She turns.
She runs.
She collides directly with Oddune.
She finds herself hissing out between her teeth, "There is a Viking in there!" in much the same tone that one might use to warn someone that the sea they're swimming in contains sharks
Oddune raises an eyebrow, hands still holding her shoulders after catching her mid-sprint, looking thoroughly unamused to find her here.
"He looked like he wanted to eat me!" Rowan's voice comes on in a squeaky whisper.
His other eyebrow goes up, his version of a complete eye roll. "Don't be ridiculous. There is no evidence that the Northmen practice cannibalism."
"Oh, that makes me feel so much better! So when he escapes and you find my nice, clean white bones somewhere, you'll be able to record an unprecedented historical event."
"Oddune! What is this?"
Rowan looks over Oddune's shoulder to see a tall, powerfully built man in armor approaches them.
"It is nothing, My Lord Aethelwulf." Oddune replies. Prince Aethelwulf, the king's son and heir, steps up beside him. She blanches and shuffles to the side, instinctively trying to disappear behind the old man and cover her embarrassment over being discovered where she is absolutely not supposed to be.
"You are named Bothild, are you not? You saved my son some years ago." His tone commands a reply, but is not unkind. She nods in response, glancing between the two men to try and ascertain just how much trouble she's in.
Oddune narrows his eyes at her. He's had some sort of thought come to him, and Rowan swallows nervously. It usually takes him at least a day to think of suitable retribution for her moments of impudence, and that look has a tendency of leading to a lot of work for her. One particularly memorable time it led to her having to catalogue his entire archive using, of course, perfect Gothic penmanship. She flexes her hand instinctively at the remembered ache of what he will never be able to convince her wasn't a near case of Carpal Tunnel Syndrome.
"If I may make a suggestion, My Lord?" At the Prince's nod he continues. "Bothild knows as much of the pagan's language as I do."
Aethelwulf's eyebrows raise at this. He's obviously caught on to Oddune's line of thought, and seems absolutely delighted. Rowan's heart sinks as her one hope for deliverance fades.
"I see. She would also perhaps be more," He pauses for a moment, choosing his word carefully. "Appealing company than you. No offence meant."
"Not taken, sire."
"I have a task for you, Bothild. The boy in that cell came here with his father, Ragnar Lothbrok."
Ragnar Lothbrok? Rowan vaguely remembers hearing that name before, both in her past and present lives. If he is the prisoner in the closed cell, she's beginning to understand the general kerfuffle around her. Even the normally reserved Aethelwulf is nearly vibrating with suppressed energy as he speaks to her.
"He claims that he is here alone, but I do I do not believe it. Nor do I believe that he would allow himself to be captured so easily without a purpose. You are to go and collect supplies and tend to any wounds the boy has. If he says anything, you will report it to me."
Rowan swallows hard. "I speak only very little of the language, my lord. I may not understand him."
The prince bends low with a smile and pats her on the head patronizingly. "I am sure that you will do your best. Word has been sent to the king, but it will be several days before he arrives. We may learn something of use in the meantime."
"But he has some sort of injuries?"
"Yes. Ragnar Lothbrok claims they were in a shipwreck."
A spark of hope returns. "With respect sir, I am no healer. If that is true he must surely have injuries which I have no proficiency in treating."
Aethelwulf's smile stiffened. "You have spent much time with Oddune. I am sure that whatever you have learned from him will suffice. After all, tending to his wounds is merely to be a pretext to draw him out.
She can see that he is not going to accept any argument, although his logic seems slightly questionable. In the end she bows her head in deference and hurries away, casting one final look at Oddune over her shoulder. He looks a little concerned, but not excessively, and she doesn't think he would have suggested the idea if he felt that she was going into real danger. So she squares her shoulders and prepares to enter the lion's den.
~…~
The boy looks up when the guard opens the door to let Rowan in. She is just barely managing to balance a washbasin, full pitcher of water, healing salve, and bandages in her arms, so she does her best to not look at him. A guard sets down a small table for her.
"Thank you, Litwin."
"Be careful." The young man grins at her. "Perhaps you should give me your hairpin for safekeeping."
"So you can turn around and give it to Acha?" Rowan gives him a wry smile. Litwin is one of the few people who she's long ago given up trying to fool with her play at being dumb. Her acting skills weren't bad, but his perception was far better.
His grin falls and he shrugs. "Perhaps I heard her mention that she admires it."
"She can admire it all she likes. Now don't you have something to do?"
Litwin frowns. "I would not leave you alone with this heathen."
That wouldn't do. The prince wanted the boy to talk, and it seemed less likely that he would do that with an armed soldier hovering. "Your concern is appreciated, but think of it this way. If he strangles me with my own washcloth, you can give Acha my hairpin."
The man's face almost lights up at the idea. "That is true. I will be right outside the door if you need me. I will, of course, have to lock the door."
Rowan looks at the boy and then back at Litwin. It is only now that she has noticed the odd way he is sitting on his cot, or the way his legs are tied together with a dirty strip of cloth.
"I somehow think that an escape is unlikely."
"Still." Litwin says, scurrying for the door. "It is best to be safe."
The door closes, the bar sliding into place with a decidedly final sound. Rowan begins to think that this is not her most brilliant idea ever, but it seems highly unlikely to her that the boy would speak to her while being hovered over by an armed guard.
She continues to avoid the prisoner's gaze while removing the various items she has carried in the basin and filling it with clean water from the pitcher. It is fresh from the well and still chilly. After soaking a cloth and wringing out the excess she rubs it between her hands for a moment to try to warm it up. It also helps to disguise the shaking of her hands as she finally turns to face the boy properly.
Rowan's not sure what disturbs her more, the incredible level of anger that radiates out from him, or that it is coming from someone who seems so young. Even though she's never been particularly good at guessing ages, she knows he can't be much older than Bothild. She gives him a tentative smile, raising both hands and approaching slowly. For a moment, she is back over nine years ago, approaching another defensive, wild creature with open palms, trying to gain its trust.
The boy's body language is still stiff, but his glare falls. Now he looks openly curious, and he doesn't move when she begins to carefully wipe his face, removing the grime that's built up over the course of his journey. It's easier to remain calm now, almost clinical as she uses her other hand to tip his face this way and that, looking for any sign of injury.
There are no real open wounds or abrasions on his face, but Rowan dabs salve on anything she finds anyway just in case. It also gives her the chance to study him for the first time. His features are impressively well-proportioned, and she muses that his would be the kind of face that an artist could devote a lifetime to studying.
He says something to her. She's so startled by the sound after the long silence that she jumps and doesn't even begin to register what he might have actually said. His body begins to relax as he smirks at her, apparently amused by her wide-eyed surprise. It's strange how chatty he becomes as soon as he sees her show a sign of weakness. She makes the split second decision to take advantage of this and keep her face blank, not letting on that she understands anything he's saying.
Finished with his face, she moves on to his hands. Dirt and what she suspects is blood is caked under his nails. Her stomach churns but she ignores it and does her best to decipher what he's saying without looking like she is. It would be a simpler task if she weren't simultaneously trying to figure out the ridiculous amount of buckles on his gloves, with absolutely no help from him. Instead he just relaxes even more, as if he is used to this sort of treatment. He settles into a loose slouch as his expression becomes distinctly smug and continues speaking.
None of it is particularly complimentary.
There are a lot of words that Rowan doesn't know, but from the context and the tone she understands just enough to have to struggle to control her expression as he elaborates on his low opinion of Christian women. At one point he calls her a something-something-thrall. Apparently, her performing the duties of a lowly servant doesn't help her status in his eyes.
Vikings seem to have a very different concept of personal space from the rest of humanity. He's started to lean his face uncomfortably close to hers, and he only laughs as she blushes and comments that it seems she finds him handsome. In reality it's because she's beginning to go steadily mad trying to control herself as he makes some creative suggestions about her parentage.
The ungrateful little brat. The Little Prince has a pretty high opinion of himself for someone who's nothing more than a common bully. At least she can hide her fists by gathering her skirts as she kneels down, giving up on the gloves and turning her attention to tending to his legs so that she can try to hide her face. From what she's seen her best guess is some kind of severe fracture, and the thought gives her a little thrill of schadenfreude.
He says something along the lines of how good she looks on her knees, and that Christian something-or-others of the female persuasion should keep to that position.
Rowan begins to worry that she'll crack a tooth. She takes a deep breath to try and calm herself before reaching forward to try and untie the filthy piece of cloth that binds his legs.
His reaction is instantaneous and violent. The next thing Rowan knows she's lying flat on her back a surprising distance away. It takes a moment for her mind to even register what's happened or the pain in the top of her sternum where his palm collided. She has to sit up carefully to make sure that she's not really injured before looking up at him. The expression on his face is a mixture of anger, surprise, and alarm.
Rowan slowly stands up, and he remains frozen except for his eyes following her. She slowly and deliberately steps forward. With deceptive calm she takes the full washbasin in her hands and dumps it over his head.
At that moment, Rowan would have given her entire Breyer horse collection to have a camera to record the look on the little bastard's face. His mouth opens with an instinctive gasp of shock as the ice cold water hits him and pours down around him. Rowan takes a moment to appreciate just how good he looks with his big, blue eyes staring at her in astonishment and his pretty mouth forming a perfect 'O' as he pants for breath.
"Ekki at þakka" She says, and feels a rush of vindication when his eyes widen even more, before turning and marching to the door.
Litwin opens it after a single bang of her fist and she leaves without a backwards glance. It isn't until she was halfway down the hallway that she realizes she's still holding the washbasin. It isn't until she reaches the library that she realizes that she's possibly made a very, very big mistake.
~…~
"Nothing to thank? You said, 'You're welcome?" Oddune had only just recovered from another coughing fit that sounded oddly like laughter.
"It was a moment of weakness!" Rowan raises her head and wails before burying her face back in her arms.
"Really? I have never known you to lose your temper. He must have truly offended you."
Was that amusement she detected in his voice? She squints up over one arm in suspicion. Yes, there is a definite twinkle in the eye.
"It's not funny. Prince Aethelwulf is going to be furious with me when he hears about this! I was supposed to spy on the little snot, not piss him off even more!"
"Well, at least no one can say that you haven't made an impression." He's not even trying to hide it anymore.
"I don't know what's wrong with me!" Rowan protests. "I don't do things like that. I've dealt with entitled bullies and assholes for years without stooping to their level. I went to a private school, for Chrissake!"
Oddune continues to be generally heartless, even though he at least made suitably sympathetic noises when she mentions that the boy did hit her first.
"I'm afraid that Prince Aethelwulf is determined in his plan. You will just have to think of some way to apologize."
Rowan grimaces at the thought. "The obnoxious twat doesn't deserve an apology."
"Really?" He raises his eyebrows. "The boy whom Prince Aethelwulf has explicitly tasked you with, asking you to gain his confidence doesn't deserve an apology?"
She glared defiantly. Suddenly Oddune is smiling at her softly, leaning over her and speaking with affectionate chiding.
"The boy who, I might add, is currently imprisoned far from home by strangers who would like nothing more than to see both him and his father dead." He enunciates each of his next words clearly and pointedly. "Alone, separated from his family, and surrounded by foreign people with a foreign culture and a foreign tongue."
Rowan freezes. How does the old man always do that? How does he always know exactly what buttons to push with her? She narrows her eyes at him.
"Goddamit." She mutters in defeat.
~…~
It is late, but whether it is his orders or the stormy look on her face, Litwin lets Rowan in with only a silent look of concern and a muttered comment that he will be right outside should she need him.
The obnoxious, ungrateful, snotty little wounded dove is still sitting on his cot, looking surprisingly calm as she steps in. He's apparently done his best to dry off, spreading his short leather coat on the floor to one side, but his hair and pants are still obviously damp. The pathetic excuse for a cot is also wet, and Rowan winces at the thought of him trying to sleep there tonight with the subterranean chill that fills the room.
She holds The Washbasin tightly against her chest, and he gazes at it with slight trepidation when she moves to set it down and refill it from the pitcher. Does he really think she came here to soak him again? And why isn't he raging at her? Granted, she doesn't know him, but he doesn't seem like the sort to be cowed easily.
Taking a deep breath, she squares her shoulders and looks him level in the eyes.
"Fyrirgef mik." She says, careful to pronounce each sound properly.
The boy is obviously surprised by this. It amazes Rowan how open his expressions are. It suddenly occurs to her that, in a strange way, this boy is possibly the most honest person she's met here.
He's silent for a moment, processing her request for forgiveness and studying her face intently. Slowly, deliberately, he begins to unfasten the buckles on his gloves. One at a time he removes them and sets each on the bed beside him before holding his bare hands out to her, palms up.
It takes Rowan a second to realize what he means by the gesture. When she finally does, she can't help but let out a burst of relieved laughter that makes him jump. She takes a clean washrag and begins to gently clean the grime from his fingers. Underneath it, she finds dozens of tiny cuts that he's gathered over the course of several days.
An odd silence sets in between them as she dabs salve onto his hands, smiling apologetically at him for the sting she knows she's causing. For some reason he has begun to radiate an awkward energy, which then makes Rowan feel awkward herself and just results in the both of them sitting and standing there making brief, awkward eye contact and trading awkward little self-conscious smiles back and forth.
"Ívarr."
It isn't until he interrupts her that she realizes she's been humming softly out of habit. She's just finished with his right hand and he uses it to gesture at himself.
"Hm?" She's been taken by surprise again, looking up and make a questioning noise for him to repeat himself.
"Ívarr." He enunciated slowly and clearly. "My name."
Her hands still as her mind races. A name. He'll expect her to respond with a name. But which one?
"Rowan." She finally replies.
"Rowan." The boy, Ivar, repeats carefully, and she likes how it sounds in his accent, with a rolled 'r' and a rounded, emphasized 'o'. It reminds her of her Mormor.
"Tree." She finds herself explaining unnecessarily. "Rowan a tree."
He cocks his head to the side in a way that reminds her of some kind of bird. Probably a carrion, like a crow.
"My name too. A tree." Ivar frowns at her. "You speak Norse?"
"Yes. My mother." She replies.
"Your mother?"
Here she struggles. The dialect of Old Norse he speaks is similar enough to the Old English she's learned that with concentration and time she could probably understand him quite well, but her own vocabulary is frustratingly limited. All she can do is give a general motion towards him and simply say, "Northman."
"Your mother was one of my people?"
She nods.
"How is that possible?" He frowns, obviously disturbed by this thought.
There is no way she can explain at this point and she tries to convey this to him with a shrug and a sheepish smile. If it weren't so late she could probably manage with enough expressive - and probably awkward - hand gestures thrown in.
He seems to understand and lets the line of questioning go, but now that he knows that she's willing to communicate with him he's eager for one particular piece of information.
"The man that was brought with me. Have you seen him?"
She replies in the negative. No one but the prince has been allowed anywhere near the cell that holds the Viking king.
"Your father?" She asks, and Ivar sticks his chin out proudly.
"Yes, my father. Ragnar Lothbrok."
He seems puzzled when she only nods distractedly as she finishes wrapping bandages around each of his fingers so that the salve doesn't get rubbed off. With that done she's finished with his hands and prepares to tackle the more pressing issue of his legs once again. This time she is more careful, kneeling and reaching forward slowly so that he can see exactly what she's going to do.
Once again his hand shoots out to stop her, but this time he only grabs her own hand with a firm, "No."
Rowan restrains herself from huffing and rolling her eyes. Instead she looks at him carefully. Now that she knows that his face tells so much she tries to read it, trying to figure out why he's so particularly sensitive about this. What she sees there is all too familiar to her.
Vulnerability.
Something about this injury makes him desperately anxious in a deep, primal way. There is something more going on, but Rowan finds herself once again at a loss for the words that might ease his discomfort.
They appear to be at an impasse with her determined to discover the extent of his injuries and do whatever she can for them, and Ivar just being an immovable object.
She gently tugs her hand out of grasp and points at his legs, then puts her fists together and tilts them sharply down in what she hopes is the universal sign for 'break', with an added sound from the corner of her teeth for graphic effect.
Thankfully, he understands and nods. Frustrated, Rowan ends up flailing her hands in a series of gestures that all end up generally meaning the same thing. So what the hell's your problem?
"Not now." Ivar clarifies. "When I was born. They've always been like this."
Oh? Oh! Rowan sits back on her heels. That certainly clears a few things up. And, conversely, raises a whole series of related questions that burst into her mind, racing through and fizzle out on the tip of her tongue. How? Why didn't they heal? What sorts of treatments has he tried? Is it paralysis and, if so, how extensive is it?
It's his eyes that pulls her back to the reality before her. There is still the vulnerability she'd seen before. On top of that is an apprehension that she realizes is probably because she hasn't actually responded to what is likely an extremely difficult admission for him.
She doesn't rush to a reaction, carefully considering before finally coming to a decision. Ivar watches her closely as she very slowly reaches up to grasp the pin that holds her hair in place. Her long, dark hair falls to her waist as she gently lays the bronze raven in his hand, but he doesn't even glance down.
His gaze has become fixed on the artificial part that is revealed, showing the long mass of hypertrophic scarring that runs down her scalp and sticks out like someone has drawn a length of knotted yarn beneath her skin.
*.*.*
Dear God, if I wake up tomorrow in my own bed I swear I will never again complain about my leg.
~…~
Dear God, if I wake up tomorrow in my own bed I swear I will give up my entire shoe collection and donate the entire proceeds to Doctors Without Borders.
~…~
Dear God, if I wake up tomorrow in my own bed I swear I will never again call Ed a lying, weasel-faced addict with delusions of humanity.
~…~
Dear God, if I wake up tomorrow in my own bed I swear I will join a convent and take a vow of silence, dedicating the rest of my life to helping the needy.
~…~
No? Oh well, I figured it was worth a shot.
~…~
I've always believed that people get back what they give. So when I see that level of, frankly, unpleasant frankness, how am I supposed to respond? I want so badly not to have to lie to him, not about anything. Besides, it's hardly a risk. Who is he going to talk to?
Scars. My life has become punctuated with scars. Unfortunately they've all been periods and exclamation points so far. Once in a while I'd like to have a comma, or maybe even a semi-colon. Such a severely underused and underappreciated thing, semi-colons.
But really, those eyes. If I were an artist I could draw them. If I were a poet I could write a thousand words on the depth and breadth of the pain there. But I'm not, and I can't. And I can't fix it either, all I could think to do is maybe, in some way, be there with him in it.
See? I want to tell him. It's okay. I've been broken too.
Welp, I feel like I could probably go through this about twelve more times and still find stuff I want to change, but there is a certain point where I just have to surrender at let it go as is.
How is my characterization of Ivar so far? I personally really enjoy seeing the tiny nuances Alex puts into his performance, and I've sort of tried to pick a lot of those apart and include my ideas on them in the story. If you think about it, he has so much happen to him over the course of just a few months, so in a way he's a very different person in "The Outsider" than he is by the end of the season. I want to keep as close to the series as possible but, of course, some things are going to end up being changes just by the presence of another person.
Stockholm Syndrome Ivar? Anyone? Maybe? It's not to be taken as canon, but I feel like he already covers half the DSM-IV, it probably wouldn't be hard for him to pick up one or two things from the other half. We really didn't get to see him from the point where they're captured to the next time Ragnar sees him, so it's interesting to try to figure out what he might have been thinking and feeling during that time.
What does everyone think of Rowan so far? I realize that she may come across as a bit all over the place, but that's because... well... she sort of is. She was kind of all over the place before she ended up a thousand years in the past in another body. So, in the grand scheme of things, she at least thinks she's handling things rather well.
As a last note, if anyone is interested in the linguistics of the time I would highly recommend watching Jackson Crawford's videos on YouTube. He's a Professor of Scandinavian Languages, and has some fantastic information about Old Norse and so on (It doesn't hurt that he has a voice like a memory-foam mattress for the ears). His videos have been one of my main resources for most of the language-y bits in the story.