the moment he felt himself lose balance. The suction of the mud took hold of both his feet and his crutch, and he wobbled and slipped forward into the slick ground. If there was anything going for him that moment, it was that the rain covered up the angry tears escaping the corners of his eyes. His fingers splayed on the ground as he braced himself in the soft earth. He curled them, fisiting the mud and grass in his grasp. Never has he felt so humiliated, so rejected in all his life. And she was there to witness his fall. Unbelievable.

"Ivar!" her voice was behind him, and soon her hand was on his shoulders.

He jerked away from her, giving a short bark of protest. He didn't need her pity. He didn't need anyone's pity. It was worse than the insults and bullying he endured from children and adults alike. It only fueled his insecurities over being weak and pathetic. At least the taunts served to get him angry and motivated to prove them wrong. The pity only gave him self loathing and self doubt; he wondered constantly if people truly feared him as they did as a child, or were they simply humouring him? Was that what Kára was doing to him right now? Was she his friend because she pitied him?

Ivar was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he hadn't realized she had come down to her knees and had her arms wrapped around his back. It wasn't until he heard her voice next to his ear that made him jerk, intent on trying to pull away from her, but she held fast.

"When Ragnar came to my mother, he was barely a man. You need to understand, he was sick in both body and mind. He was fed a poison by his concubine, and it tampered with his mind, and made his body weak when he did not have it. Me and my mother had to take care of him as if he were a child… we fed him, bathed him, and…" She trailed off, sparing the details of the less flattering things that Hulda had to do in order to care for Ragnar. "He was not your father when he came to us. He did not leave his family because he was ashamed of it, or because he wanted something else. He was ashamed of himself. He saw him as undeserving after his countless failures.

"Even when the poison was out of his body, he was so much weaker. He was not the same man you remember. He tried to redeem himself by raising me after my mother left… But he left me as well, and… I believe it was for the best. He had to take a path I couldn't take. Just like my father… Ragnar has shadows that haunt him, and that is something that cannot be purged from his body like an illness. And it is not your fault that he has them. He loves you, Ivar. More than you realize."

Ivar felt so very heavy. His shoulders sank, his head hung, and it felt as if the earth was slowly swallowing him. Each word she spoke churned his conflicting emotions around. He was heavy with self loathing, but also, of empathy for his absent father. Ivar had his own shadows as well, ones that lurk around him like crows waiting for his body to give up, so they may feast on his broken flesh and soul. He remembered the story of Kára's father, the famed smith who killed himself in the frozen lake outside of Kattegat. Would Ragnar do the same? Would… he do the same?

Kára still held onto him as if he was going to slip into the soft earth he sat on. He felt the rain starting to slow down until it was merely a few droplets that came from the branches and leaves from above them. Ivar lifted his head, then his hand to move it over hers, weaving his mud-caked fingers with her own.

"Do you think he will return?" He found his voice uncharastically soft.

He felt her sigh against his ear, "If he doesn't… Then I will hunt him down myself."

Ivar couldn't help but smile at the image. He bowed his head until his chin met his clavicle. After a beat or two, he felt her give him a peck on the back of the neck, which caused sparks to go down his spine.

"The rain's stopped," Kára began as she started to pull herself up from the ground. Wiping her hands on her tunic, she continued. "We should get you back to Kattegat before-"

The wind left her lungs as she felt the world around her whirl past her. Ivar had swept her under her legs and pulled her down into the mud with him. As she laid on her back, completely dumbfounded by her position, Ivar took the opportunity to throw mud in her face.

"That is for leaving me to deal with Sigurd alone for five years."

With languid motions, Kára lifted her arms and wiped the mud from her face and then shook it off with a whip of her wrist. She pulled herself up to a sitting position with great difficulty. The mud made a suctioning sound when she dislodged herself from its grasp. When she looked at Ivar, he was looking at her with an impish smile and a laugh on his tongue. Such a contrast to what he was like moments before. Of course she preferred this version of Ivar; mischievous and playful, but the sudden shift of mood caught her off guard. She didn't think her words would change his heart so dramatically, but perhaps she was thinking too much into it.

"You are going to pay for that."

"Oh am I-" Ivar did not have the opportunity to finish, because she was already launching herself at him.

They rolled around in the mud, wrestling around in an attempt to pin the other underneath them. At some point, Ivar tried to get on his knees to gain some kind of leverage, but the slickness of the mud caused him to capsize on top of her. Kára pulled her a leg from underneath him and hooked herself around his waist to keep him down. Ivar instead grabbed a hold of her hips and pulled her on top of him before rolling around until he had her pinned underneath him. Her legs were still locked around his waist while he held himself up with both his hands firmly planted on either side of her head.

Kára's face was splattered with mud from her forehead to her nose, and a few specks against her lips. Her hair was caked until its vibrant colour was washed out completely. Her tunic was slick and wet, and Ivar was painfully aware of how it now hugged the curves of her breasts, and exposed the cold peaks of her nipples.

Ivar swallowed, his mischievous grin fading as he looked at her. Her smile also slowly vanished just as Ivar lowered his head towards her. His eyes fluttered closed as he inched forward, waiting for the bump of their noses. Instead, he felt a cold splat of mud smack his face.

Kára massaged her hand on his face, making sure she got as much mud on him as possible. When she pulled away she laughed at the state of Ivar's face. His eyes were firmly shut, his mouth in a grimace, and his nose scrunched up. Still laughing, she watched him balance himself with one hand while the other wiped off the gunk from his eyes and mouth.

"That is for making me haul your ass up the tree, which started all of this in the first place."

With a tight lip smile, Ivar nodded and then burst out laughing. He rolled off of her and onto his back, still trying to wipe off the dirt from his face with little success. The two laid like that in the mud for some time. With the sun behind the thick grey clouds, they had no indication of how long they'd been there. The forest was thick in a grey smoke, the drizzle of leftover rain soaked their bodies, but by looking at them, you would think they were laying out in the grass under the sun.

X X X

Aslaug's nails had nearly reached the pads of her fingers. She had been pacing around the Longhouse, biting her nails and washing them down with wine almost all day. Ivar had not come home last night, and now it was nearly evening the next day. She was used to her youngest son testing her patience, and this was not the first, and probably not the last time that he hadn't come home one night. However, the storm that drilled the city was unpredicted, and it was harsh and long. She worried her mind over the endless of predicaments her son was in. What if he fell, broke his legs further, and was trapped somewhere in the forest? What if he was trapped somewhere, and died from the cold? What if he caught a fever and it would later kill him? What if he was kidnapped by raiders for ransom? What if Thor decided to hammer his anvil on his head? The lightning was close last night, and while it was brief, it had passed overhead with the raging winds. She felt the vibrations in her bones last night… Was that a sign from the gods that something had happened to him?

"Mother, you should sit down," Ubbe's gentle voice tried to reach her. When she didn't answer, he pressed, "You are going to walk through the soles of your shoes."

Ignoring his comment, she threw back remains of her goblet, and extended it over to a patiently waiting thrall. While the small blonde refilled her goblet, it was the only time she had stopped walking. Ubbe shared a look with the slave, and then moved his gaze to his mother with his nostrils flaring as his patience for his mother's behaviour continued to grow thin.

"What is taking Hvitserk and Sigurd so long?" She mused mostly to herself.

She had sent her two other sons out to look for Ivar when he hadn't returned by high noon. There were some doubts that they were even trying; Hvitserk was easily distracted, and tended to do things with half as much effort as what was expected of him. And Sigurd… Well, it was no secret that Ivar was no friend to Sigurd. Then there was Bjorn, who was beyond her reach in authority. She was neither his mother nor his Queen in his world. Bjorn was his own authority, being the eldest son of Ragnar, and revered by all in Kattegat as favoured by the gods. Bjorn gave a half commitment in looking for Ivar when he came into the Longhouse that morning, but she hadn't heard anything from him.

"You should have gone with them," she casted a reprimanding look at Ubbe. He insisted on remaining here, with her. At the time, the gesture touched, but now he merely annoyed her. He looked so much like his father, that the more he told her to calm down, the more his voice began to sound like Ragnar's patronizing tone.

"Ivar will come home on his own," Ubbe pressed.

"Oh, how do you know?" Aslaug buried her nose in her goblet as she nearly drained a full cup. "Ivar is no normal boy-"

"Man. Ivar is a man," his voice came more forcefully than he intended to. When Aslaug halted and moved a viper-like glare in his direction, he wasn't sure if it was his tone or his words that caused the reaction. However, before she could retort, he found himself continuing. "He is eighteen, it is time that you stop looking at him like a helpless child. He can take care of himself better than most men older than him."

Aslaug was eerily rigid in her posture. When she pushed the goblet in Margrethe's hand, Ubbe knew he pushed a nerve. His mother stalked over to him and once she reached him, he pulled himself off the edge of the table where he sat the entire time. He was so much taller than her, and she was already a tall woman, but even when she looked up at him with those cold eyes, he felt like a little boy.

"Ubbe, do you have some bastard children that I don't know about?" She didn't give him time to respond, "Because if you do not, then you have no right to tell me not to worry about my children."

Ubbe's mouth clamped shut. His jaw twitched under the pressure of his teeth biting his tongue. He couldn't help but wish he had gone with his brothers after all, but truthfully, he didn't feel right leaving his mother alone… He especially did not feel right leaving Margrethe to the queen's unpredictable mood swings.

Once she was satisfied with Ubbe's silence, she sharply turned on her heel and back to the thrall, roughly jerking her goblet from her hand and resumed her pacing. Ubbe's audacity rested on her mind, muddling her worried thoughts with resentment. No one knew Ivar better than her; she was not only his mother, but his caregiver, and the reason why he was still alive. Her life, her reason to live, now revolved around him, and him alone. Her three other sons were old enough to be completely independent; they were old enough to marry and have children of their own. In her age, she knew she would never be able to sire anymore children, and her husband's absence meant she had no other distractions. Ivar was still dependent on her, more than he- more than anyone realized. If he was gone, then Aslaug would truly have lost everything, and her purpose for living would have vanished.

The doors of the Longhouse swung open and all heads swung in its direction. Aslaug had an ominous feeling of seeing this before, perhaps in another lifetime, but she pushed that feeling away when she saw her youngest son, alive - albeit filthy - hanging off the shoulder of an equally filthy woman. He held onto his crutch under his arm, but he was held steady by his companion. The woman was soaked in just as much mud as her son. Her feet were bare, which felt more curious than the state of the two.

Aslaug practically dropped the goblet on the table as she rushed over to Ivar, and moved to take his face in her hands. She stopped herself, though. He had a smile on his face when he came into the door, but that quickly vanished when she said his name and approached him. Ubbe moved over to the two and dislodged Ivar from the girl's shoulder, and helped him into a stool.

"Hello, mother," Ivar spoke, tilting his head up at her in a manner that reminded her of Ragnar. Aslaug had half a mind to slap him. Instead she balled up her fists at her sides.

"Where in Helheim have you been?!" Her voice danced on the precipice of shouting. Her words came forceful and strained from her attempts at controlling her anger.

She was still mad at Ubbe's comments minutes ago, but seeing Ivar being so nonchalant and cool at his late arrival heightened that emotion nearly tenfold. It just made Ubbe right. Ivar was dirty, caked in mud from head to toe, but he was completely unharmed, and seemed completely unperturbed. Nothing had happened to him. And for that, Aslaug's irritation grew. She wanted to prove to Ubbe that her worry was warranted and her doting on Ivar was justified.

This proved otherwise. She hated it.

Ivar comically rolled his head over to Ubbe, his lips pursed at him, eye half lidded as he sent his brother messages spoken only through his gaze. With a sigh through his nose, he looked back at his mother and gave a half shrug at her answer.

"I went for a walk," his short answer grated against her nerves.

"During a monsoon?"

Ivar opened his mouth, but another spoke for him. Aslaug had ignored the companion until this moment; she nearly forgot that she was there.

"He was with me, my lady," the girl spoke. Aslaug's head whipped in her direction. The girl stood there awkwardly, bare feet bouncing back and forth on the stone floor, hands fidgeting and moving around as she tried to figure out how to rest them. The girl swallowed under Aslaug's stare, and she rushed to complete her statement. "He was near my camp when it started raining, and I offered him shelter until the rain stopped."

Aslaug moved around Ivar and walked over to the girl near the door. She scrutinized her through narrowed eyes, trying to see if she knew her from somewhere. It was almost impossible to see her through the drying mud on her face and hair, but there was nothing familiar to Aslaug. Except for her eyes. They reminded her of the seafoam eyes that haunted her dreams, but she pushed that feeling aside when she settled herself in front of the girl.

The Queen towered over her, but she was a towering figure for most people. The girl couldn't be any older than Ivar, judging by the wideness of her hips and the muscle in her thighs and arms, but she was shorter than average. Ivar had no female friends, so she was sure that she never met this girl before. Aslaug would have been aware if Ivar had females around him, so this girl had to be a stranger to both of them.

"What is your name?" Aslaug asked.

The girl made a quick glance over to Ivar, and then to Ubbe who stood next to him. She darted her eyes back to the Queen, but she had a hard time to keep them still. Aslaug noticed how nervous she was, but Aslaug wasn't a stranger to that. Most people seemed nervous around her, even before she married Ragnar. Her name and reputation had weight, and now more than ever.

"Brynhilda," she blurted at last.

The name shook Aslaug's core, though in a way she was not prepared for. Her irritation seemed to ease itself at the sound of the name. She suddenly had visions of her mother's youthful face smiling down at her. She had little memories of her mother, but those she had she treasured like precious jewels she only brought out when she felt sentimental.

Like a sudden shift in tide, her pursed lips and furrowed brow eased and relaxed. With a smile, she brought her hand to the girl's chin and lifted up her head with delicate fingers. This was not a normal girl, Aslaug mused. Her name was no coincidence. Aslaug knew no coincidence that meant nothing in her world. This girl was sent to Ivar by her mother, to protect him when Aslaug could not. She was a gift from the Valkyries. She had to be.

"Brynhilda," Aslaug repeated the name. "Were you named after Brynhildr Buðladóttir?"

The girl swallowed, trying her hardest to train her eyes onto Aslaug's. "Yes… My mother was a great admirer of her's."

Aslaug's smile broadened a fraction, and her hand fell from the girl's chin as she took a step back with a now relaxed demeanour.

"Brynhildr was my mother," she stated, and the girl nodded to confirm that she knew this information. "I wish I knew her longer."

The girl regarded her words closely; it seemed vulnerable, almost as if she hadn't meant to speak it out loud. She wondered if she said it with purpose, or she had enough glasses of wine to dislodge the filter from her mind to her mouth. Regardless, she remained quiet, waiting to be dismissed or acknowledged again.

"I would like to thank you for your hospitality on my son's behalf," Aslaug spoke with more sober words. She leaned against the table, her hand extended as the thrall came back with another goblet, refilled to the rim. "Though, I must ask- what happened," she gestured to their state of dress. "Here."

"Oh," Brynhilda opened her mouth and let out a small laugh as she shared a look with Ivar. "We both… fell into a mire patch."

Aslaug looked between her and Ivar; they both smiled and attempted to hide youthful laughs behind bitten lips as they looked at each other. There was clearly more to the story, but Aslaug decided to leave it for now. She never thought girls would be interested in Ivar, and frankly Aslaug was calmed by that fact. Now, though, it seemed like a friendship was blossoming, and she didn't find herself hating the prospect. Perhaps it was the comforting name attached to the girl, or the wine speaking, but Aslaug decided she would allow this to play out and see where it went.

"Brynhilda, you are welcome to stay and use our bath to clean yourself. Then you can join us for nattmal," Aslaug spoke before chasing her words down with a sip of wine.

The offer seemed to bristle the girl. Her smile dropped into an 'o' shape, and she quickly shook her head and declined the offer. "I appreciate the hospitality, my lady, but I would not feel comfortable. I am just a commoner, it would not be appropriate to use royal treatments."

Aslaug tilted her head, the urge to argue that it was an order from a Queen on the tip of her tongue, but she decided not to engage in a verbal battle with a commoner. The humility of the lower classes were notoriously stubborn, and Aslaug did not want to push something that made Brynhilda uncomfortable.

"Then, I must insist that you come by another day to join us for nattmal, as a thank you for returning my son home."

Brynhilda bit her lip, but relented with a smile. With a bow of her head, she accepted Aslaug's offer. Aslaug, now satisfied, snapped her head to Ubbe, her smile moved into a line as she had to address her son. Ubbe had been looking at their visitor before Aslaug said his name, forcing him to look at her.

"Ubbe, escort Brynhilda back to her camp safely, and see if you can find Hvitserk and Sigurd and let them know Ivar's home safely," she left no room for him to say otherwise. She turned her attention back at Ivar, and grabbed his chin to make him look at her. She muttered something about the state of his being, before reprimanding him for being so reckless.

Ubbe nodded at her request of him and moved over to 'Brynhilda', "Let's get you home."

Her eyes were glued on his while she gave him a bow of her head. Kara wondered if he could see through the mud.

"I do not live far," she said to him. "Just outside the city."

Silently they left the Longhouse towards the direction of the forest where Ubbe knew she was referring to. He waited until the throng of people walking by thinned out and he was able to get a moment alone with her.

He pulled her gently by the shoulder behind a vacant market stand, turning her to him and then dropping his hand to his side.

"Kára?" He asked in a small voice, his eyes wide and wondering.

Her lips pressed in a firm line, and she moved her hands to her face to wipe as much crusted mud from it as possible. As each chip of mud was cleared from her, theher features came clearer to him. She was older, no doubt about that. Her face was sharper than the girlish youth he remembered. He only wished he was able to see the colour of her hair - the truest confirmation of who she was - but it was caked in mud to the point where it looked like the tendrils looked like dreadlocks.

She smiled at him, it was small and sort of sad. He hadn't seen her since he left for Paris with Hvitserk, which felt like a decade ago now that he thought about it.

"Hello, Ubbe," the way she said his name, with such familiarity and ease, pulled something in his chest.

He knew Kára for a short while, but her presence in his life was monumental in the way she inserted herself in the life of the Lothbroks. Ubbe never had a sister and he doubted that Aslaug had the capability of giving him one anytime soon. However, Kára was the closest to one he ever had. They trained together, they ate together, and even bickered as siblings do. Of course, he was nowhere near as close to her as Ivar was; there was a notable age gap between them that seemed larger when they were children. Now, though, they were even in maturity. She was the same age as Ivar, and judging by the nicks on her skin and the muscular form of her posture, they were likely even in capability as well.

Ubbe found himself enveloping her into a hug, which she gladly reciprocated. He was so much taller than Ivar, that her head rested on his broad chest, and he had to decline his head to lay his cheek on the top of her's.

"I am happy you are back," he sighed, ignoring the smell of rain and earth that came from her.

"Me too, Ubbe."


I havent put any new images in the pinterest for chapter related content, merely because there isnt anything "new" I can think of. But once ch 24 is up, I'll simply put in pictures of all the characters just to fill the void.

Next chapter is super long, so I may need a break before I start working on ch 25. But soon this story will pick up where Season 4B started.

Happy Readings!