The old woman smiles watching the younger women around her with their children. Her daughters-in-law lead her gently by the arm into the bath house, setting her down on a bench and help her to undress.

She watches as others place hot rocks into the large tubs of water, filling the room with steam. They keep a close eye on her to make sure the old woman does not become overheated, but she waves them away. She may be old, but she still has enough sense to tell them if she feels faint.

Seat opens her pores, helping to rid her body of the impurities built up over the long week. Her skin is like the autumn leaves, thin and delicate. But she feels no envy as she looks upon the women and girls around her with their firm, young bodies. She does not regret her many, long years. Though there has been much pain – she has buried three good husbands, two sons, a daughter, and several grandchildren – there has been much joy as well.

When she had been sixteen, her first marriage had been arranged between her and her husband's fathers, though hers had been careful to seek her opinion before agreeing. They had little contact before the wedding, but they had grown fond of each other over the years of shared hardships. He had given her two sons before dying in a raid in a far off land.

Her second husband had approached her after a respectable period. The land she had inherited from her father when she married abutted his, and they had agreed that it was a good idea to marry and so join their farms together. They had both lost spouses, his wife had died in childbirth, and it had been a logical choice for both of them. Her father dead, her older brother had been the one to negotiate the contract that would bind their families.

There had been no nervousness like with her first wedding. After all, she was a woman who had been married for five years and born two children. There were no mysteries left for her there.

How wrong she had been. She still smiles at the memory of their wedding night, when her new husband had tenderly shown her the kind of passion that was possible between a man and woman. Though she had been no stranger to pleasure before – at least, after she and her young groom had started to figure things out between them – it was nothing compared to what she had with this man. It was like a fire that shocked her with its intensity, with no understanding from whence it had come.

Their union had given her four children, one after the other, two sons and two daughters. Though the younger boy died in infancy, they had comforted each other through their shared loss, as well as through the trials of trying to drag a living out of farming the harsh and unforgiving land.

When he was taken by illness, she had thought the grief would be the end of her. But she had managed to go on for the sake of their young children.

Her third husband had baffled her at first. What was this man doing approaching a widow past childbearing years? It was the first time she had been truly courted, with poetry and gifts. She had accepted him, not for practical reasons, but for herself, for the sake of companionship and the sweet thrill she felt when he spoke. There was no reason for a contract this time. Their relationship was not about land and property.

Her as her sons and daughters had married and gone to their own homes. It wasn't until after her older daughter had returned home after being widowed that he told her that he wished to go on one last raid. He had soothed her loneliness for twenty years, and she would not deny him this last wish.

He had gone with Ragnar Lothbrok on his final journey, and had not returned.

She worked throughout much of her life, day in and day out to provide for her family. Now she has been given the luxury of idleness, the chance to sit quietly and watch the younger women around her. Many of them she had assisted into this world, and she has watched as each of them grew and began to blossom. They have all come to her at one time or another, asking her how to care for a fussy baby, how to get along with their husbands, and how best to use their meager resources.

Yes, she has had a good life, without regrets. Her body may show the effects of long years and many children, but it is not a source of bitterness for her. She would not give up one moment of her treasured memories to regain her youthful beauty.

A lone figure catches her attention. It is the half-Saxon with the strange name, the Christian who came back with Prince Ivar two months ago. It is unusual for her to join the other women and girls in the bath house, preferring to go to the lake to swim and bathe. But it has grown far too cold in the past week, and she has apparently decided to take advantage of the warm water of the bath house.

The girl has become a familiar sight to the old woman. From her seat at her son-in-law's stall in the marketplace, where she spends much of her time, she has watched as the girl plays her strange games with the village children. She has also seen how the young princes have taken to her. The eldest is often annoyed with her, but as protective as if she were his own sister. She watches as she scolds the fairest and he hangs his head meekly. The next moment he is beaming and proud as she praises his music, as if he has found in her the guidance and approval of a mother.

As for the youngest prince, he follows her; as silent, as possessive, as persistent and as dark as her own shadow. The old woman sees the way his face softens the moment his eyes fall on her, and how the girl seems completely unaware of his silent devotion.

Finally, she has seen how the girl has changed in the months since her arrival. When the old woman first saw her, she had been thin and wiry for her age. It had reminded her of the girls wanted to be shieldmaidens. Between their work at home and the intensive training, their bodies were often dense with muscle from an early age. But they also seemed to take a little longer to grow into womanhood.

Over the past weeks, though, the girl has noticeably filled out. Even the relaxed fit of her dress and hangeroc can't hide the new curves that have sprouted, seemingly overnight. Now, with no clothes to hide behind, the old woman's sharp eyes take in the shape of her with careful scrutiny.

The girl sees her watching. Her expression is curious but polite as she nods a greeting. The old woman, now sure of her suspicions, chuckles and beckons her over.

"I am Ingrunn." She introduces herself.

"I am pleased to meet you." The girl responds politely. "I am Rowan."

Ingrunn waves this off. She already knows this, and she did not call the younger woman over for simple pleasantries.

"How is your health?" She asks.

Rowan frowns in confusion and shrugs. "It is well."

The corners of the old woman's eyes and mouth crinkle in amusement. "You have not felt ill lately?"

"No. I am quite well."

"Daughter," Ingrunn chides with affection "do you not know?"

Her face is so openly bewildered by this line of questioning that Ingrunn has to laugh. She reaches out to cup one youthful breast. The younger woman winces and shies away from the touch, but Ingrunn persists, forcing her to look down at her own flesh. The mound hasn't just grown. It is painfully enlarged, and blue veins are plainly visible under the skin, radiating out from the nipple where small bumps have begun to show.

"Do you see?" Ingrunn says gently. "You are with child."

Rowan pushes her hand away, gently but firmly. "That isn't possible."

Ingrunn laughs again. "I have heard many a woman say that who welcomed a babe not long after."

"That's not possible." Rowan repeats more firmly.

"When did you last bleed?"

"I have not."

Every woman, even the ones who have been pretending not to hear them, goes silent. Dozens of pairs of eyes, including those of Ingrunn, stare at the girl in horror.

"You have never bled as a woman does?" The old woman tries to clarify. Her tone is suddenly different, soft like one would use with a child.

"No." Rowan shakes her head. "So you see, I can't be…"

She doesn't finish that statement. Despite her protestations, she is noticeably upset as she turns to gather her dress and leave. Ingrunn cannot regret speaking up, though. Better she know now than later. But someone would have to speak to the girl's adoptive mother soon. As it was, a notorious gossip had already scurried out the door, and the entire village would be talking about it by sundown. Squaring her shoulders, she called for her daughters-in-law to help her dress.

~...~

Generally speaking, Torvi is considered by all to be a calm, reasonable sort of woman; not prone to random outbursts or fits of temper. Even Ivar didn't mind her presence. So one couldn't blame the Ragnarssons for being surprised when, without warning, she descends upon them with all the fury of a wounded bear.

Ivar and his brothers are all gathered together in the fishing cabin to discuss plans for the raid when the door opens and Bjorn's wife enters, looking like a Valkyrie come to retrieve their souls. Only the expression on her face suggests that she will also be the one to end their miserable lives as well.

"Where is Rowan?" She asks, looking around the single room.

"She is not here, woman." Bjorn replies, annoyed by the interruption.

Ignoring her husband, Torvi glares at the other four brothers. Ivar smirks as he idly throws a small knife between his hands.

"What makes you think we would know where she is?"

"Because you always know where she is." Torvi snaps.

Ubbe is the first to realize that something very serious is happening. "What is the matter?" He asks.

"Don't you know?" She asks with a tilt of her head. "It seems everyone but me has heard, and only because Ingrunn herself came to speak with me."

"What are you talking about?" Ivar gestures with the knife for her to get to the point.

"Rowan is with child."

Ivar freezes, knife poised in the air. It's like a sudden fog, a numbness passes over him. At the same time, a thousand thoughts flash through his mind at once.

"And if I find out that one of you is responsible," Torvi gestures at Ubbe and Sigurd. "I will cut off your prick and feed it to you."

Bjorn steps forward to try and calm his wife, unusually gentle in the face of her extreme anger. "That is enough, Torvi. Obviously, if she is with child and the father is among our people he will be made to take responsibility. My mother will see to it. There is no need for such threats."

Torvi shakes off Bjorn's hand on her shoulder with a jerk. "If the father is among our people then he is a dead man. I will see to that."

He is quickly growing more irritated. "I said enough! She is a young woman. Unless she was forced you will do nothing."

"She is not a woman." Torvi meets his eyes steadily, making sure that the full meaning of her words sinks in. "She has never bled before."

There are a few rules in Ivar's society over how men are to behave with women, and they go like this.

The mere suggestion of dishonorable intentions towards a maid could result in her kinsmen coming together to maintain their honor, resulting in death.

By law a man could slap his wife, but it was generally not considered to be a good idea, as the wife would probably find a way for him to end up dead.

Freewomen are not to be even kissed without consent. Doing so will likely result in death.

Finally, seducing or raping a child was disgusting and dishonorable and, while the distinction between who was a child and an adult could vary in other respects, a girl who had not bled was unequivocally still a child. Whether she became pregnant mattered little, because whoever fathered the child lay with her before she could be considered an adult.

His brothers all look sickened. Ivar's head is spinning from trying to process everything he's heard. Rowan is pregnant. Rowan is too young. Someone is the father. That someone could be…

"I know where she is." He says, desperate to stop that line of thinking. "I'll go talk to her."

Some part of his mind is aware that Ubbe, Hvitserk and Sigurd all follow him as he leads them to the spot by the lake where Rowan goes to swim. Even in the extreme cold, it is the one place she would go to if she were upset. Up until this point, no one else has ever come here except for the two of them. But he welcomes their presence now, knowing that it will force him to be more wary of his actions when he speaks to her.

It appears that no one is there when they arrive. His brothers look about in confusion, but Ivar knows better. He settles himself on a boulder and waits for her to appear.

In less than a minute Rowan surfaces in front of him. She looks like a daughter of Ægir as she shakes the water from her eyes, pushing clumps of hair out of her face and laughing. She swims closer to lean against the overhanging rock, smiling and peering up at him through her dark lashes. If she were looking at any other person, they might think she was truly happy. But Ivar knows better. The shape of her mouth isn't quite right. There is a hint of agitation in her brown eyes that she only gets when she's trying to hide something from him.

"What are you doing here?" She asks lightly. "And you've brought the whole crew with you."

Why did she call them a crew? They weren't on a boat… Ivar has to stop himself from asking her. She's a master at diverting his train of thought with her nonsense, but he can't let that happen now.

"Well, the water is only slightly freezing. Do you want to join me?" She offers pleasantly when none of them speak.

Hvitserk steps forward. He seems to be the least affected by the situation, and is able to maintain his usual air of casual cheer as he offers her a hand. "Come on out. Let me help you."

With a glint of mischief, Rowan takes his hand and, planting her feet against a rock, tries to use her weight to pull him in with her.

It doesn't work. Hvitserk is prepared and he only has to lean back a little to maintain his balance. Rowan lets out a puff of frustration, but allows him to lift her out of the water now that her game has been foiled.

Sigurd is ready with a piece of cloth he found folded along with her clothes. She accepts it with a grateful smile and starts to ruffle it over her hair.

Ivar's gaze falls without his permission as it so often does lately. The simple linen vest she wears while swimming doesn't fit the way it used to. Her breasts have begun to strain against the lacing at the top, drawing his attention like a moth to a flame. He's tried to deny it, tried to pretend that his interest isn't what it is. When that hadn't worked he'd tried to avoid her completely when he knew she would be wearing her revealing outfit.

Now that he understands why her body has changed so much he's only more disgusted with himself. They're changing to prepare for what they're meant for, which is not to satisfy his perverse predilections. Perhaps Sigurd is right and some part of him has remained infantile. His mind twisting a part of women that is meant to feed their young into his own depraved fixation.

The thought gives Ivar the strength to look away. His curiosity urges him to look further down, to where her abdomen is partly exposed between the hem of her top and the waistband of her trousers. If he looks carefully, is there some change there? Can he perhaps detect the slightest swelling of her belly?

Rowan has stopped moving. Ivar looks up to see that she is looking back at him, and she's seen exactly where his gaze had just been fixed.

"Don't look at me."

It's not the words that shock Ivar, but the way her face twists in a way he's never seen before. There is a venom there that he wouldn't have thought her capable of.

"Don't look at me." Rowan repeats, even harsher this time.

He opens his mouth to speak, not even sure what he will say, but she doesn't allow it. In a single stride she stands before him, eyes wild.

"I said, don't look at me!" And with that she shoves him, hard, against the chest. Ivar barely moves from the impact.

In the next instant she's pushing him again, and again, yelling at him things he can't understand and then she's crumbling, falling against him. A terrible sound comes out of her. It's like an animal caught in a trap, panicked and primal. Then her small body begins to shake against him with huge, gut-wrenching sobs that sound like the howling of an abandoned dog.

It's only then, in between those horrible sounds, that she says something he understands.

"I want my mama!" Rowan cries against him. Over and over she repeats it. "Mama! I want my mama!"

Ivar looks at his brothers, completely lost as to what to do. Hvitserk appears to be fascinated –or more likely just hungry– Sigurd looks vaguely nauseated, and Ubbe just looks at Ivar like he's very, very disappointed in the way his little brother is handling the whole situation.

What the Hel is he supposed to do? What is he supposed to do when his person is falling apart in front of his very eyes? Rowan doesn't cry. Ever! He's the one who cries, and then Rowan comforts him. Puts him back together with her skinny little arms around his shoulders.

And with that, he realizes that he knows exactly what to do. Just like she's done for him so many times before, Ivar wraps his arms around her. Ignoring the presence of his brothers and what they might think, he tucks his face into her hair and gently rocks her from side-to-side.

At first, she tries to fight him, some of her earlier rage still fueling her. It doesn't take much for her to give in, though, and she clutches him back as she weeps into his shoulder.

Despite her extreme distress, or perhaps it's more accurate to say because of it, she's soon worn herself into a stupor. Only then does Ubbe step forward to wrap his cloak around her and lift her up into his arms. She's doesn't seem to have the strength to protest or move, just leans against him limply.

"Here, give her to me." Hvitserk finally speaks up, holding out his arms. Ubbe gives him a questioning glance, and he nods towards Ivar. "You carry Ivar, I'll take her."

It's a sensible plan. Ubbe has always been the one to carry Ivar on his back. And Ivar himself is in no fit state to crawl back to the village himself. Hvitserk takes the miniscule burden of Rowan's weight easily. Sigurd can carry her dress and shoes, anything more might be too much responsibility for him to handle.

He almost wishes they would leave him to himself. The pain of dragging himself across the stones might distract him from his thoughts. As it is, Ivar can't stop himself from watching as Hvitserk carries Rowan back to the cabin. Her eyes are closed. She's trying to shut them out, possibly afraid of what they might ask.

The question. The only question that matters. The one that burns in Ivar's throat till he wants to scream and shake her till she answers him. But he promised, and if he breaks that promise now, she will surely never speak to him again. And now, more than ever, it's imperative that she allows him to remain close, whatever the answer is.

Because Ivar doesn't really know, does he? Rowan has hardly been the most forthcoming with him about such things. Anything might have happened. The man she spoke of, he could have been more to her than a mentor.

Then there was the one English guard she'd been friendly with, and he remembers how her hair had fallen around her face that night, loose and disheveled. Strangely, it's the first time that he remembers looking at her and the word 'beautiful' and sprung to mind unbidden. He knew she had to have done something to convince the guard to leave her alone in his room that night.

Hel, for all he knows, Ubbe or Sigurd could have coaxed her into their bed at some point. How would he know? Really, what likelihood is there that he's even capable of such a thing?

And Ivar realizes, as he gazes on her sweet, troubled face, that it doesn't matter. Rowan is his person, whether she acknowledges it or not, and that means that she's his to protect. Whatever happens or has happened, he is the one who is there now. It's intoxicating for him to think that she has finally, finally shown a bit of weakness. That now, perhaps, she might one day come to need him just as much as he needs her.

Torvi runs forward as soon as she sees them approach. Ubbe is quick to reassure her that Rowan is uninjured, but he then takes her to one side to quietly tell her and Bjorn of everything that happened and the girl's breakdown. Bjorn is plainly uncomfortable, but he still gestures for Hvitserk to hand her to him.

"I will take her back to our home." He says briskly. "She can sleep there tonight."

"Yes, she must rest." Torvi nods, her expression dazed and her cheeks pale from worry.

As his oldest brother passes by, Ivar tries to reach up and touch her, but Bjorn sidesteps him with a glare. "Let her be." He snaps. "You've done enough."

Ivar watches the way Rowan curls into the eldest brother's chest, hiding her face against his shoulder while her arms wrap around herself protectively. He lets his hand fall. Bjorn is an idiot, but it's true, Rowan is irrationally upset with him right now. Tomorrow, after she's had time to calm down, he will visit her. He'll tell her of his plan, that she has nothing to worry about.

That night, Ivar dreams that she will wrap her arms around him again, perhaps even weep a little with gratitude. He will show her that he can be as strong and dependable as any man. Bit by bit, she will come to rely on him and maybe, one day, she will tell him that she takes back the promise she asked of him. And on that day he will finally speak of that night, and what it meant to him.

~...~

The first part of his great plan, going to see Rowan early in the morning by himself, is nipped in the bud almost immediately.

"Where do you think you're going?" Sigurd stands in front of the door, arms crossed, looking down at Ivar with a smug little smile.

"It is none of your business." Ivar hisses, glaring back at his brother.

"Oh?" Sigurd sneers. "Just going for a crawl in the woods?"

Ivar bares his teeth, prepared to get the other boy out of his way by force if needed, when Ubbe comes up behind him and lays a hand on his shoulder.

"I know you are concerned about Rowan, brother." He says. "We all are. So we will all go see how she is this morning."

It isn't what Ivar wants to hear, but he knows from Ubbe's tone that there is no use fighting. He snarls at his brothers to hurry up when he decides they're taking too long putting on their cloaks, and makes Ubbe carry him into the village. Even Hvitserk comes along. At least Margrethe makes no move to join in, choosing to stay back and work on her wedding dress instead.

As they approach Torvi and Bjorn's home, they find Guthrum passing by on the way to fetch water from the well. His face is pale. He tells them that Rowan returned to her little cottage in the evening and hasn't left since. His parents were up all night discussing what should be done, whether the adoption should be postponed.

He doesn't have to elaborate on the reason behind the uncertainty. The situation has changed. The priority has shifted from providing an orphan with a family, to giving a woman support and security. If Torvi were to adopt Rowan, she would legally be their niece. None of the Ragnarssons would be allowed to marry her and provide her child with an inheritance.

The thought of one of his brothers marrying his reynir fills Ivar with dread and nausea. He is suddenly desperate to see her, to assure her and himself that he is still the most important man in her life. Ubbe has already let him down, and he crawls quickly towards the door to Rowan's house.

Without knocking, he pushes the door open, calling softly in case she's still asleep, "Rey-"

He is interrupted by an object colliding with the doorframe just next to his head and a shrill scream from inside telling him to "GET OUT!"

A hand reaches out and shuts the door in front of Ivar while he is still too stunned to move, just as a cup sails over his head. Hvitserk looks down at him, somewhat sympathetic for once.

"Well, that could have gone worse." He says brightly.

"No, I really don't think it could." Ivar asked as if he disbelieves his own ears.

Hvitserk smiles and pats his shoulder. "It could! She could have had a better aim!"

Let's review. Rowan is preggers and totally freaking out. Ivar is in denial and thinks his things for boobies is weird. Torvi is prepared to commit murder because Rowan is still considered a child. And everyone is just trying to figure out how this is their lives.

Questions!

1. Beyond what he tells himself, how do you think Ivar feels about the baby? How will he react when he finally realizes that, the results are in, you ARE the father!

2. How do you think the village in general is going to feel about her pregnancy? What assumptions/gossip might go around about it?