The general reactions so far to Rowan's scar had all been mostly the same, shock and disgust, the level of obviousness varied depending on the individual's politeness and ability to control themselves. In a society where illness and healing was often considered to be sent directly from God, not to mention the justifiable paranoia over infectious disease, the excessive scarring she had developed seemed to trigger an instinctive fear in all who saw it. It was simpler for her to just keep it covered at all times.

Ivar, too, seems surprised at first, then he leans forward to look at it closer.

"How did this happen?" He asks her.

"I fell."

"Say it was in battle." His joking tone surprises her, and she realizes that he is teasing her now. It's familiar, and she feels herself relax. Of course, scars would hardly be any more shocking to him than a disability was to her.

"With a bear." She deadpans. When he realizes that she's being sarcastic, Ivar snickers and leans his forearms on his knees. The heavy atmosphere that had invaded the room begins to lift. Noticing the pin in his hand for the first time, he slowly spins it around, admiring it from all sides.

"I know this work." He sounds surprised. "It was made by a man from my village."

Rowan nods. "Yes. My mother. Her village too."

He looks up, eyebrows raised. "Is that so? How did she come to be here?"

"Her father, her mother farmers, come here." She replies.

Ivar winces and says nothing more. He must have heard about how King Ecbert had given land for some of the Vikings to settle, and had subsequently had them all exterminated. According to Oddune, Bothild's mother had only been spared because she had already married a Saxon and was living outside the settlement. She was also pregnant, and likely hadn't dared to try to raise a hand against the people who had killed her family to protect her unborn child.

Now that she knows there is nothing she can do for his legs, Rowan sits back and looks him over. There are no tears in his clothing, so it seems unlikely that he has any cuts anywhere that she can't see. His linen shirt, however is both dirty from his journey and still damp from his impromptu shower.

"Give me." She orders, tugging on his sleeve. The young man pulls back, giving her a surprised and slightly shocked look.

Sighing and rolling her eyes, Rowan tries to reassure him by making a scrubbing motion between her hands to show that she wants to clean it for him. He may be stubborn, but she'll be damned if she just goes her own way now that she has an idea of what she can do to make him more comfortable.

Still looking slightly mistrustful, he slowly reaches down and pulls the shirt over his head. There isn't much time before Rowan has to leave for the night, and her patience is wearing thin again. Finally she just snatches it from his hands and sets it aside before retrieving the blanket she brought.

A few hours before, she had gone to her room after speaking with Oddune. It had felt wrong to be idle for even a few minutes during the day, but she had needed the quiet to figure out how to try and get back in Ivar's good graces. As she was leaving, her eyes had briefly fallen on the thick woolen blanket that lay at the foot of her bed. Its summer, and she tends to overheat easily, so it is of little use to her for now. On a whim she'd grabbed it and taken it with her back down to the dungeons.

Now she briskly unfolds it with a snap and wraps it around his shoulders, mindful of the chill that is only growing deeper now that dusk is falling.

It's disconcerting, but she finds herself uncontrollably aware of Ivar's body. After being on the swim team, she thought become pretty much immune to the well-built male form. As Rowan tucks the blanket around him, she can't help but name the easily visible muscles, biceps brachii, pectoralis majors, and deltoids. Each is fantastically defined, probably due to the fact that he's had to rely on his upper body more than the average person.

"Rowan!" Ivar snaps her name and she realizes that in her distracted state she's been turning him into a burrito, effectively pinning his arms to himself. Trying to regain her composure, she steps back with a muttered apology so he can wriggle his arms loose from their cocoon on his own as he frowns at her.

"Late." She waves to the window where only a sliver of sunlight is still visible. "I leave."

"You must?" Despite his puzzlement at her strange behavior, he actually sounds a little disappointed. It occurs to Rowan that with the communal nature of Norse homes, he's likely not used to being alone at night. She nods.

He asks if she'll do something as he returns her hairpin, but she doesn't know the word he uses. When he sees that she doesn't understand he points to the door saying, "You will go."

She nods, and he then points to where she's standing and says, "Will you come here?"

"Tomorrow?"

At his affirmative, she realizes that he'd been asking if she would return. Even though she's finished with her 'cover' job, she knows that Prince Aethelwulf will want her to return, and she replies that she will. The guards will let her in without an argument. No, the real obstacle would be getting Willa to let her out of work in the weaving room.

~…~

Rowan stays up late washing Ivar's shirt and hanging it by the fire. While she waits for it to dry she tries to stay awake by writing, and ends up waking the next morning to find that she's fallen asleep at the small table in her shared bedroom.

To top off the pain in her neck and back, the precious stub of a candle she'd managed to pilfer is completely gone, burnt out sometime during the night. There's nothing she can do about it now, so she releases her disappointment with a huff and packs her writing materials back at the bottom of her trunk. She'll have to try to find time to write during daylight hours until she can find another.

For now, though, a lack of light is the least of her concerns. Her mind was racing all night and she'd finally decided that it would be best to update Aethelwulf on her progress and hope that he would handle her mistress himself. After all, the whole thing was his idea in the first place.

Rowan smiles with satisfaction and sets off with a spring in her step. It feels good to finally have a plan, especially one involving shoving difficult encounters off on other people.

Aethelwulf is easy to find in the great hall, surrounded by various soldiers and sycophants all crowing triumphantly about the capture of the great Ragnar Lothbrok, as if the man hadn't literally walked into their midst and given himself up.

No one could say he isn't an observant man. He notices her quickly as she waits in the doorway to be recognized, and waves for her to approach.

"You have done what I asked?" He asks after taking her to one side where they cannot be overheard.

"Yes, lord." She replies.

"And? Has the boy said anything?"

"Nothing repeatable in polite company." She says dryly, but hastens to add that he seems to have warmed up to her after learning that she speaks a little of his language. "If I may be allowed to return today, I believe he will be more forthcoming."

The prince doesn't look pleased, but agrees that she can try again. Rowan promises to do her best to get more information out of him and crosses her fingers behind her back. Honestly, she lost any desire to go along with his scheme the moment she had seen Ivar's blue eyes look at her with apprehension and anxiety.

~…~

It turns out that the best excuse for her to return is that they actually do want someone to keep any eye on the cripple while they wait for the King to arrive. She really, really hopes that Ivar doesn't ask, because she's fairly certain he wouldn't appreciate the suggestion that he can't go a day without some kind of supervision. But it gets her where she wants to be, so she bites her tongue and retrieves her spinning to keep her hands busy while they, hopefully, talk.

She has to hide her smile when she enters his cell and he immediately arranges his face into what he probably believes is the most casual, unconcerned expression possible. The look just screams, "Oh? It's you?"

Really, the boy has no chill.

"You're back?"

Okay, now it's just embarrassing. Taking pity on him, Rowan shows him that she's brought him something to drink. Aethelwulf had refused her request to bring food, but had agreed that she could give him a little of the weak ale that everyone drinks instead of water. Since Ivar and his father had arrived with no provisions, it seems likely to her that he hasn't had anything to drink since they were shipwrecked.

Ivar gulps the single cup down and hands it back to her with only a burp as thanks, and Rowan wonders if the lack of manners is a cultural thing or a more personal trait. Either way something tells her that she should get used to karma being her only reward if she's going to keep doing things for Prince Snowflake.

Luckily, his shirt hadn't burst into flames while she'd slept and she's able to return it to him, clean and dry. He doesn't thank her for that either, and merely puts it back on while she keeps her eyes busy with getting her spinning started.

"You are staying?" Ivar asks.

"Yes. I want –mm- more words." She says, glad that she's not in a rush and can spend more time trying to make herself understood.

"You want to learn more Norse? Why didn't your mother teach you?" Despite his disapproving tone, he makes himself comfortable draped across the cot, back against the stone wall.

Rowan gestures towards the scar on her head, now covered again by her hairstyle. "When I hurt, I lose her."

It's not even a lie, the accident really had caused her to lose her mother. With some back and forth, Ivar is finally able to supply the word for 'memories'. He is still curious about her history, though, and presses her with questions until he is able to piece things together.

"So your mother lay with a Christian, and then married him?" As usual, he doesn't even try to hide his disgust. "I would become an outcast before I married a Christian."

"That is… nice?" Rowan says, with a bemused smile. Ivar glares at her, displeased by her benign reaction. She keeps smiling and restrains the urge to pinch his cheeks.

"You are not afraid of me?" He asks suddenly.

"No."

"But you were?"

"Yes." She admits. His expression is difficult for her to read. There is some amount of confusion, but he is oddly ardent too and his tone becomes more intense, almost eager.

"Why? What changed?"

Rowan smiles wryly. "You speak. I see you are child."

She knows the statement is likely to set the boy off even before she makes it, and she's not disappointed. He shoots straight up on the bed, stopping just short of fully lunging at her. Her muscles don't even twitch in response as she keeps her eyes on her work, smiling placidly as he fumes.

"I am not a child!" Ivar hisses between clenched teeth.

"Mm-hm." She nods in mock agreement.

Like a fire denied oxygen, his anger cools as quickly as it springs up. Instead he takes on a patronizing tone, looking down his nose at her as he states, "I am sixteen years of age. I have pledged my arm ring and I have gone Viking with my father. I am a man." He smirks in a way that suggests he knows he's about to gain the upper hand. "How old are you?"

Damn, and he's right. For a moment she almost tells him the truth. That would certainly shut him up. It also wouldn't make a lick of sense.

"Not fifteen." Technically, fourteen-and-a-half. Bothild was born in the early winter. It is still the beginning of summer.

Ivar settles back, pleased to once again feel superior. Rowan lets it go with reluctance, deciding that a smug Ivar is a happy Ivar, and a happy Ivar seems to be more patient and agreeable to helping her muddle her way through the Norse language.

She tries to ask him questions now, about his home and family. It's a topic he seems happy to go on about, aside from when he mentions his brothers. It's obvious there is tension there, and she steers the conversation away as soon as she sees his jaw begin to tense. Ivar's mother, on the other hand, he almost waxes poetic about. He describes, in detail, the legends of her parents, the story of how she matched wits with his father when they first met, and how she herself has the power to see the future.

"My mother is a volva." He tells her proudly.

"My mother's a corporate advisor." Rowan mutters under her breath, but he doesn't seem to notice.

At the very least she picks up a lot from him, and he doesn't seem to mind when she interrupts him to clarify the meaning of something.

"I know." She finally stops him in the midst of evangelizing about the glories of his Gods with all the zeal of a Baptist preacher. He seems to have decided that it's his duty to fill in the knowledge she lacks of her mother's people, and while she can't help but admire the incredible pride he has in his culture there is a point where she just can't feign ignorance any longer.

"About what?" He asks, frowning in confusion.

Rowan gives an all-encompassing gesture. "Valhalla, Yggdrasil, Odin. I know all."

"How?"

"I read." She states dryly.

"You have writings about my Gods?" Ivar doesn't seem to believe her, and he's right. There are no books or scrolls on Norse mythology in Oddune's archives. At one time, however, her Google-Fu had been second to none, and besides that she's spent half of her life in libraries.

But he really didn't need to know that.

~…~

For two days their conversations continue like this, each taking turns quizzing the other on their lives. He tells her of his village and of his mentor, a shipbuilder. She makes him break down with laughter when she describes Lord Cat Butt Face.

The first day Rowan sits on a little stool as she spins. The second day she comes in, kicks over the stool, and joins Ivar on the comparatively comfortable cot, backs against the stone wall and legs dangling over the side. He protests at first, but doesn't try to remove her.

The afternoon of the third day finds them pressed shoulder to shoulder while he watches her embroider the edges of a shirt. Somehow, and neither of them could really say how, they've been having an hour long conversation on the obnoxiousness of older siblings when they are interrupted by sounds from outside.

They crane their necks backwards simultaneously towards the window above their heads. A voice call out that the King has arrived. When she tells Ivar, it's like a soap bubble popping Ivar's expression goes dark and he becomes silent from that moment on, all warmth gone.

Litwin enters with another guard, the sudden presence of another person only further shattering the illusion they've built in their shared isolation. Rowan translates for Ivar as the other man explains that the King has ordered that the boy be brought to him. He only nods in acknowledgment but allows them to pick him up, one arm over the shoulders of each guard, so they can carry him out of the room.

There has been no mention of her, but Rowan finds herself hurrying after the trio, scolding when she feels that they are too rough with him.

It must be a welcome relief for Ivar to finally be above ground after days in the dark, damp dungeon. Even Rowan takes a deep breath of the relatively cleaner air. He is carried straight to the King's dining hall, where they stand outside the door briefly before being ushered in by another guard. As if there is an invisible tether linking them, she follows them without a second thought.

King Ecbert sits at one end of a long table. At the other end, in a cage so small that he can't quite stand straight, is an old man in tattered garments. This is Ragnar Lothbrok.

He is older than she expected, the lines in his face telling a story of the life he has led. His icy blue eyes light up at the sight of his son, and he leans forward eagerly as Ivar is brought into the room and sat down in a chair at one side of the table.

As the older man asks if he has been treated well, Rowan is shocked to see the change that comes over the usually arrogant, prickly boy. He is deferent before this haggard creature in his subtle way. Even when he is snarky and replies that he's at least been treated better than his father by the looks of it, his voice is soft. Before she's seen a spoiled prince and a man-child filled with bravado. Now she is shaken to see a sixteen-year-old boy, facing a beloved parent in chains and likely facing death.

Ragnar insists that he will not eat until his son does, and Ecbert replies that Ivar is his guest as well, offering him his own plate of food. Following his father's urging, he takes a piece of meat and begins to eat while Ecbert assures his captive that his son will be well taken care of. He then gestures to the guards to remove him, and Ivar has no choice but to go along with it, looking faintly confused over what is happening.

Of course he is, Rowan realizes, he doesn't speak Saxon. He calls something back over his shoulder to his father that she doesn't quite catch, because as she moves to follow after them she notices that she's getting twin looks of puzzlement from the two Kings. She realizes with a wince how she must look to them, like an anxious hen scrabbling after her chick. There's no time to worry about her dignity, however, as the guards carry Ivar off down the halls.

~…~

They don't take him back to the dungeons. Instead they bring him to a guest room within the villa. Ivar is still clinging to his rib when they set him on a chair before a table that is already set with food and drink. Rowan has to urge him not to eat too quickly after his long fast so he doesn't make himself sick. She knows she's fussing over him, but she can't seem to stop herself, and he seems too overwhelmed to care.

After eating a little, Ivar finally notices her, fluttering about the room like a trapped bird as she straightens the already straightened, and snaps at her to come sit down. When she takes the chair across from him, he tells her to eat. It's true, she's been missing meals since she's been spending so much time with him, and she's grateful for the food.

As they eat, she explains the new situation while Ivar takes in the room around them. It's modest, but it at least has a comfortable bed and a window set with real glass that lets in the warmth from the noonday sun. The food is also of a high quality, far better than what she's ever been given.

When they're finished, Rowan gathers the dishes and brings them to the door where she finds Litwin. The King may have proclaimed Ivar a 'guest', but he is not a guest who is free to leave.

"What is that?" Ivar asks her, gesturing to a game board that sits on the table.

"Tæfl."

"Tafl?" His expression brightens for the first time since they heard King Ecbert's arrival. "We have this game as well. Do you play?"

"No." Rowan replies flatly. Alfred had tried to teach her several variations of the game. Her father had tried teaching her chess when she was little. They had both had equal success. None.

Ivar's face goes tense. "You're King has said that I am a guest, and I want to play Hnefatafl."

"Well I don't." She stands taller, sensing that his mood is shifting again and preparing to put her foot down if he becomes belligerent.

"You are a servant. You will do as I say."

"I am not a servant, and I will leave if you are unpleasant." She warns him.

His mouth twists with contempt. "Oh, you will leave? Done amusing yourself playing nursemaid to the poor cripple? I do not need your pity."

The last word his spit out like something foul he's tasted, and hits Rowan like a poison arrow. It's obvious to Rowan that he is working himself into a temper, and she has no patience for it. She leans forward like he's so fond of doing, forcing eye contact and enunciating clearly so that he can't possibly misunderstand.

"It is not what I do for pity, Ivar. It is what I do for a friend."

With that she turns her back to him and knocks on the door for Litwin to let her out.

As the door closes behind her, she hears a crash as something collides with the other side.

~…~

It's raining outside, as if the skies themselves are reflecting her mood. Rowan has to run through thick mud as she wishes she had a shawl to cover her head. She hurries towards Oddune's library, hopeful that he will once again sooth her irritation, but she stops short as she sees Aethelwulf standing outside the gates with another, smaller figure.

It's Magnus, his ward. While his own sons go where their mother goes, and Princess Judith is most often with the King, Magnus is the warrior's constant shadow.

Now that she thinks of it, she had heard that Ragnar Lothbrok, the very man who now sits in a cage in the dining hall, had fathered Magnus with the deceased Queen of Mercia.

It's this thought that makes Rowan stop short and watch in confusion as Magnus tries to cling to the Prince, only to be roughly pushed away. The boy is tearful as he turns and walks away from the villa, his adoptive father watching him go. It's painfully clear what is happening.

She wants to run to them, to try and intervene, but she knows that there is nothing that she can do. If anything, her presence might make things worse considering Aethelwulf is probably absolutely livid that she failed in her mission.

Oddune in his usual place, bent over a manuscript that he is trying to translate. He looks up with a frown when Rowan bursts in, but his face clears as soon as he sees the look on her face.

"What has happened?" He asks.

"Aethelwulf is sending Magnus away."

Oddune looks surprised for a moment, then sad. "Ah, I might have guessed he would."

"Why?" Rowan steps towards him, heedless of the puddles she's trailing behind her. "What's going on?"

"Ragnar has denied that Magnus is his son. The boy is no longer of use to the King."

"But the King wouldn't hurt Magnus." Rowan protests. "Even if he can't use him for whatever, he knows that Aethelwulf loves him."

Oddune raises his eyebrows, silently challenging her. Of course he's right. Ecbert is ruthless and wouldn't hesitate to dispose of a teenager who is no longer important to his scheming.

Rowan drops onto a bench, feeling suddenly exhausted. "So the Prince had to banish him, to save him."

The priest nods. Despite his blunt speech, she knows him well enough to see that he's also disturbed by the whole situation.

"This place is cruel." It feels like an obvious statement, but it also feels like it needs to be said. "These people are cruel."

"This whole time," He gently reminds her, "is cruel."

*.*.*

I met one of Alfred's brothers today. His name is Magnus. He was nice, and asked me how I was doing. Sorry, I don't remember jack. Felt sad when I told him that. He honestly looked disappointed.

~…~

Correction, Magnus is not Alfred's brother. He's the son of some Queen and a Northman, Ragnar Lothbrok. Yeah, apparently he actually does exist. Go figure.

From the gossip, Aethelwulf was 'fond' of Magnus' mother, so he's been raising him like one of his own since he was a baby. Mother is deceased.

He asked me what I know about the Northmen. Honestly, not much, but I tried to tell him what I could. He seems to like the stories. Said he would like to hear more another time. Did not tell him Lothbrok means Shaggy-pants. What a byname. Just… yeah, no idea.

Apparently, he's only one or two months older than Bothild. He hasn't said anything, but I wonder how well they knew each other before?

~…~

Why do I always think of myself as 22+2? As if these past two years have only been borrowed, and don't really count toward my age.

Everything feels different, and I don't know why. A part of me wonders if it's because the structure of Bothild's brain is different from mine, that whatever physiological and/or genetic component that contributed to my depression isn't there anymore.

It's still there, but it's easier to manage. I don't get overwhelmed the way I used to. Even with everything that's happened, I haven't had a breakdown again like the one I had before.

~…~

Thinking about Ivar. Blue sclera. Bones broken at birth. Signs of OI? Low collagen production causes easier fractures, muscle issues, pain etc.

Trey at Camp PT had Type I, blue sclera, but it's a milder form, prenatal bone less likely. More seen with something like type III, but usually white sclera and more deformities, short stature, etc. Hard to tell since I've only seen him sitting, but Ivar seems of average height?

Also, didn't sound like he had too many fractures in childhood. If more severe type, would be more like, snap, crack, pop (Rice krispies!) Possibly fewer fractures because mother seems very protective.

Seen him put weight on legs, swing from hips. Not paralysis? Possibly problems are from disuse. Again, mother didn't encourage activity early on.

Trying not to sound too excited when asking questions. Been told it comes off as creepy… by Ed, so what does he know? But Cranky McCranky-brok doesn't like to talk about it much, so probably best not to pry too much.

~…~

Don't particularly resent Ivar his tantrums. God knows, probably wouldn't be any better in his situation. Just heard it on good authority that a disability is no excuse for bad behavior. Apparently, I'm not very good at learning for myself, but am excellent at telling others how they should behave.

Not bad company when he's calm. Very clever. Probably prettier than me. Snarky as hell. Actually kind of funny. Seems to like that I laugh and don't get offended. Still tries to shock me, though. Little does he know, I once had Internet access. Nothing will ever be shocking again.

Oddune asked why I talk to him. Good question. Better question is why he talks to me. Like to think it's my winning personality. More likely just desperate.

Hasn't talked about his father or why they're here. I approve, denial has always been my favorite reaction to stress. I haven't asked him either. So we sail down The Nile River together.

Just gotta say, shingles is a bitch. Shingles the week before finals is... yeah.

Hoo boy. Do you ever have it where you're about to reach the part of a story that contains the idea that first inspired you to write it, and you're kind of about to have a kitten because you want it to be perfect and for everyone to 'get' it? That bit comes next chapter. I've actually been working on both this and the next at the same time, so hopefully it will be done pretty soon. Unless I completely flip out and become a hermit first, we'll see.

Questions, questions. Does the progression of the relationship between them make sense? I could totally see Ivar deciding that this poor, uninformed girl needs to know all about the Gods, since she's been raised in this barbaric, foreign land without a proper education.

What do you think about Rowan and Oddune's statements about how cruel everything is in that time period? To me, it's was all over a pretty harsh world where pretty much no one had much of a choice in their lives, man, woman, or child.

The question of what the writers mean for Ivar's exact disorder to be is really interesting to me, especially because I'm very interested in physiology and pathology in general. I'm absolutely no expert on osteogenesis imperfecta, but there are some things that strike me a bit odd about the show. Like why they've never shown Ivar break bones at any other time? So I'm sort of trying to approach everything from a relatively sound medical standpoint. Feel free to point out whenever I bungle it. XD

If anyone has questions for me about anything, especially about my characterization of canon characters, please feel free to shoot me a PM!