The last thing Rowan expects to feel at her first sight of Kattegat is déjà vu. She is briefly overpowered by a feeling of familiarity as the boat begins to pass into a sound. Something about the huge inlet, the harbor and the silhouette of the mountains strikes a chord in her before it is drowned out by apprehension.
There is already a group waiting for them when they approach the harbor. Their guards stand at the ready, bows drawn while the gray-haired man calls out in the Norse language that they carry the prince.
They are allowed to dock. On one side a row of warriors stand ready, axes drawn. On the other side two young men step forward. They are both blonde, tall and somber faced, and they wait while Ivar, still pale and eyes hollow as a ghost, is lifted up and handed to them. They each take an arm over their shoulders with far greater gentleness and familiarity than Rowan has ever seen him treated with before.
No one has seemed to notice her yet. As she stands to follow Ivar she's suddenly overtaken by a wave of fatigue that nearly knocks her off her feet. The gray-haired man takes her by the elbow to help her out of the boat and she thanks him for his kindness.
"God be with you." He says and crosses himself, casting worried glances at the pagans he is leaving her with.
Rowan stands alone at the end of the dock. Before her stands a crowd of men and women staring with open curiosity and suspicion at the stranger who has accompanied their prince. Ivar is being carefully led away from her and she finds she is frozen to the spot, unsure where to go. It seems likely that the two men are his brothers and she is hesitant to intrude on their reunion.
They stop suddenly as Ivar struggles to look over his shoulder. When he sees that she hasn't moved he beckons for her to follow them with a tip of his head.
His brothers look at her strangely and exchange a glance between them but say nothing. They are focused on supporting Ivar's nearly dead weight as they walk through the village and into the woods. They come out into a clearing where a small cabin sits party out on the water.
It is strange inside. Fishing traps hang from the ceiling. There is furniture and beds, but it is so far out of the way. Why would they bring him here? Why not take him straight to their home and to his mother?
Whether or not he is as confused, Ivar shows nothing. He is sat down at a table where his brothers help him out of his jacket. The one with the godawful hairstyle goes to light a fire while the other fetches something to drink. None of them speak yet, apparently having reached an unspoken agreement to allow Ivar to recover first.
"Rowan."
She looks up. She's almost fallen asleep leaning against the doorway which she hasn't moved from, the sheer lack of acknowledgment she's been getting leaving her uncomfortable and unsure.
"Go lie down." Ivar nods to the side of the room where a large bed dominates one entire wall.
"I'm not-"
"Rowan!" Ivar snaps and points to the bed. "Go. Lie. Down. Now."
They glare at each other, jaws jutting with stubbornness. Their companions are watching them with great interest, and Rowan almost wants to keep fighting just so that they don't see her back down.
But she's tired, so tired her bones ache with it, and Ivar doesn't need the aggravation of a pointless quarrel. As she moves past him, she tells him to drink slowly so he doesn't make himself sick before flopping down onto the comfortable mattress. Within minutes she's fast asleep, flat on her belly like a sea lion.
~…~
A gentle nudging pulls Rowan from her slumber, and she scowls and bats at the offending hand. It persists, continuing its assault on her person.
"Yah!" She sits up with an annoyed shout, only to see that the bastard responsible for waking her isn't her bastard and shrinking with embarrassment.
The older, bearded brother of Ivar is grinning at her, apparently more amused by her fierceness than intimidated. If he were her own brother or Ivar she would have been quick to remind him that her displeasure was not something to chuckle at. This man, however, is unfamiliar to her and she instinctively pulls back into herself, wary until she can size him up.
He sees her cautious expression and laughs. He points to a corner of the room where a large tub has been set up. The other brother is draping a blanket over a rope with an air of great exasperation.
"Do you want to wash?" The older brother asks her, then does a quick mime by rubbing his own shoulders and points at her. "Wash?"
Rowan looks down at herself. Her clothes are stiff with dirt from the road and dried salt from the sea. Her hands are also dirty, and she can't imagine what her face and hair looks like. She nods, a bath sounds like a godsend right now.
The man smiles at her and turns to his brother. "She says yes." His tone has a blatant undercurrent of 'I told you so'.
The other rolls his eyes and huffs. "I still don't see what the point of this is."
"Because, Sigurd, she is a young woman who probably doesn't want to bathe in front of a pair of strange men."
"What does it matter?" Sigurd shrugs. "She's probably just a slave."
His brother looks at her with an assessing look. "Ivar doesn't treat her like one."
"Ivar?" Rowan interrupts.
Both look at her, and Sigurd smiles and addresses her like one would a very slow child that's said its first word. "Yeeees, that's right. Ivar, my insufferable little brother who showed up with a strange little Christian and then ran off and left us to figure out what to do with her."
Rowan is beginning to understand why Ivar doesn't talk about them much.
"I am Ubbe, and this is Sigurðr" The one called Ubbe explains, pointing at each of them in turn. They seem to have decided that she both doesn't understand their language, and is extremely stupid. To be fair, they might not be that far off with the latter assumption.
"Ivar is outside." Ubbe continues, pointing to the door.
Rowan nods her understanding. Ubbe has to catch her by the elbow when she stands up; she's still feeling a little dizzy, but he just smiles and leads her to the large tub.
The temperature of the water is perfect, steaming but comfortable. She really is grateful for the effort the two have put into it. Indoor baths are likely very rare even here in the summertime since the water outside is both a bearable temperature and doesn't require hauling and heating buckets and buckets of water. The chance to soak in hot water, however, is a welcome treat after days and days on the sea.
The curtain is drawn and she pries herself out of the layers of salt-stiffened fabric. The water wraps around her like an embrace and soothes away her various aches and pains. They have even provided a bar of some sort of soap that feels surprisingly gentle on her skin, unlike the often lye-heavy soap she's grown used to.
When she's finished she dries off with a piece of cloth while she glares at her discarded clothes, willing them to become clean through sheer force of will. A hand suddenly appears over the top of the curtain, wiggling some garments side to side to entice her to take them.
They are men's clothes, a linen shirt and a pair of simple linen pants with drawstrings at the waist and ankles. Ubbe has done his best to find something that she can wear comfortably from a cabin inhabited solely by tall men. The shirt is more like a dress on her and the pants, which would likely be knee-length and worn as an undergarment by their owner, are like capris on her small frame. Her kerchief is relatively clean, at least enough that she doesn't mind putting it back on to cover her wet and tangled hair.
Sigurd takes one look at her when she emerges and bursts into laughter. Ubbe pushes him roughly, but struggles to hide his own grin. Rowan narrows her eyes at them, unamused.
"You look good." Sigurd says, swatting back at his brother in defense. "Much better than Hvitserk did anyway."
This is apparently a hilarious statement, because Ubbe gives up on his restraint and starts to crack up. Rowan's eyes become slits, rethinking her policy on not hitting strangers.
"Are you hungry?" Sigurd asks, gesturing towards the table where she last saw Ivar. It has been laid out with bowls and spoons. A large pot over the fire bubbles with some sort of stew. Hunger outweighs her annoyance and Rowan sits herself down with great dignity and waits for everyone to be served before planting her face in the food.
Figuratively speaking, of course. She has an all new appreciation for Ivar's voracious appetite and lack of table manners when she first met him. She's vaguely aware that the food is under seasoned and the bread suspiciously dense and flat, but she doesn't particularly care as she sets about meticulously inhaling every drop and crumb before her.
The brothers, meanwhile, talk as if she weren't there. Sigurd continues to expound on his grievances against his younger brother.
"It would have been nice if he had said something before running off like a baby."
"He has a right to be upset." Ubbe scolds. "He came back from losing our father expecting mother to be here to comfort him."
"Yes, but mother is dead. Perhaps now he will have to grow up."
The spoon slips out of Rowan's hand and lands with a 'Splat' back in her bowl. In an instant she has stood up from her place and is running for the door. She is stopped in her tracks when two rough hands grab hold and turn her around. Ubbe looks down at her with a stormy countenance. Sigurd remains seated, but he has turned around and is also taking in her shocked expression. They are no fools, these boys. They instantly deduce the reason for her behavior.
"You understand us?" Ubbe asks.
"Let me go!" She yells, trying to push back against him. His hands hold her tighter than is strictly necessary. Her struggles only make him grip harder and she winces at the pain. "Ivar…"
"Ivar will live." The sudden coldness in Ubbe's blue eyes gives her pause. "You tried to trick us."
"Some." Rowan admits. "I speak some. Not all."
"Why didn't you say so from the start?" Sigurd seems far less affronted by her deception. She focuses her attention on him while still tugging futilely at the iron grasp on her wrists.
"I…" She's not really sure. She had simply repeated what she had done with Ivar, disguising her level of comprehension in the hopes of gathering information about them. "I am careful."
"You mean you didn't know if you could trust us?" Sigurd asks, and she nods.
"What about Ivar?" Ubbe still sounds upset. "Does he know you speak our language?"
"Yes!" Rowan protests, a little offended herself at the suggestion. "We are friends."
Sigurd lets out a sound somewhere in between a snort of disbelief and a guffaw, but Ubbe at least lets her go. She immediately moves to go outside only to be once again stopped by a wall of angry Viking.
"I need to see Ivar." She says, clearly and firmly.
"And I said no."
Rowan is beginning to find upright Northmen to be a lot more difficult to deal with than the sitting ones. Ubbe stands with his arms crossed like a lone centurion.
"First," Sigurd says "Ivar doesn't have friends. Second, if he were to have a friend it wouldn't be a Christian girl."
"Finally," Ubbe interrupts, "What exactly did he say that made you decide to try and make fools of his brothers?"
Rowan bristles. "I never! I…" She realizes that she doesn't actually have an explanation for her behavior. Ivar had said nothing, they had done nothing to justify her being dishonest to the men who have so far gone out of their way to make her comfortable. She hangs her head and shuffles back to the table where Sigurd has righted the stool for her.
Embarrassment gnaws at her. Ubbe sits too but has lost the jovial air he'd had before, staring into his bowl with a thoughtful frown.
"Why did you come here?" Sigurd asks.
"I have to." She doesn't elaborate, not wanting to admit that she was thrown out like a used rag. He asks her further questions about her family and she replies politely, casting furtive glances at the older brother all the while.
The story of Bothild's parents cause raised eyebrows from both, and they share another one of those looks. It's the silent communication that she thinks must be unique to siblings, to people who have shared the same blood, the same upbringing, the same influences. The wave of jealousy that shoots through her is acute and unexpected. For a while she can't bear to look at them, going to gather her clothes for cleaning.
Looking around the single room, she spots a few of the brothers' own things that have been left lying about and takes them too.
"What are you doing?" Ubbe looks genuinely confused.
"I will wash." Rowan replies as she puts the pile into a basket along with the soap-like bar. "Where is water?"
Sigurd points at the door as if the answer is obvious, and Rowan rolls her eyes.
"Not salt."
"Fresh water?" He clarifies. "I will take you. It is dangerous to be out in the woods alone."
She had slept late. The early evening sun shines down through the trees, casting dancing shadows down before their feet and a soft breeze carries the crisp, clean smell of the sea along. It feels like she's back on one of her old rambles again. The untouched nature feels like another world that closes in around her and fills her senses with the profound calmness of it, soothing her.
Sigurd takes one handle so they can carry the basket between them, but it's horribly lopsided due to the difference in their heights and pieces of clothing keep falling out on Rowan's side. It's such a ridiculously mundane problem after the past week that she starts to laugh. At first, Sigurd looks at her like she might be a madwoman, but eventually smiles softly.
"I will say sorry to Ubbe." Rowan says as she sets to work. "I angered him."
Sigurd sighs. "Don't worry about Ubbe. He's had a difficult time with women lately. Only he doesn't particularly want to be angry with them so he's decided to be angry with you instead."
"You are not angry?"
He shrugs. "I don't really blame you. If Ivar were the only Viking I knew, I would be suspicious of all of us too."
Rowan bites her lip, trying to gauge the wisdom of her next question as she rubs the dirt out of her dress. "You and Ivar. You are not close?"
"What, didn't he tell you?" He asks, crossing his arms and leaning against a tree. "I would have thought he would enjoy telling you all about his terrible older brother who is so cruel to him."
"You are not?" She tries to keep her tone curious but neutral.
"I do not like my brother, and he does not like me." Sigurd says with finality, and Rowan finds herself once again compelled to back away from the subject. Still, it interests her how incredibly touchy the both of them are when talking about the other. Their ire is so quickly roused that it must be due to complicated and long-standing issues between them.
It is also interesting that Sigurd in no way seems like a boy who has recently lost his mother. He briefly explains the political situation to her and cautions her that the new queen, Lagertha, will likely want to meet her soon. Rowan doesn't recall the name, but she does remember Oddune telling her about the woman who had led the Viking settlement at first. Considering the part she played in the marriage between Bothild's parents, Rowan is curious what the woman will make of her.
When they return from the river Rowan hangs the clothing up to dry and, for lack of anything better to do, sets about cleaning the rest of the cabin. Ubbe remains brooding, but manages to mutter something about gratitude, waving off her own apology for her earlier behavior.
As it grows dark, the subject of where she will sleep come up. The brothers seem to feel that it is a matter requiring serious discussion. She is left feeling a little miffed as they talk between themselves, not bothering to ask for her opinion.
Since their mother's death they have been nominally exiled to this former fishing hut. The two of them have been sharing the large bed, which isn't unusual in a place where space and insulation in living quarters is limited, even for royals. With Ivar's return and the appearance of a young woman, they are in a bit of a quandary as to where to put everyone. Ivar isn't present to argue, so it is easy for them to decide that he will be taking the floor, albeit with a large pile of furs, blankets, and pillows for comfort.
The thing they are hung up on is Rowan herself, with Ubbe arguing that it really wouldn't be appropriate for her to sleep here at all as an unwed young woman from an honorable family. Sigurd argues back that she's already spent so much time with Ivar that her reputation will survive and continues that she can sleep on the floor as well.
"He may not even be back tonight. Even if he does, what's going to happen to her?"
The last is said in a particularly nasty tone that Rowan doesn't care to dissect as the fatigue has returned with a vengeance. With a yawn she leaves them to their debate and curls up on the makeshift pallet at the foot of the bed, pleased to find that it's actually quite cushy. By the time the brothers notice that she hasn't spoken for some time, she's already snoring softly.
~…~
Ivar does come back sometime in the night. Rowan is woken by the sound of him pulling himself across the floor. He says nothing to her; is silent as he undresses, silent as he washes in the corner, and still silent as he settles in beside her. When he is finally still and the sound of his breathing grows even, she dares to open her eyes and peek at him.
He lies on one side, his back to her. His hair is wet and his skin glows bronze in the firelight, stretched over muscles that are rigid with tension. Something in Rowan makes her want to reach out, touch one hunched shoulder. Her hand even lifts, hovers mere inches from that skin, knowing that with the slightest pressure he will follow her silent appeal for him to turn and look at her.
Shame won't let her touch him. Pride won't let her be the first to break the silence. Her fingers curl back into her fist as she pulls away, turns to mirror his position.
They sleep that way the rest of the night. Back-to-back with one foot and a whole ocean between them.
~…~
In the morning Ivar is already gone, his spot beside Rowan already cold. Ubbe has gone hunting while Sigurd labors with intense focus over a pot of porridge.
She goes outside to gather the dry clothes, eager to be back in clothing that fits, and stops in the doorway as her gaze falls on a lone figure sitting on a rock, staring out to sea.
At first she considers ignoring him, still smarting from his cold treatment, but the same urge from the night before calls to her, pulls her to his side. She perches beside him on the sun-warmed boulder, sitting on her hands with shoulders hunched. Her discomfort only increases as he makes no move to acknowledge her.
They just sit there, neither speaking, a good half a foot between them. Rowan is struck by the contrast between this moment and where they were just a week ago when they had spent the day pressed together side-by-side. Then it had seemed like they would never run out of things to say to each other, even with her limited ability to speak his language.
A dry laugh comes out of her, drawing Ivar's attention. He raises his eyebrows at her, judging her for finding amusement in anything at this moment. It's a sobering, aloof look that she can't meet for long, forces her to look down at her lap.
"So," He says with a bitter smile. "Are we not friends anymore?"
Rowan looks up at him, startled by the question. How could he ask that? She could have easily leapt off that damned cart and stayed in Wessex. She may not have chosen to leave but she had made a choice to stay with him because he was her friend; her only friend now. Is he being sarcastic, picking on her for daring to call him that before? Or is he just as bothered as she is by the new distance between them?
Rowan rests her chin on his shoulder, swallows her pride and whispers. "Always."
Something that might have been a smile tickles at the corner of his mouth before he quickly recovers and wraps himself with a facade of seriousness.
"You seem to have no trouble making new friends."
"Hm?" She tilts her head, still on his shoulder, and furrows her brow with confusion.
"I saw you yesterday."
One eyebrow raises. Rowan tries to tilt her head more to see Ivar's face better, but he stubbornly turns away so she can't read his expression."
"In the forest." He clarifies. "With Sigurd."
She shrugs. "Yes, and…?"
Ivar whips around to look at her, dislodging her and forcing her to lean back from the sudden onslaught of his anger.
"And? And?" Ivar shouts. "And what do you want with me now? Are you here just to pity the poor orphaned cripple?"
Rowan blinks slowly, a little stunned. "Why I pity you?"
Ivar blinks back, startled out of his rage by her question.
"You're a prince. You have a home, brothers. Your mother and father, they keep you, love you. You have all this. What to pity?"
He turns away from her just as sharply, face crumpling with seething indignation. But Rowan chooses touch him this time, one hand rubbing circles on his back and the other tugs on his sleeve to try and make him listen.
"I sorry for your mother, but not pity. My heart hurt for your hurt. Understand?"
His mouth twists as if he's preparing to spit on her words, but he only breathes with heaving, shaking breaths that move his whole body. When he reaches up to cover the hand that still holds his sleeve with his own, she knows that he's begun to calm down. But then he reaches out, tries to brush a finger down her cheek. She shies away like a startled deer, scrambles to her feet and calls back with affected brightness as she prances away that he should come help her.
Ivar does follow her but only settles himself against the outside wall of the cabin to watch. He looks up at the high line sardonically when she complains.
"What would you have me do? Tie myself on top and hand things down to you?"
Rowan smirks back at him. "No, but I could put the basket on your back and you could drag it back inside like a turtle."
His face falls into an unamused pout and she has to snatch the basket away when he reaches over to tip it into the dirt. They go in with only a brief skirmish over being the first to enter and settle down at the table for breakfast.
Ubbe has returned at some point with a pair of rabbits, and Rowan is acutely aware that he must have seen her and Ivar together at the water's edge. Though both he and Sigurd watch their interactions closely, Ubbe's gaze has a suggestion of wariness. It takes her awhile to realize that it reminds her of the way her own brother would watch her male friends sometimes, mistrustful.
"Who is she to you, Ivar?" Sigurd asks, apparently deciding that the atmosphere isn't quite uncomfortable enough. "She's not your slave, she's certainly not your woman, so why did you bring her here?"
Ivar smiles ominously, rolling his head to examine Rowan sitting beside him. "She is… my person."
"What is that supposed to mean?" Sigurd hisses, suddenly bristling.
The darker brother grins at him, cheerfully popping a morsel of rabbit meat into his mouth.
"Yes, Ivar." Rowan gives him a thin smile. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"
He just shrugs his shoulders enigmatically and chuckles to himself while his brothers start to look a little nervous and Rowan squints her eyes at him in an attempt at chastisement that he happily disregards.
Ivar's momentary good mood doesn't last long. Rowan can almost see the moment that he remembers that his mother is dead and he retreats back into himself. The desire in her heart to do something to comfort him wars with the knowledge in her head that there is probably nothing she can do.
In the end he leaves to be alone once again and she finishes cleaning the cabin. In the process she finds several garments that need some mending, and she asks Sigurd for some sewing supplies. The fabric and workmanship put into their simplest shirt is as fine as any she had seen in Wessex. Only these clothes reflect an active lifestyle spent outdoors, and she can see where someone has already had to sew up small tears. Even for the most privileged sons in the village, something like clothing that takes so much time to create is used for as long as possible and never casually discarded.
Sigurd looks a little uncomfortable with all the work Rowan's been doing, and she has to assure him that it's no great trouble and that she only wants to show her gratitude for their hospitality.
Once again, Ivar returns in the night. He creeps inside under the cover of darkness and tries to remain as quiet as possible as he prepares to sleep.
Or Rowan assumed that he meant to sleep. Only instead of maintaining the No Man's Land between them from last night she feels him slip up behind her under the furs. His hand softly grasps her elbow as he leans in, pressing his nose behind her ear and breathing in deeply as if trying to commit the scent of her to memory.
One stiff jerk of her elbow and he pulls back for a moment, only to lean in again. He mouths softly at the junction between her jaw and neck, brushing her hair out of the way with gentle petting motions.
Rowan swats him away as if he were a pesky fly.
"Rowan." Ivar whispers, irritated but still mindful that his brothers are sleeping nearby. When she doesn't respond he calls to her again, more firmly. "Rowan, can we at least–"
"If you not shut it and sleep," She warns with a hiss. "I will sleep in the forest."
He doesn't respond, but his silence speaks volumes. With a huff and something that sounds profane he rolls away from her makes a great production of wrestling the blanket over himself and punching his pillow into submission.
Neither of them sleeps well that night. At breakfast they don't speak or look at each other, a fact that seems to fill Sigurd with an unholy glee.
"Sleep well last night, Beinlausi?" He asks with a grin that suggests that he wasn't the incident between them hadn't gone unobserved.
That's not what causes Rowan to look up at Sigurd and stare in shock. Ivar looks like he might strangle his brother and opens his mouth to speak but doesn't get a word out before Rowan blurts out, "What did you call him?"
All three men look at her, trying to gauge whether she is surprised by the nickname because she understands the insinuation and is upset on Ivar's behalf, or perhaps she only misheard.
"Beinlausi?" She asks Sigurd, disbelieving her own ears. "You call him Beinlausi?"
Sigurd nods.
"Ívarr hinn Beinlausi." Rowan looks at Ivar, eyes wide. "You are Ivar the Boneless?"
She can't breathe. The room feels like it's closing in around her and she has to get out or suffocate. Before anyone can stop her she's up from the table and out the door, fleeing from her realization.
This boy who has become her only friend; this young man who she had sex with in a moment of desperate grief; he is will one day conquer the world.
*.*.*
How did I forget?
Ragnar Lothbrok had several sons, Sigurd Snake-in-the-eye, Bjorn Ironside. But the fiercest of all was Ivar the Boneless. He nearly conquered all of England. Some say he did conquer Ireland, and that he and his descendants ruled over it for years.
It's just not something that ever occurred to me. He seems so erratic. It's hard to think that he could ever lead an army, much less successfully.
I have to try to remember. Remember as much as I can. If I'm going to survive here I have to try and be one step ahead of history.
History. I'm in the middle of history. I can't help but wonder, is it really set in stone? Is Ivar destined to be a vicious warlord? How many people is he going to kill? How many lives is he going to trample over in his pursuit of power? And is there anything at all I can do to change it?
For those who don't know, Ivar calling Rowan 'his person' comes from the K-drama version of Scarlet Heart. In Korean, the word translated as 'person' literally means a human being. Just saying 'my' has some pretty deep connotations in a language where even talking to a stranger you would refer to your father as 'our father', even if you have no other siblings.
Question 1: How do you think Sigurd and Ubbe feel about Rowan and her relationship with Ivar?
Question 2: Does the way Rowan has been acting with Ivar since The Night make sense?