Rowan's sleep is fitful that night, plagued by dreams of Magnus, alone and frightened. She awakes, bleary-eyed and unrefreshed to find that she has overslept. In a panic, she splashes water on her face and races through dressing before sprinting to the kitchens to retrieve Ivar's breakfast.

She hopes he won't realize that she's running late, but all of the servants refused to enter the room with him. Cripple or no, they were loath to be too close to a Northman, as if just being near him might somehow do them some harm. So she had foolishly volunteered to continue taking care of him. Of course, that was before their most recent disagreement.

Bread, meat, and fruit is piled onto a large serving dish. A servant offers to carry the pitcher of ale, as long as she doesn't have to go into the room. Rowan smiles and thanks her. Despite her tendency to avoid or ignore the unpleasant, she wants to get him everything as soon as possible, and the help will save her a trip.

Timeliness doesn't seem to be the order of the day. They are stopped on their way by Prince Alfred, smiling angelically with his hands clasped behind his back. He and Aethelred had arrived with their mother the day before, a few hours after the King himself.

"Good morning, Bothild. Where are you going?"

Rowan narrows her eyes in suspicion. "I am bringing Prince Ivar his breakfast, my lord."

He continues to smile, obviously not surprised by her response. "Oh? I will go with you. Here, give me that pitcher."

The servant has no choice but to hand it to him, despite obviously sharing Rowan's doubts about whether this whole situation was entirely kosher.

"Perhaps you should speak to His Majesty first?" She suggests. God forbid something should happen to the Golden Child while in her presence.

"That's not necessary. He has already introduced me to King Ragnar. He won't mind me meeting his son."

For a boy who often looks more like a cherub than a real thirteen-year-old, he's always surprised Rowan with the depths of his cunning. Not willing to waste any more time, and secretly grateful for the buffer, she can only agree and urge him to hurry with her.

Litwin has been given some time off to rest, but his replacement snaps to attention as soon as he sees the youngest Prince. He opens the door without argument, although he reminds them that he will have to bar the door behind them.

Ivar is sitting at the table and looks up when they enter. It seems that he managed to find the Tæfl pieces and has set it up, although the board itself looks suspiciously dented since the last time she saw it.

"This is Ivar Aetheling, my lord." She turns to Ivar and switches to Norse. "Ivar, this is Alfred Buthlungr. He ask to come."

Whether it's the sight of food or an unexpected third party, Ivar appears disarmed. He and Alfred trade nods of greeting while Rowan sets down the food.

"He knows how to play Tæfl?" Alfred asks, and Rowan explains about the Northmen having a similar game. The boy is excited to hear this, and asks for her to translate for him and see if Ivar would be willing to play.

She looks to Ivar, whose expressive face is openly curious about the conversation happening in front of him even while steadily shoveling food into his mouth.

"Prince Alfred ask, will you play Tafl?"

Ivar smirks at her. "You brought me another partner to make up for yesterday. How pleasant of you."

It's a real pity she probably can't get away with cuffing him upside the head with Alfred there. She has to be content with giving him a dirty look.

"Is that a yes?" It's really a talent that she is able to keep her tone polite while speaking through her front teeth.

"Yes." Ivar smiles back at her, looking impressively pleasant for being the Spawn of Satan.

Alfred is delighted to hear this and happily sits down across from Ivar and starts to set up the game. Rowan begins translating as Alfred tries to confirm that they both know the same rules. At first Ivar is tense, and he glances between them with a frown, as if trying to figure something out. After only a little while he relaxes and begins to offer suggestions.

They try to have a conversation on various strategies through Rowan, but quickly give up in favor of ignoring her and her unrestrained whimpers and complaints of boredom. Her presence is largely superfluous anyway, as they manage to communicate their feelings through shared looks of amused annoyance. The reason for her lack of ability in the game is readily apparent as she wiggles around in her seat like a small child forced to sit still in church.

All three are almost equally relieved when the guard opens the door and calls for Bothild. After confirming that the two of them will be fine without a translator, Rowan fairly skips for freedom. She stops short outside when she sees who is waiting for her outside.

Lord Cat Butt Face.

He must have come with Judith and the princes. Rowan hasn't seen him for some time, and her whole body stiffens at the sight of his somber face. He looks her up and down, his face inscrutable.

"Good day, uncle." She murmurs respectfully.

"Niece." His tone is equally blank. "You are well, I trust?"

"Yes, uncle."

"Good. You are to come with me." He says, suddenly turning on his heel, his duties as her guardian apparently done to his satisfaction.

He leads her to a room she hasn't seen before. It's a sort of above-ground cell. Far more pleasant than the lower dungeons with a real window letting in light, but still bare of furniture.

Ragnar sits on his haunches at the far end of the room, free from the cage but still chained. Rowan stops short when she sees him, looking to the man beside her with confusion.

"The King ordered that you be brought here. The Northman asked to speak with you." He explains, his voice tight with displeasure.

For a moment Rowan thinks he wants to say something to Ragnar, but he only glares at him and then leaves. The door closes behind him, and she is left alone with England's Most Wanted.

They are both silent, Rowan unwilling to speak first, and he taking the time to look her over carefully. His eyes are even more disturbing than Ivar's, tinged with a sort of frantic madness that is only barely controlled beneath the surface.

"You are called Bothild?"

She'd been too distracted worrying about Ivar the day before to take much notice of his father. Now she is surprised by how soft his voice his, how warm. He speaks the Saxon language with perhaps greater ease than Rowan herself.

"Yes, your maj-my lo-sire." She stumbles, unsure over the proper way to address an imprisoned Viking king. He smiles and chuckles at her awkwardness.

"You might as well call me Ragnar. This hardly seems the place for such titles." He says, gesturing with his gaze to the room around them. Rowan's not entirely sure about this, but she supposes that a man in his situation has a certain right to be called whatever he wants.

"I have been told that your mother was one of my people."

"I've been told that as well."

"Indeed?" His relaxed manner shows no surprise at her statement.

"I was injured two years ago." She replies, pointing to her scar. "I do not remember my parents."

Ragnar turns his head to one side and looks at her carefully. "That must be very difficult for you." Something in his tone suggests that he doesn't entirely believe her, and Rowan shuffles her feet nervously. With that gaze, if he told her he had x-ray vision and was a telepath, she would probably believe him.

"I also understand that you have been keeping my son company." He says. "I wanted to thank you for that."

She shrugs awkwardly.

"I am curious as to why you have taken such an interest in him."

Is this how guys feel when they meet their girlfriend's fathers for the first time? Because Rowan feels oddly like she's being assessed in some way.

At first, she opens her mouth to give some dismissive response, but stops. Would it really hurt to try to answer him honestly? After all, she might as well be speaking to a dead man.

"Perhaps," She begins hesitantly, trying to formulate into words something she's barely thought about consciously. "Perhaps I'm trying to do for him something I wish someone had once done for me."

Ragnar cocks his head, inviting her to continue, and Rowan finds herself stepping forward and sitting cross-legged in front of him without really intending to.

"I'm not entirely unfamiliar with being an outsider," She continues. "Or with pain. It's difficult enough to cope with without feeling completely alone on top of it."

She cringes inwardly when she realizes that she's slipped, using modern phrasing. The constant scrutiny is distracting, making it difficult for her to concentrate on her choice of words. He keeps on looking at her silently like he sees something that she would rather remain hidden.

"You are not quite what you seem, are you." The man remarks softly. It surprises her, and she only nods mutely in response. "Again, I thank you for your kindness to my son."

"It is nothing."

"It is not nothing." He insists, suddenly intense. "I of all people know that he can be difficult." The last word is said with a twinkle in his eye. Rowan can't restrain a snort of amusement. It's probably the biggest understatement uttered since Adam was born.

"He has his moments."

They smile at each other, briefly joined by the shared joke for a before he tells her that she may go now. As she is about to leave, though, he calls to her one last time.

"I want you to know, Bothild." She turns back to him, but her smile fades when she sees that his face has gone dark. His voice has lost all trace of humor. "I am truly sorry."

At first she's only confused as to what he could be apologizing for. What had he ever done to her? Then she remembers that Bothild's grandparents, uncles, and aunts had all been slaughtered after Ragnar and his warriors had returned home. Was that what he was referring to? It must be.

"It wasn't your fault. You didn't order their deaths." Rowan assures him. Something about his answering smile leaves her feeling shaken. She leaves feeling vaguely like a conversation happened in that room that she was completely oblivious to.

~…~

She's still mulling over the whole encounter when she arrives in the archives, hoping to talk it over with Oddune. He'll be amused to hear that she got to speak to Ragnar Lothbrok himself. And historians said he didn't even exist!

To her confusion, the room is empty. A pile of books lies spilled on the floor. It's strange to the point of Twilight Zone levels for any of Oddune's precious books to be left in such a state. Rowan carefully picks them up and sets them on a table, taking a look around the room. Nothing else is in disarray, so perhaps something startled him and he had to rush out suddenly.

The infirmary. It's a poor excuse for one, but it's the closest thing the villa has to a hospital. In fact, it's the very room she had awoken in two years before. That's where Oddune would be if someone had come in with a sudden injury, and the health and well-being of a person is really the only thing that would ever supersede the health and well-being of a book in his mind.

Rowan holds her skirts up so she can move faster. Oddune has begun to rely on her when treating his patients, and he will be expecting her there as soon as possible. She feels a familiar little thrill at the prospect of helping again, as long as there isn't too much blood.

Outside, she is halted by the sight of a small crowd gathered around the open doorway. All of the members of the clergy that are in the villa are there. Their whispers go silent as soon as they see her approach. Oddune is not among them.

"What is wrong?" She asks, trying to move past them to get inside. They block her.

"Wait, my child." One of them says, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Do not go in."

"Why not?" She's really getting a bit annoyed with this. If something is really wrong then Oddune will be wanting her inside, they should know that by now.

"It is Father Oddune." Another says. "He was found just a little while ago."

The edges of the world go hazy, her heart stops, stones settle in her throat and chest.

"What?" The word comes out as barely a whisper.

The priest holding her shoulder speaks slowly, as if to a child. "It seems that something caused him to… to become unwell some hours ago. By the time he was found..."

With a sudden surge of strength, Rowan shoves the priest away from her and pushes forward through the rest. Despite their protests and hands grasping to stop her, she finds herself standing in the doorway to the infirmary, staring at the lone bed sitting in one corner.

It is the bed where she awoke to this endless nightmare, the bed where Oddune first sat beside her and explained to her that she would never see her family again. It is the place she first looked into a bowl of water and saw a girl much like herself, but not. It is the place where she lay for days until the ringing in her ears finally stopped and she could begin to learn to walk in her new body. It is the place where she would often stand beside Oddune as he showed her how to use leeches to lessen a bruise.

It is the place where Oddune lies now, completely still. His eyes are closed as if he were only sleeping, but it takes only one look to see that his face has an unnatural blue tint.

Rowan stumbles closer on shaky feet to touch his hand. It's cold and stiff. Rigor mortis has begun to set in, which means that he's been dead for at least four hours. What was she doing four hours ago? Complaining that she was bored while Ivar and Alfred smiled at her expense?

She lifts one eyelid carefully. There is definite petechiae. That and the cyanosis suggests asphyxia. The cough. He tried to pretend it wasn't that bad, but it's obvious to her now that he's been… had been trying to downplay it. If he had a fit that was bad enough, he could easily have been overcome. Alone in his beloved archives, there would be no one to help him until it was too late.

~…~

It's hard to say how long she sat beside Oddune, but the sun is already almost completely gone when the priests finally have to force her to leave.

She is both numb and in excruciating pain at the same time. Despite the lump in her throat, not a tear has fallen, but the claws that have taken hold in her heart continue to twist and twist until she feels like there's no way this feeling can go on without something inside of her breaking.

As she passes like a ghost through the halls she hears a voice say that Ragnar is to be sent to Northumbria, where King Aelle will surely execute him in the most creative way possible. Another bolt of shock goes through her. Another voice responds that his son is being sent home in the morning, alone.

Ivar. The only other person who knows her real name. How is he feeling, now that his father's fate is set in stone? She's never going to see him again either. Even if she hadn't been able to say goodbye to Oddune, could she find a way to see her other friend one last time?

"Bothild?"

Rowan blinks. Lost in thought, her feet have led her straight to Ivar's door. Litwin is once again standing outside, looking at her with a faint hint of concern.

"I want to go in." Her voice comes out as a hoarse croak. Litwin shakes his head.

"I can't let you. Orders are he can be left alone for the night, and I'm going to get a good night's rest for once. That means not waiting out here for you."

"I have to-!" The words spill out of her before she pushes them back down again. Taking a deep breath, she tries again. "I wouldn't ask if it weren't important. If you leave the door unbarred, I will close it when I leave."

He is immovable, only shaking his head again. Rowan looks around her, desperation welling up inside of her. An idea comes to her like a flash.

"My hairpin." She whispers.

Litwin leans forward, not sure he heard her correctly. "What?"

"My hairpin." She repeats more clearly. "If you do this for me and promise not to speak of it to anyone, I will give you my mother's hairpin.

This gives the man pause. His gaze flicks to the bronze bird in her hair and back to her face, etched with grief. It feels like an eternity before he finally nods once, stiffly. Rowan sighs with relief and releases her hair. Litwin is at least polite enough to avert his eyes from her scar as he takes the pin from her, lifts the heavy wooden bar from the door, and turns to scurry down the hallway.

It's dark in the room. There are no candles or torches, so the only light is the silvery glow from the moon that comes in through the leaded glass window. It's just enough to illuminate Ivar's face as he sits on the bed in front of her.

His eyes are red and puffy. When he sees her he quickly rubs at his face with one sleeve, but it does nothing to hide the fact that he's been crying. Rowan comes closer, suddenly unsure of her welcome. It takes a few tries, but finally he speaks.

"My father is going to die."

"I know." She whispers back.

His face starts to crumple. At the sight of it a flood of emotion fills her. She may be helpless before her own grief, but she can do one last thing for him. In an instant she moves forward and wraps her arms around his neck as he lets out a soft cry of distress that becomes smothered in her chest.

It's so much easier to be here, cradling him to her and running one hand through his hair as his shoulders shake and she makes soothing noises, than in her own mind.

Ivar's arms have encircled her small torso, hands gripping her sides so hard she can already feel bruises.

He pulls back to look at her. It's not a pretty sight. Her face is splotchy with unshed tears, framed by a wild mess of unbound hair. His long fingers brush it back behind her ear, then lower to trace the shape of her cheekbone, and she lets herself be hypnotized by the feeling, eyes drifting shut.

"You look as though someone has died." Ivar's voice is raw, tinted with a trace of sarcasm. It's so intentionally ironic considering the circumstances that it brings a wobbly smile to her lips.

"Someone did." She replies. His hand pauses in its movements, and she leans into it slightly, silently begging him to continue.

"Who?" Neither of them can seem to speak louder than a whisper.

"He is," Rowan almost chokes. "He was everything."

They fall into silence again, her holding him as he pets her cheek. When they finally part, it's in silent harmony. Even without words, they seem to be of one mind as he shuffles backwards on the bed and pulls back the single blanket so she can crawl in beside him.

It's not a large bed, and she is made acutely aware of how big Ivar really in comparison to her. It's a tight fit and they have to lie on their sides, and his body nearly envelopes her as he curls into her back. His left arm is stuck under her, but he doesn't complain. He just leans over so he can tuck the edge of the blanket around her before resting his head behind hers on the only available pillow, draping his other arm over her waist.

Rowan can feel his every breath, match the movement of his chest as it presses against her back. Neither of them can sleep, overwhelmed and yet desperate for some kind of oblivion.

There is a flicker of something astonishingly soft against the back of her neck. Ivar's lips press against the bump of her spine for a moment before moving a little to the side and pausing again. Slowly he lays chaste kisses up and down her neck, mapping out the dips and curves. When he reaches the space just behind her ear his lips part ever so slightly, lingering longer before traveling back down to just above her shoulder.

It's a contradictory sensation. Part of Rowan feels almost anesthetized, but at the same time her skin feels so sensitive that each butterfly touch is borderline uncomfortable. A soft sigh escapes her and she tilts her head against the pillow, rolling her body back to give him more access.

She freezes, startled by the sudden, hard pressure against her thigh. Ivar stops too, even his breathing holds still as he waits for her reaction, most likely for her to shove him away and run screaming from the room.

If this were any other day her thoughts would have been racing, her stomach gripped with anxiety as she grappled with every possible action and every possible consequence. Instead, she finds her mind blanking, and the feeling is like a cool breeze on a hot day, a welcome relief. With nothing else to stop it her body reacts first, her hips pushing back into him.

A distressed comes out of him that he tries to muffle in her hair as his hips jerk against her. It is so close to a sound of pain that Rowan instinctively curls her fingers comfortingly over the hand that's trapped under her, which is now splayed flat over her belly.

There is a moment of dead stillness followed by a flurry of nearly frantic movement as his other hand grasps at her skirts, pulling them up to her hips. He barely lingers over her naked skin before shoving between their bodies where she feels him fumble quickly.

The tip of Ivar's cock breaches her on the first try, and it feels more like sheer luck than any proficiency. Rowan yelps at the sudden, deep burning that spreads out as the delicate tissue of her hymen stretches to allow him entrance.

Some part of her that is still vaguely alert realizes that their positioning isn't ideal and that Ivar isn't doing anything about it, so she takes the initiative by bending her outside leg towards her chest. He whimpers as his length slips further inside her tight passage, fingers flexing and digging into her stomach and thigh as he tries to hold himself still.

When he does move, what little control he had been trying to exercise vanishes in an instant. His thrusts are wild. Fast, hard jerks that are punctuated by his breathless, high-pitched gasps and moans.

Rowan revels in it all. In the pain that burns through her delicate flesh. In the almost pathetic yet somehow endearing sounds that seem wrenched out of the man behind her. In the tension that rolls through his body. It fills her senses and drowns out everything else, all internal noise. She finds she is becoming greedy for it and tries desperately to move herself with him, but can't seem to find the right rhythm.

Ivar seems to find she's being more of a hindrance than a help because he finally takes hold of her hip and pushes it into the bed, forcing her to be still and accept his pace. So she appeases her need by turning her face back over her shoulder, encouraging him to let his mouth brush the shell of her ear as his thrusts begin to falter. She is uncharacteristically tranquil. Her lips are smiling without permission as this man finds comfort and pleasure in her.

With one final groan, Ivar's whole body goes rigid for a long moment and then relaxes completely. Hot, humid air ghosts over the line of her neck as he struggles to control his breath. Their hands tangle together in front of them, moving and caressing softly. The smile doesn't leave Rowan as she feels him nuzzle into her loose hair.

There is now a deeper ache inside from Ivar's inelegant treatment and her own unfulfilled arousal, but she feels strangely content with it. It's like the North Star on a dark night, guiding her whole focus to a single burning point, keeping her thoughts from straying to uncharted waters until, finally, she sleeps.

*.*.*

Oddune finally talked about his life 'before'. Only took him a year, and still very vague. Didn't say when, but he was from Germany. Was an academic of some sort with a wife and son. Next think he knew everything was falling apart around him. Went on a trip to England to get away and got in a car accident. Ended up in the body of an eight-year-old in York.

The boy was really sick, and Oddune thinks he died right before he showed up. Actually already knew the language, so didn't have my problem there. Parents saw their kid come back from the brink of death acting like a mature adult with all sorts of new wisdom, so decided God meant for him to become a priest. He didn't mind, since it meant he got to do pretty much what he was before.

Technically no requirement for celibacy yet, so I asked him if he thought of getting married. He just got irritated and told me to mind my own business.

Still no idea of why or wherefore, but another interesting coincidence. We both ended up in the bodies of people who looked almost exactly like we did before. Starting to question my stance on reincarnation. Oddune says, "Who the hell knows? Now get back to cataloging!"

~…~

Occurs to me that I'll be expected to get married and have a family. Always loved kids. Expected to have my own, but just a vague sort of 'someday'. Never cared too much about boys/relationships. First too busy with swimming/riding/music/etc., then too depressed. Had all the time in the world anyway, a million choices. Not so much anymore.

Another thing I'm having to get used to. No such thing as a teenager. You're either a child or an adult. Girls are women around menarche (14/15 average), boys about 15/16.

Teenagers aren't teenagers either. Have to start working as soon as possible to help family. More responsibility earlier means earlier maturity. Seems Alfred has been more sheltered. A bit 'young' in comparison to others his age.

At 13, I'm still seen as a child. Not the worst thing though. Given a bit more freedom than otherwise, so able to get away and do my own thing sometimes. Lord CBF also not trying to marry me off.

Been wondering about Bothild. What she was really like. What thoughts were in this brain before mine?

~…~

Realized something. Bothild had excellent access to proper nourishment, but still severely underweight. Body is well into thelarche, but no sign of menstruation. Possibly due to lack of body fat? Seem to be getting back on track, but took for-freaking-ever. If I could have met Bothild, would have liked to have asked her about it. If a modern girl, know what my assumption would be, but is that possible? Have heard nothing to think she was devout enough for extreme religious fasting, so no other explanation comes to mind.

Obviously, I can't do anything for her now. Just trying to get healthy and stay that way. Seriously thought I was done with this shit. More proof Universe hates me.

But, hey! Bright side, no shark week!

Soo, that happened. I want to thank the amazing AnnieMar on AO3 for beta reading this chapter for me and assuring me that it wasn't a complete mess. I've noticed that each chapter is getting successively longer. XD

Question 1: Knowing Ivar and Rowan as the great fonts of mental stability and reasonable, mature reactions that they are (Sarcasm), what do you think the morning after is going to be like?

Question 2: Mysterious Ragnar is mysterious. Why do you think he wanted to talk to Rowan/Bothild?