Chapter II

Hiraeth – "A homesickness for a home you cannot return to or that never was"

Origin: Welsh


It had been several days since the arrival of House Dagny in Kattegat and their boats had been pouring into the port ever since, the fjord had been utterly consumed by blue and yellow sails. It seemed as if their name was on everyone's lips and frankly the sons of Ragnar were already tired of it. This was their army after all. Although increasing numbers of their warriors could be spotted around Kattegat, King Brodir's direct family were curiously absent. Even at night, when the visiting nobility would gather to feast in Lagertha's throne-room, they did not appear. People would crane their necks for a glimpse each time the doors creaked open, but each time it was a disappointment.

Ivar the Boneless was growing more restless everyday. The far-too-full town was suffocating him and each morning he would drag himself away from his brothers and disappear into the quietness of the forest. It was almost like dipping your head beneath the surface of a lake; the noise was dulled out and everything seemed silkier, more at peace.

"Why are they hiding?" Ivar muttered. He lay in the grass, shredding the petals from a mountain daisy with his fidgeting fingers. The day had a mild temperature to it, surprising for that time of year, and there was even some warmth coming from the watery sunlight. The boy shifted onto his left side and stared up at the skeleton of a half-built boat.

"Not hiding, waiting." Floki clambered over the planks with the agility of a monkey. His spindly fingers worked at the complicated knots; tying, undoing and re-tying until perfect. The boat-builder looked a little deranged when he laboured away out here in the forest, even Ivar could admit that.

"Waiting for what?"

"For their full," He paused, grunting, as he tugged roughly on a rope. "Strength."

"What are you talking about, you mad old bastard? Everyone can see their full strength, they've over taken Kattegat's port."

"No, no, not all the pieces are here yet."

"What?"

"Pass me that hammer." Ivar crawled over and tossed the hammer at Floki's feet. He leaned his elbows on the ledge and watched Floki dance around the boat, hammering in nails here and there. After a long while watching him work, Ivar pressed the question again.

"Floki."

"Yes, boneless?"

"Tell me what you mean."

"About House Dagny?"

"Of course about House Dagny, you idiot."

The older man swung down, took a seat on the ledge and drank from his water-skin thoughtfully before speaking. "They'll be waiting for his daughter."

"Why?"

"Brodir has five children," Floki counted it out on his fingers and then wriggled them in front of Ivar's face. He chuckled that odd, throaty laugh of his. "each one important, each one responsible for a different piece of Sweden."

"So?" Ivar's patience for riddles was thinning.

"His daughter is their religious leader." Floki scratched distractedly at a scabbing sore on his forearm and then sucked at the fresh blood beginning to clot there. His blood-smeared lips tucked up into a grin when he saw Ivar grimace. "People say she is a witch."

"Is she?"

"Can't say, never met her." Ivar leaned his chin on his elbows watching the boat-builder. His dark eyes were sparkling curiously as he spoke, his fingers twitching around haphazardly. It was clear that Floki was intrigued. "People whisper about the Ullacs. Who can say what is truth and what is not?"


Two days later, everything seemed to change in Kattegat. New sails had appeared on the horizon and word began to spread of another's arrival, people were saying that King Brodir's only daughter had finally come. It was like a pebble dropped into still water; rumours spread so quickly and in so many directions that nobody could be quite sure where they had started. It was impossible to know if there was any truth in the tales peddled by the gossip-mongers at the docks, but that didn't stop their stories spreading faster than a match burned. The day was impeccably clear, blue sky and pale sun shining, when the sails were first spotted. Kattegat's citizens watched from the shore, but the boats never docked. They veered away to the left and behind the gulf of the cliffs, out of sight. Little children ran off along the pebbled beach, scrambling over each other and up the rocks in pursuit of them.

Day dragged into evening and evening dragged into night. The chalky moon had crested overhead and Lagertha's residence was alive with music and drunken chatter, the smell of roasted meat drifting out each time the doors opened. Near the dais, sat close enough to show their standing in Kattegat's society, were the sons of Ragnar. Ivar hated those feasts, hated the endless evenings of greetings and platitudes. He hated seeing Lagertha's smug, usurping face looking down from the throne; the throne that had once belonged to his father and then to his mother. He just wanted to leave Kattegat. Why was it taking so long? They had been drinking for several hours when House Dagny finally made an appearance, like a pack of dark-haired wolves.

"King Brodir," Lagertha called across the bustling hall. The chatter quietened slightly. Ivar glanced up from the table top where he had been whittling his mother's name with a sharp dagger. Lagertha may have taken Aslaug's throne, but Ivar was determined to leave a mark of his mother in the residence that was once their home. "Welcome."

"Thank you for hosting us, Queen Lagertha." He had a husky kind of voice; powerful yet not excessively loud. It was more pleasant than Ivar expected it to be.

"I heard something interesting today."

"Did you?"

"I did." Lagertha's face was cool and composed but the entire throne-room seemed to sense that she was treading on dangerous ground. If you didn't know Brodir, his smile might have looked affable, charming even, but the Queen convinced herself that she wasn't so easily fooled. "I heard that your daughter had arrived in Kattegat."

"She has."

"Why then, has she not presented herself to me?"

The Dagny boys glanced at each other, smirking with amusement, muttering amongst themselves. King Brodir spread his arms in appeasement. "The Ullacs have made camp in the forests, not in Kattegat. They will come when they come." He raised a freshly filled cup of wine in her direction and smiled that sly smile of his. "Come now, let us enjoy this evening. Skäl." The crowd echoed his sentiments, but the atmosphere of tension was tangible. Lagertha pursed her lips as she raised her cup. Anger was burning on her features. Ivar allowed a rare smile as he sipped his drink. Any occasion where Lagertha was put in her place was a cause for celebration. Just look at her face.

"Who is that?" Hvitserk murmured, his eyes fixed on the Dagny table. The firelight made him look so innocent, made his big brown eyes soft and shiny. Ubbe glanced over and then chuckled.

"Brodir's wife, the third one."

"She's beautiful."

"Of course she is, Brodir divorced his last wife for her."

Hvitserk just stared at Sibbe from across the room. She really was a beautiful young woman, with a sheet of waist-length silvery hair and eyes the colour of day-old ice. Her features had a delicate, elven look to them which seemed so out of place amongst the angular members of House Dagny. Sibbe seemed to Hvitserk like a rose among thorns, like dappled sunlight on the surface of the open ocean.

"Gods, she's young enough to be his daughter." Sigurd slurred as he swung down onto the bench beside his brothers. He ripped a chunk of meat from a chicken leg roughly and chewed it with his mouth open. His drunken, beady eyes were fixed on the Dagny table and it was not difficult to identify the object of his irritation. "They think a lot of themselves, don't they?"

Ubbe's gaze shifted to the twins. Brodir's children were all attractive, even the sons of Ragnar could objectively admit that, but it was the twins who stood out in a crowd. They were all wild dark hair and wolfish grinning. Already they were surrounded by giggling women, mainly from Kattegat as the Dagny shieldmaidens didn't seem to smile much, and it clearly bothered Sigurd deeply. Perhaps it was due to one in particular, a blonde called Gaia whom Sigurd had pursuing for several weeks. Varin was toying with one of her braids and talking flirtatiously.

"Are you honestly surprised, brother? House Dagny are famous."

Sigurd's fists clamped shut and his brow crumpled with irritation. In truth, Ubbe was a little surprised that he cared so much about a girl. Ragnar's sons had always secretly believed he preferred the company of men, though they never spoke of it out loud, or at least not within Sigurd's hearing. Ubbe suddenly found himself wondering if Sigurd was eying Varin and not Gaia at all, perhaps he was jealous that it wasn't his braid the Dagny boy was playing with. As if Varin could hear their words, his head turned, and his alien eyes roved over them carefully. The twins muttered between themselves for a moment and then began walking in their direction. Ivar hadn't been listening. He had been watching the King and his sly smile and the way his eyes glinted in the jumping firelight. They all have those awful eyes, he thought. Big and dark and glassy, full of secrets. Full of lies. So, when Gudrik clunked his wine cup down on the table, Ivar almost flinched in surprise.

"Well," Varin crossed his arms over his muscled chest, grinning. "These must be the sons of Ragnar."

"Ubbe, Hvitserk," Gudrik pointed at each of them in turn. "Sigurd and Ivar. We have been looking forward to finally meeting you. I am Gudrik and this is my brother, Varin."

Ubbe played the role of the gracious host and got to his feet, taking Gudrik's forearm in his own. "Good to meet you, sons of Brodir."

As he retook his seat, the twin's turned their attention on Sigurd. He had a sour look on his face that they seemed to find endlessly amusing. "You were giving us quite the eye, friend. Have we done something to offend you?"

"No." Sigurd got to his feet and stalked off without another word. The twins watched him go, chuckling. The moved like two pieces of a puzzle, always in sync; their playful energy bouncing off each other, as natural as breathing. Almost like a magic trick, entirely in unison, they flashed two sets of crooked, white teeth.

"Is your brother always so cheerful?"

"He is just in a bad mood."

It didn't seem to affect the twins at all, they just carried on smiling. "You all must be looking forward to the raid."

"We are, and we are happy to have Dagny's support. Skäl." Ubbe clinked his cup against Varin's.

"Skäl." The twins drank, and it seemed their interaction was at an end. "Enjoy your evening."

Ivar glared at their backs as they sloped off. They walked with the self-assurance that came from being tall and handsome and famous, with a life full of possibility. They walked the way that his brothers walked. They walked. A suffocating feeling tightened in his chest and his throat closed up as if he was choking on a piece of half-chewed food. The throne-room was suddenly unbearable hot, the stuffy air pressing down on him. He had to get out. Ivar itched for cold air on his skin. He wanted to drown himself in the quietness of the forest. Can't breathe.

Without a word, he dropped onto his belly and crawled away. People stared at him and as much as he tried not to care, the needles of spite and insecurity poked at his belly. Maybe it was fear he could taste in his mouth, the fear of showing weakness.


"What were you saying to the sons of Ragnar?" King Brodir snarled under his breath. "I do not need your mischief making us any enemies."

"We were just introducing ourselves." Gudrik replied lightly, though he didn't dare smile.

"Father," Varin cut in quietly. "House Dagny should show them some respect, at least in public. Everyone is here for them." He was leaning against the edge of the table, reaching for his wine cup when it happened; when King Brodir buried a two-pronged fork into his son's flattened hand. Varin's jaw clenched so tightly shut his teeth might have shattered, but to his credit, the only sound he made was a low exhale.

"If I have not asked for your opinion," Brodir muttered, his fist still closed around the handle of the fork. "I do not expect to hear it."

"I apologise, father." Varin managed through gritted teeth. It must have been sufficient for Brodir because he removed his hand and got to his feet.

The King shook his head as he surveyed his twin sons. "Go to the forests, find my disrespectful excuse of a daughter and remind her of what needs to be done."

"Yes father."

"Remove yourselves from my sight. I must speak with King Harald." Without spectacle, Gudrik yanked the fork from his brother's hand and the boys disappeared in silence. Sibbe watched them go with a sinking feeling in her stomach. Brodir will be in a foul mood tonight. She wrung her hands nervously. His anger had been directed at her enough times for her to know when it was coming. King Brodir was looking at her like a piece of meat on a butcher's slab, ready to be carved up. "Stay here, woman."

As he strode away Sibbe breathed a sigh of relief. She had been so excited when King Brodir had arrived in her father's throne-room demanding her hand in marriage. He had stood at the foot of the King's dais in an exquisite yellow cloak with a fox-fur collar, smiling up at her. Even with his age, he was handsome and strong. He seemed like the kind of man she had dreamed about; the warrior who would break down her father's door and take her away from all her sadness. He had whisked her away that very night and as they had arrived in Sweden Sibbe had felt tears in her eyes, she had been so happy.

She remembered being twenty-three years old and their wedding night, remembered waiting for her new husband in a white nightgown. A crown of naivety and wildflowers on her head. Of course she had been right to be nervous, because when Brodir had stumbled into their bedchamber drunk out of his mind, he had been anything but gentle. That night she came to a realisation that many women come to in their lives; that she had simply traded one bully for another and that she would never be truly free. Even so, Sibbe had tried her hardest to be a good and honourable wife, to love him in spite of his cruelty, but in her heart…she despised him.

Brodir's younger children were good to Sibbe and for that, at least, she was grateful. Perhaps they took pity on her because she was young enough to be their sister, or perhaps it was because they had glimpsed the mottled bruises which too often marked her pale skin. Brodir never hit her face of course, or at least not hard enough to leave a mark. You are too pretty for that, he would tell her. Calder was as cold like his father, but the younger ones had always been kind. Even his daughter, who wasn't usually kind to anyone except her brothers or her tribe of Ullacs. All Sibbe had longed for was a proper home, a loving home, and she was delivered a bed of ashes instead. Sometimes in her dreams she still imagined that home; the burning fire in the grate, little children tugging at her skirts and a kind, handsome husband to take her in his arms. Sibbe felt a desperate aching for a home that did not exist, a home which would never exist.

"Hello." Sibbe broke from her thoughts and looked up. Big, brown eyes and a handsome smile looked back at her. "You seemed lonely…I thought you might like a drink." He placed a cup of wine down in front of her.

"Thank you."

"I'm Hvitserk."

Sibbe cracked a shy smile as he slid into the chair opposite her. "I know who you are. You are a son of Ragnar."

"I am, and you are King Brodir's wife."

She hated those words. "Sibbe."

"Good to meet you, Sibbe." It felt like a cloak had slipped over Sibbe's shoulders. The way he sat there beaming at her made her feel warmer than she had in years. Not that it matters, she told herself. Married, married, married and never to be free. "Why has your husband left you here, all alone?"

"He is talking with King Harald."

"And he did not want to show you off?" Hvitserk crinkled his eyebrows in playful confusion. "What a fool." If it was possible to climb inside someone's smile, she would have climbed inside Hvitserk's.

Sibbe chewed at her bottom lip, unsure if she should be nervous. In the end self-preservation won out because as much as she wanted to believe Hvitserk was genuine, her past experiences with men had forced her to become cautious. Her answer was tentative. "He is a very private man."

"I see."

The girl hesitated, took a sip of her wine and then spoke. "I suppose you are looking forward to the raid. I am sure Ragnar would be proud."

"We all are. It seems my brothers and I have waited an eternity to avenge our father."

"Sorry to have caused you a delay."

Hvitserk shrugged, his smile never faltering. "I would not mind waiting for you, Sibbe."

"One day," She told him, blushing like a little girl. "I think your words may get you into trouble, Hvitserk."

"Oh, they have. Many times."

Sibbe's eyes flicked from him to her husband. He was halfway across the room and yet his eyes burned her. They were glittering in that horrible dangerous way that she had learned to fear. Hvitserk glanced over his shoulder, following her gaze, and then sighed. "Perhaps you are worried my words may get you into trouble."

"Perhaps."

"Then I will leave you, my Queen." Hvitserk flashed her another crooked grin but there was a sad softness in his eyes. "I would never wish to cause you anything but happiness." He reached out and squeezed her slender fingers. The wedding band on her finger bit harshly into her skin. Married, married, married and never to be free. She sighed; her chest feeling heavy, her bones feeling hollow.

"It was nice to meet you, Hvitserk."

"The privilege was mine."


"Is your hand alright?"

Ivar flattened into the undergrowth.

"Fine." The sound of trudging footsteps echoed somewhere off to the left.

"Where do you think she is?"

"Knowing our sister, somewhere difficult to find."

There was a beat of silence.

"She is going to cause trouble."

"When doesn't she?"

"No, I mean it Varin," Ivar's ears pricked. King Brodir's sons. He rolled over onto his belly to try and catch a glimpse of them through the bushes. "Brodir is on the edge. We are all playing with fire here."

Varin pulled Gudrik to a complete stop. Even from a distance, Ivar could see their large, glassy eyes glinting in the moonlight. Gods they have strange eyes. "He is not going to hurt our sister."

"He has hurt her before."

"That was then. That was before the Ullacs."

"Do you think he is afraid of them?"

"We both know that he should be, brother."

The voices were getting quieter, ebbing into the distance so Ivar began to crawl after them. Ullacs. That was the second time he had heard that name today. Ullacs and Brodir's only daughter. The twins were striding away through the trees on long, sturdy legs and Ivar struggled to keep up with them.

Ivar…

The boy's skin prickled all over. He froze. His eyes darted around, searching for something, anything. In the darkness the trees looked almost skeletal, their branches seemed like reaching fingers, but they weren't human. He dragged himself up onto a boulder to get a better look, and his senses had not been wrong. Something or someone was there. Like sorcery, figures seemed to solidify in the liquid dimness of the forest. Ivar couldn't get a good look at them. In amongst the trees, those hulking bodies looked just like shadows. Shadows and smears of pale paint.

"She sent you?"

There was no answer, but the twins followed them anyway. They approached a pair of trees whose branches were curled and intertwined, arching overhead. The longer Ivar looked, the more those trees seemed like a doorway. As the twins passed between them, they melted into the semi-darkness. In the distance Ivar could hear the thud, thud, thudding of faraway drums. Vibrations filtered through his veins. There was a smell drifting through the air, heavy as gathering storm clouds. It reminded him of the earth after heavy rain, of Aslaug's perfume, of bonfire smoke. His chest ached. It smelled so perfect.

Ivar…

"Mother?" He whispered into the inky black surroundings. Ivar's mind felt a thousand miles away, he felt dizzy and yet somehow clear. It was a strange, delectable, all-encompassing feeling.

Come…

Ivar wasn't sure what he should do, whether or not he should follow them. As if the forests had heard his thoughts, a raven landed on a branch several feet to his right. The creature studied him with intelligent eyes, cawing softly and then flew off in the direction the twins had gone. Ivar followed slowly. It was almost as if he didn't have a choice. There was a pulling on his chest, as if there was a rope tethered there, dragging the breath from his lungs.

The youngest son of Ragnar paused in front of that tree archway. Ahead of him was the same cool, quiet forest he had always known. But the twins had disappeared and as Ivar crawled through, something changed. How it had happened, how it was even possible, he had no idea. The clearing he had entered was bathed in jumping orange firelight. Heat struck his cheeks and his senses were assaulted with the sudden, thundering noise of beating drums and laughter. Ivar turned his head back the way he had come. The archway was there, the near-silence of the forest behind it. It was as if there was an invisible barrier separating the two worlds. It was inexplicable, unearthly, like nothing Ivar had ever seen before. It shouldn't have existed. But it does. Ivar simply lay in the grass and soaked it in.

The clearing was encircled by a mass of tents and at its centre burned an enormous bonfire. People were gathered together around it; dancing to the beat of the drums, smoking pipes of scented herbs, drinking wine. It was such an intoxicating scene, one which spoke of family and community and contentment. Near the edge of the flames a group of young women were dancing, half naked with wildflowers twined into their hair. The way they moved had a wildness to it, a freedom, a kind of savageness. It was fierce and untamed and utterly, utterly beautiful.

The twins were walking in Ivar's direction. At first, he thought he had been discovered, but the Dagny boys strode straight past without noticing him. Varin lifted a hand in greeting and a collection of strangers shifted. They all had that crumbling white paint on their skin, rubbed across their mouths. What is that? It was clear that they were friends with the twins, or at least had known each other a long time. Ivar watched as they embraced each other with a warmness that he had never experienced.

"Gudrik!" A girl with long pale braids came running from the edge of the bonfire and leapt into Gudrik's arms, nuzzling her face into the crook of his neck. When they pulled apart he kissed both of her heavily-tattooed cheeks, laughing. That must be the sister. Ivar glared at the attractive blonde. This was the leader of the Ullacs? The girl Brodir should be so afraid of? He felt disappointment pooling in his stomach. For a reason he couldn't fathom, Ivar had hoped for more. He was contemplating crawling away when the hulking, bald warrior grasping Varin's forearm spoke.

"She is waiting for you."

They moved towards a tent just a few feet from Ivar's hiding place and pulled back the entrance flap. Above the chattering lull near the bonfire came a voice. A voice like the rushing of the ocean tides, like honey and the husk of polished steel. Ivar stiffened all over. "Welcome my brothers."

"It is good to see you, sister."

"And you."

"Father sent us."

"I know." A figure appeared at the mouth of the tent. Ivar strained to get a good look but in the jumping shadows all he could make out was a sweep of dark hair. "Let us begin."