She is standing high above the ground. No, not standing, sitting. Her seat sways slightly, but it doesn't alarm her.

There's something she's supposed to do, and she knows that once she does she will fly away. There, in front of her is something, a cord she must grasp.

As she stretches forward she feels a cool breeze brush by her, and a flicker in the corner of her eye distracts her for only a moment. It's nothing, she thinks, nothing can possibly bring me to ground now.

But it's not nothing. It's a serpent, its tail wrapped around a beam and its body already coiled around her throat. It starts to pull, and there is a sudden shrieking in her ears. In an instant her seat has thrown her. The trusted seat has sent her swinging by her neck until she slides along the cold ground. But the snake still holds her throat, holding her up so she is half-lying, half-dangling there as she claws at the thing that is now choking her.

Panic is welling up inside her. She must stand. She must get her feet under her and stand. The shrieking is louder now, coming from above her. She looks up and there is a flash of silver. Time seems to slow as she realizes that it is her seat coming down on her. One of her legs is stretched out before her, exposed. She clenches her eyes shut and prepares for the impact.

~…~

Rowan doesn't wake from the familiar nightmare with a scream, or shooting straight up, or any of the other clichés she's seen in movies. There is only a brief jerk of her muscles as her mind wakes a second before her body.

It takes her a moment longer to process why there is such a profound, all-consuming pain in her chest. The moment after she remembers her grief her consciousness locks on to the comparatively mild ache between her legs. Still, it's bad enough to force her nerves to choose which sensation to actively experience and, mercifully, they choose the latter.

The warm weight that surrounds her on three sides nearly lulls her back to sleep before her sluggish and cloudy brain registers the source.

Ivar. He's still wrapped around her from behind, arms encircling her and cheek resting against the back of her head.

Rowan experiments at first, nudging him slightly to see if he will wake up. There is no response, so she carefully wiggles herself around so she can observe his sleeping face, lit up by the moonlight shining in from the window.

There isn't a single trace of anxiety or sadness to mar his features. With no expression to color her perceptions, she marvels at how beautiful he really is. From his cheekbones, to his perfectly shaped mouth, to the dimple in his chin, it's as if some god put each feature in place by hand with excessive precision and forethought.

The urge to touch him, to trace over the sharpness here and the softness there almost overtakes her. Then she sees something else and it stops her dead with shock. This person, holding her in his arms, satiated from the body she welcomed him into, is someone very, very young.

This is the point where she feels the urge to run screaming from the room. With a deep breath she controls her panic and begins to slowly disentangle herself from him limb by limb. In his exhausted state, he doesn't even twitch at the disruption.

She almost falls on her face trying to stand, landing on her hands and knees on the stone floor. At some point while she was sleeping Ivar had tried to cover her again, but had only gotten her skirts back down around her knees. They've ended up tangled around her legs. Giving a slightly panicked glance over her shoulder, she can just see that his eyes are still closed. She carefully un-hobbles herself before trying to get up again.

As gravity asserts itself, something warm and thick trickles down the inside of her thigh. Between that sensation and the pain, her first instinct is that it's shark week finally rearing its ugly head. Then she realizes what the fluid leaking out of her body is and winces. Here was a bit they didn't tell you to expect in health class.

It's still late. If she hurries, Rowan knows she can clean up and return to her own bed with none of her roommates any the wiser. No one sees as she slips out of Ivar's room, barring the door behind her as she promised Litwin.

A geothermal spring flows under the palace, feeding the Roman baths that King Ecbert takes such delight in. The room is empty at this time of night, and she uses a bucket to draw some of the warm water. With one hand she holds her dress around her hips and with the other she scoops water to wash away the sticky mess. When she's done, she pours out the rest of the water on the tile floor, washing away any sign that she's been there.

Everyone else is asleep when Rowan creeps silently into her room. They're used to her being the last to bed and the first to rise, so no one will be suspicious that they haven't seen her. If anyone were to suspect where she had been, what she had done, the resulting uproar would make the May Day riots look like a quilting bee.

She stops only to change into her nightgown before slipping into bed. Fatigue overtakes her quickly this time, and her sleep is without dreams.

~…~

In the past two years of her life, Rowan has rarely experienced waking to the sun shining on her face. The sensation is so unfamiliar that, at first, she doesn't even realize she's awake. When she opens her eyes, she is horrified to see that, yes indeed, the sun is already high in the sky. After never oversleeping, she's now done it twice in a row.

The reason for it crashes in on her. The numbness and a deep guilt overtakes any concern over being late, and she can barely muster the energy to pull herself out of bed and dress.

She reaches into the chest for her hairpin when she realizes that she doesn't have it anymore, but though she feels a little bad about giving away Bothild's prized possession, it barely affects her. What was the point, anyway? Both Bothild and her mother were dead and gone. What was the use of hanging on to the thing? Instead she uses a simple kerchief to tie around her head, hiding her scar and keeping her hair back.

The halls buzz around her, but Rowan ignores it all as she drifts through towards the weaving room.

"Bothild."

She turns with all the urgency of a sloth to find Judith standing pensively, hands clasped before her.

"My lady?" She asks, voice slow and sleepy.

"I need you to come with me."

"Yes, my lady."

This is nice, someone to tell her what to do, where to go. No reason to try to think or decide, just float along as the current sweeps her where it will.

The princess brings her to stand before the throne, before King Ecbert himself. In ordinary circumstances, Rowan imagines she would feel intimidated to have the full force of that suffocating attention focused on her.

He looks her over intently before speaking, clearly and with the same skin-crawling sincerity that she had heard him use with Ragnar. "Bothild, it has come to my attention that your mother was a Northman, one of King Ragnar's people."

"Yes, your majesty." It wasn't really a question, but Rowan responds to be polite. Maybe if she's very good, and very small, those terrible eyes will look away from her. For all the madness that lies in it, she realizes that Ragnar's gaze had been far less unsettling. At least he seemed to have a soul somewhere in there.

"You have lived here for fourteen years now. Though you have spent a little time with my grandsons, you have no close friends of your own age. It has, however, been noted that you have formed something of a bond with Ragnar's son, the prince."

Litwin is standing to one side. Rowan tries to subtly gauge what, if anything, he's told the King. His body language reveals nothing, but she's almost positive that he hasn't said anything. He is a loyal soldier, but his personal honor would never allow break his word.

"I have merely acted as a nurse to him, your majesty, nothing more."

Ecbert's eyes raise. "For three, no, four days? Are you sure that it is not that you prefer his company to that of your fellow Christians?"

Well, he was right there. As someone with no expectations of her, she has never had to be on her guard with him. The only other person she'd felt that with was…

"I have decided," The king says, "that you will perhaps thrive better among your mother's people. Today, the prince is to be taken to a ship that will return him to his own land, and you will go with him."

Rowan's jaw drops. She looks to Judith, standing beside her father-in-law, but the woman won't make eye contact. Her mouth, however, betrays her where it curves down at the corners. Is this some sort of a joke? A test, perhaps?

"My uncle!" A thought suddenly occurs to her. "I am beholden to him for these many years of care. If he wishes for me to stay, then surely you would not make me defy him."

The king smiles humorlessly. "I have already spoken with your uncle. It was he who suggested that the return of Ragnar Lothbrok may inflame the people's anger towards the Northmen, and you might be safer outside of Wessex."

A figure steps into view from the side, and Rowan turns to see Bothild's uncle, face like a raincloud over a funeral. She doesn't believe that he's spoken out of concern for an instant. This is him trying to rid himself of a financial drain, an embarrassment that serves only to hold him back.

Rowan looks to Judith next. "My lady, please don't let them do this. Don't let them send me away from all I've ever known!"

The older woman doesn't respond, but her eyes are shining with tears. Even if Rowan has been a friend to Alfred, even if Bothild cracked her skull to save his life, Judith's loyalty is first and foremost to her father-in-law. She is surrounded on all sides by people who care little or nothing for her, and she resolves in that moment that she will care nothing for them. Let them exile her, with Oddune dead, there is nothing left to keep her there anyway.

~…~

There is little time for Rowan to pack her meager belongings, but she doesn't have much. All she cares to take can fit in one bundle, mostly the book and her box of writing utensils. That and her nightgown all fit into a plain canvas bag. She leaves behind her spare clothes, the nicer ones she wears on Sunday and Feast Days. They were bought with That Man's money, and she'll take as little from him as she possibly can.

She channels her not-always-so-inner mean girl as she marches for the entrance to the villa, head held high. Let them throw her away like they did Magnus, they will not see her beg.

Everyone has already gathered around the cart that is to take her and Ivar away to wherever it is the boat is moored. It's where Ivar himself is seated right now, fully dressed again in his leather coat. When he sees her approaching his eyes widen in surprise. He watches as she throws her bundle up before climbing in beside him, but she is careful to keep their gazes from meeting.

Judith, Alfred, and Aethelwulf are standing nearby. Aethelwulf is bellyaching that they shouldn't send him away, and Judith softly scolds that he is only a cripple. He gives a "humph" and begins to urge the cart and its escorts to get moving, but Alfred calls for them to wait.

The boy steps forward to give something to Ivar. Rowan can just see that it is a piece from the game they'd played the day before, and she can't help but smile at him. He looks sadly at her, but she suspects that he's most upset to say goodbye to a worthy opponent at Tafl.

His mother comes to stand beside him. To Rowan's surprise she places a thick wool cloak in her lap. On top of it she lays a small silver cross on a delicate chain.

"To thank you for being a friend to my sons." Judith explains. "The sea is bitterly cold, even in summer. Do not forget that the Lord is with you, whatever land you walk."

Rowan runs her fingers over the fabric in silence. They are the finest things she's been given this life, but she can't bring herself to thank Judith.

Aethelwulf calls for them to move out, and the cart lurches forward. As they move away, Rowan looks up toward the room she had met Ragnar, but anything at that distance is little more than a blur to her. Still, she likes to think that she sees movement there. The old legend taking one last chance to see his son before his death. Impulsively, she kisses the little cross and whispers a prayer that though he cannot have a quick and painless end, at least he can be granted strength to see it through with dignity.

~…~

Ivar continues to stare at the game piece in his hand, then the scenery that is passing by, then finally he seems to find something very interesting under his own fingernails. Rowan can't look at him either. Just the thought of making eye contact with him makes her cringe. She briefly considers throwing herself under the cart as a better alternative to the continued silence.

It will take hours upon hours to get to reach the English Channel, where they will board a boat that will take them to Kattegat. With nothing else to occupy her time, Rowan pulls the book out of her bag.

With her legs crossed in front of her, it's simple enough to balance the large volume on her lap. The problem comes when she realizes that she will have to hold her ink bottle with one hand and write with the other. With the cart bumping randomly over uneven ground, she ends up spending more time wrestling to keep everything where she wants it than actually writing.

A hand reaches out to gently tug the bottle from her. She looks up briefly to find that Ivar, while still keeping his gaze fixed at some distant point behind them, is now holding the bottle steady where she can easily reach it.

The manners that have been drummed into Rowan since birth take hold, and she blurts out a quick, "Takka.".

Ivar shrugs in response, squinting into the horizon. She is soon engrossed in her writing, not seeing the way he steals looks at her out of the corner of his eye.

Three hours later they've both given up on pretending to ignore each other, or being comfortable. Ivar especially is starting to take on a slightly pale hue after being jostled about in a vehicle with no suspension for so long.

"Sit here." Rowan holds the folded cloak out to him.

Any awkwardness or embarrassment on his part is being superseded by the pain that must be incredible by now. He glares at her, lips pursed into a thin line. She nudges him with her shoe, trying to urge him to take it, but he only pushes her away and hisses that he doesn't need it.

Men are much the same in any century. Unfortunately, so are women, and Rowan is not a woman who has ever backed down to spare another's silly pride. By the time their escorts notice the commotion, the pair are in the middle of a wrestling match where she tries to shove him over to put the cloak under him, and he easily fends her off with just his hands around her wrists.

The guards quickly intervene, pushing Rowan back and yelling that King Ecbert wouldn't ever know if they never reached their destination, and the pair might find themselves unexpectedly lost if they don't behave themselves.

"It is your fault." Ivar snarls when she translates this to him. "You're the one who won't leave me alone."

"I try to help!" She wails in response before curling into a ball on her side and pulling the divisive article over her head, shutting him out until, finally, they reach their destination.

~…~

The boat is small, and Rowan is alarmed to realize that she's never actually been on the water in this body, so she has no idea if she gets seasick or not. Before, she'd taken to it like a fish from an early age. But the craft before her is hardly a modern vessel, with a GPS and all manner of safety equipment.

Ivar doesn't seem much happier. He looks at the boat like it's a guillotine with his name lovingly inscribed above. There's nothing he can do to protest. Two of their escorts take him under the arms and drag him down the dock. A gray-haired man offers a hand to help Rowan down from the cart and then over the side of the boat. The pair of them are seated together near the hold where she quickly settles into the opposite corner from Ivar.

Everything is a flurry of activity around them as the sailors prepare to set off, and Rowan is so occupied watching them that she doesn't notice that Ivar's hands are clenched into white-knuckled fists until they are well on their way.

She had actually forgotten how cold it can be out on the water. The wind that carries them away from England's shores bites through her clothes and sends salt sprays that bite into her cheeks. At least she has the cloak to wrap up in. Ivar's clothes are relatively warm but still leave enough of him exposed that he'll soon start to feel the chill, if he doesn't already.

"Here." Rowan removes the cloak and holds it out to him, too concerned by the dark circles under his eyes to care about her own comfort.

Of course he shrugs her off, grumbling that he is fine.

"Ivar." She whispers his name. When he looks up, she meets his gaze for the first time that day. "Please. It is cold."

His expression softens. Maybe he's moved by her entreaty, or maybe he's finally just too tired to fight with her. Either way he allows her to drape the cloak around him.

Despite the heat from the fabric he continues to shiver, and Rowan remembers that, the last time he was on a boat, it was caught in a storm and he was shipwrecked. She realizes that it might not have been cold at all affecting him in the first place, but fear. It doesn't seem to be getting any better, and she worries for him if he ends up stuck in this state for the entire journey.

She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and begins to hum softly. It is instinctive for her. Since she can remember it's what she would use to calm everything from an animal to a child, or even herself.

Somewhere, beyond the sea. Somewhere, waiting for me. My lover stands on golden sands, and watches the ships that go sailin'.

He doesn't understand the words, but the very unfamiliarity of the sound draws his attention to her.

Somewhere, beyond the sea. He's there, watching for me. If I could fly like birds on high, then straight to his arms I'd go sailing.

When she opens her eyes at the end and sees that he's watching her, she smiles and starts again. She begins with the oldest songs she knows, ballads from England and Scotland. The first thing that pops into her mind is 'Twa Corbies', and she's frankly grateful he doesn't understand the words, because a song about a bunch of birds planning to eat a knight's corpse and use his hair for building their nests probably wouldn't be very soothing at the moment.

By the time she gets to 'The Cruel Mother' Rowan starts to seriously wonder whether her ancestors never sang about anything pleasant, or if she'd just missed those songs. When she finishes 'Whiskey in the Jar', she realizes that she's gone on for hours and her mouth is dry.

The man who had helped her into the boat offers her a little water. While she pauses to drink she notices that Ivar has started to shake again. Desperate to keep him calm she starts to sing whatever comes to her.

When night falls, she tucks herself into a corner away from Ivar to sleep while doing her best to ignore the hurt looks he shoots her way. The old nightmare comes again, and it's only made worse by the motion of the waves. In the morning she has to go through the same process of waking and then remembering everything that's happened all over again.

Her bones ache from the emotional strain and the persistently uncomfortable conditions. The guards at least allow her to pace the length of the boat to stretch out her muscles while she begins to sing again.

Johnny Cash, Metallica, Billy Joel, show tunes, Motown, ABBA, she sings anything and everything she feels like. Since no one says anything, least of all Ivar, she can only assume that they don't mind. Sometimes she forgets the words, but since there is no one there who knows any different she just fills it in with nonsense sounds.

Every time Rowan stops to give her throat a rest Ivar begins to shake again, so she never stops for long. The only time she remains quiet is at night. She has begun to fight to stay awake, dreading what she knows will come if she lets herself sleep.

By day three she's given up on anything that might sound normal to the men around her and has started in on opera. The one thing that has always irked her, she now takes the time to enjoy. That is that even without training Bothild has a better voice and range than Rowan had ever had.

A kind of delirium starts to set in. It gets harder and harder for her to stay awake. At night her head drifts forward, followed by a quick jerk as she rights herself, over and over again. Even though she maintains a strict distance between them, she can feel Ivar watching her all the time. Rowan doesn't look back, unwilling or unable to risk seeing something there that will force her to think about what she's doing.

~…~

It's warm for the first time in what seems like forever. Rowan smiles and curls into the source of that lovely heat. Something is combing through her hair, a hand.

Her eyes fly open. She'd fallen asleep last night. Not only that, but Ivar has somehow managed to maneuver her so that she is leaning into his side. He's wrapped one arm around her shoulders so that the cloak is around both of them. His other hand is idly petting her head as it lies against him.

Rowan tries to push away, but his arm stiffens like an iron band holding her to him. No amount of struggling can shift it, until finally she gives up and lets him hold her there.

Looking up to complain to his face, the words are frozen in her mouth at the sight of him. His normally handsome face is like death, gray and sickly, his lips chapped since their captors have refused to spare any of their precious water for a heathen. His hand moves mechanically through her hair as his eyes stare off into some endless void.

As if answering a prayer Rowan doesn't know she's made, a voice calls that land is ahead. She pats the hand on her shoulder nervously, whispering to him that he's almost home. Just hold on, Ivar. They will be home soon.

*.*.*

I can't do this I can't do this I can't do this.

What can't I do? Everything. All of it. I can't deal with people dying and I can't deal with my emotions like a normal person and I can't even look at Ivar because he's doing this kicked-puppy thing and it's at least half my fault.

I try really, really hard to be a good person. I really do. I don't think I've been that bad. So why is this my life? Why does everything I love keep getting taken from me?

And why, oh why, can I not keep myself from doing STUPID FUCKED-UP SHIT INSTEAD OF DEALING WITH MY ISSUES LIKE A RATIONAL ADULT!?

~…~

Tried to keep myself occupied on the boat by remembering what Mormor told me about them. Answer? Not much. Remember that there are masts and rudders and sails, fairly certain that jibs are a thing. Really put most effort into not paying attention when Mormor was talking about sailing.

The woman has an intense passion for two things in life. Settled for me being interested in only one, fiber arts, but never quite gave up hope I would develop an interest in sailboats. Suppose I should have put slightly more effort into it, considering like, a quarter of the business is going to me one day. Figured I would just delegate to lackeys. That's what they're there for, right?

~…~

Dear Mom and Dad,

Even if I never see you again, I want to let you know that I get it now, and I'm so sorry. I never thought about what it would be like to see someone you care about in that kind of a state. But seeing Ivar (Don't ask who Ivar is, you really don't want to know) like that, so lost and afraid that I couldn't do anything to make it better…

I want you to know that it's not your fault. Maybe some things growing up weren't perfect, but how I handled it was my responsibility in the end.

I wish I hadn't been so stubborn and tried harder to get better after the accident. It was all just so much to handle at once. I was scared and angry and suddenly couldn't do most of the things that I used to do to deal with it. Then everything started with Edmund and I wasn't just angry, I was heartbroken too.

Broken. I really did break, didn't I? It hurt like something physical, maybe even worse than my leg. There seemed to be a lot more pieces to put back together too, which is really saying something.

I can't do that again. I can't make these people deal with it. They don't deserve it any more than you did. So I have to keep it together. I have to do this. I have to do this. I have to do this.

Ah, such reasonable, well adjusted people.

1. What do you think Ivar's thoughts are during this chapter?

2. They've reached Kattegat! How do you think the brothers, Lagertha, etc. are going to react to Rowan?

I'm trying to post once a week on Sunday, but I'm going to be busy all day tomorrow, so I thought I would upload this chapter early.