The shores of Kattegat were sparkling in the late afternoon sun and though the autumn water was cold, Thorunn paused a moment in her work to indulge the consideration of a moment's bathe along the rocks. (Better still would be a tub warmed by the fire, but she spent enough time hauling and heating water for her master and mistress' comfort—on the infrequent occasions they indulged—to know better than to imagine that such a luxury would ever be hers.)
She slapped the thick woolen garment against the stones to loosen the final remnants of dirt and grime from its weave, and then swished it methodically back and forth through the gray lake water several times. The cloth was sodden and would take hours to dry in the sun, but she had been working since the break of day and this was the last of the washing now.
She wrung out the well-worn clothing, stretched it over the rocks to drip and rose, digging callused but cold-red fingers into fists against the center of her back. Though young, she was tall, and such work made her bones ache. When she was smaller, at least, her mistress Hilde had taken part in some of the household tasks. Now it was left wholly to her as befit a grown slave girl, Hilde would remind her when Thorunn hadn't accomplished all of her duties by the fall of night.
And one of the frequent celebrations of the freemen would start shortly, going on and on as the moon slipped by outside, while she numbly served drinks and brought food until all were at last sated. When they had left the great hall and she had tidied the night's messes, the mugs, the spilled wax, the dog-crunched bones underfoot—not alone, of course, there were other thralls such as herself—she had then to curl up in a corner and spend a few hours in the silence of exhausted sleep. More often than not she didn't bother to return the short distance to her mistress' hut, if there was yet more cleaning and preparation of meals in the morning. Her mistress owned her, but the vague and often quickly changing royalty of Kattegat had the final word over Thorunn's comings and goings.
Of course, the king was Ragnar and had been for some while now, there was no mistaking him (as vague as the convolutions of leadership typically were to someone in her lowly position). And Lagertha the fierce shield-maiden, often at his side and the mother of his children; Bjorn and a handful of arrogant younger brothers all who intimidated her and she was careful not to get near any of them.
Thus far Thorunn had observed that for the most part, when it came to the freemen visiting or local, no one much minded who passed a flagon into their hand as long as it was full to overflowing, and the same for platters of meat and fish; and as long as she didn't trip on someone's cloak or knock food into the jaws of the ravening dogs underfoot, no one bothered her much. She'd learned that lesson quickly—performing her tasks in silent and swift succession led to a far lesser degree of mistreatment from her mistress or indeed from anyone else.
But today—now—she was tired, and that didn't bode well for not making mistakes in public. Thorunn sighed, ending her stretch that had already lasted long enough to gain her a glare from a neighboring slave whose only advantage over her own position was that of years. She gathered up the last of the wet laundry and brought it to the communal hanging ropes to dry. Clouds had scudded overhead, threatening the drying power of the sun, possibly foretelling a squall. The hall would smell even more of wet dog and sheep than usual, if such rain fell. Thorunn had picked flowers with the other girls to slip under pillows to sweeten the air of the king's family's rooms, but she spared no such niceties for herself. Her pillow was her own arm curled under her head most nights, an extra blanket rolled haphazardly a luxury. She fell asleep within moments regardless. But it would be nice to fall asleep to such pleasant scents. There were not feasts every night, to be sure, and on those occasions she slept in the hut of Hilde and her husband Haldgren, listening briefly to the snores and burps of the same.
She walked back up the streets to the higher ground that led away from the briny-tang air, the ships and the docks disappearing behind. Both boys and girls clattered by with shouts and swords, while smaller ones lingered in groups playing with poppets and wilted posies. Thorunn thought, as she usually did, what a great noisy trouble children could be and was glad she'd had no siblings to help raise into slavery alongside herself. Her parents, long dead of a sickness. The other slaves thought her lonely without family, but Thorunn, though she had no idea how many years she'd spent growing up in Kattegat, considered solitude to be far preferable to any other arrangement. Far too easily could relatives be threatened, bribed, turned against their own to torment or even betray. She saw it regularly, when she lurked in the hall to watch judgments being handed down from King Ragnar. She'd seen things even within his family, things she wasn't supposed to see. Things she was supposed to forget upon seeing, if she saw them at all.
Thorunn had no taste for gossip and disliked the thought of punishment too much to indulge in it. Thus, in addition to no relatives, she had no friendships, either. She was certain some of the others thought her dim-witted, since she had so little to say on any topic, even one as simple as the weather, or what festival approached. But that was fine. If she was dim-witted, she couldn't be sought out to confirm truth or falsity, and thereby could avoid problems.
Lost in her thoughts, mulling over the work of the morning and the evening to come, she narrowly avoided a pitcher of foul fluid coming from an overhead ledge; it spattered on her sleeve even so. Thorunn glanced up, but the person had already retreated. She wrinkled her nose at the stained fabric. It was a work-dress of some years of age and already getting short for her—had she reached her full height, even? She hoped. Being of an equal height with many of the young men was a disadvantage in a slave. Ineffectually, she scrubbed at the sleeve with the nearly as dirty opposing wrist. A warm bath would be...a thing of delight, not to be longed for. Hilde had once shrieked at her for holding back the smallest buckets of heated water for her own ablutions. It was infrequent scrubs at the lake's edge or by the well for her and the other thralls. Slaves weren't to be fastidious.
Helping to prepare food in the great kitchens took up the rest of the day's fading light, and she found herself sweaty and tired, hauling out mugs to tables that were rapidly filling. Her brain, not called upon to be a lively hub of activity at any particular time, moved into its habitual slow, numb pace. She moved without enthusiasm, ducking the odd hand here, the ale-soaked breath there. At the longest table, Ragnar's sons were seated, though their parents seemed not to be in attendance yet. They were jesting and laughing in their way that seemed easy but always had an undercurrent about it. She deposited drinks in front of them quickly, just about to slip the last tankard by the elbow of the darkest-haired one—Ivar, the boneless—when he drew back his elbow, as if to hit the brother closest to him, and sent the drink flying backwards into her skirt.
Thorunn caught it reflexively as the contents spilled, soaking her in muddy ale. Rather horrified, she stared without moving for a few moments, until she cut her gaze sideways to see several pairs of blue eyes on her. Not Ivar's—he cocked his head to the side and stared with his rude smile at at the dripping cup she still clutched.
"F-forgive me," she muttered, though likely not loud enough to be heard past the clamor of the rest at the table.
"Why do you gape like an idiot, bring another," he said, between his bared teeth.
She ducked her head and hurried away to do so, hearing laughter as she went. Mostly she was completely unable to be shamed—one needed pride in order to be shamed, and that had been beaten out of her at an early age—but to spill or stumble before those of higher status, such as the princes of Kattegat, was to be singled out for notice. Hilde would be angry. Hilde was angry enough as it was. Thorunn didn't know what a kind word from Hilde would even sound like; she'd never seen the woman's face soften into anything resembling sympathy or like-mindedness.
Burying such thoughts, Thorunn returned quickly with a fresh drink and set it in front of Ivar with the utmost care. He did not acknowledge the replacement and she did not expect him to. She threw one last glance at them meaning to slink away but Bjorn caught her eye and tilted his head to the side. Preparing for a reprimand verbal or otherwise, she circled obediently behind them and came to his side, the closest to the end of the table.
"You should change your dress," he said, mildly enough. Thorunn stood rooted, uncertain what this might mean, beyond the obvious. "It's too small for you anyway," he added, throwing a glance at her stretch of bare leg.
"Yes," she said, finding her voice. "But I have no other."
He had just started to look away, back to the chatter of his brothers when this made him glance back up at her. "No other?"
"None but this," she confirmed, rather woodenly. Odd thing for a man to take interest in.
"What's your name?" he persisted, and she was glad only that there was enough noise and talking and general raillery around them that no one else appeared interested in their unexpected conversation.
Thorunn fidgeted with her sleeve, confused. "I am of Hilde," she temporized.
"I didn't ask who owned you."
"I'm sorry." Was she supposed to call him 'my prince'? She'd never had occasion to speak to any of them, much less make a self-introduction. "I..I am Thorunn." Her name sounded strange in her ears, with few opportunities to hear it and even fewer to use it herself.
"Thorunn," Bjorn repeated. "Tell Hilde to get you another dress." He picked up his ale and drained it in what seemed like one quick swallow. Thorunn watched his throat, so fascinated by the uniqueness of the moment that she was still temporarily frozen in place. Then she bobbed and skittered away, feeling curiously adrift.
She spilled no more ale that night, nor food, but had to exert a more than usual need for concentration the rest of the evening.
And she dreamed, in the corner by the dogs in the early hours of the next day, that Hilde had indeed given her a new dress, one beautiful enough to be worn by a famous warrior's wife, and then told her to take herself to the river and drown herself in it. She woke with dying smoke from the fireplaces in her lungs and the sensation of water filling her airway. It was not a pleasant way to wake.
Winter was on its way, since the first snow had come (and melted almost as soon as it had arrived, so there were yet fair days to be had). Thorunn's days were entirely predictable from daybreak until nightfall, whether the weather were fine or not, but now the tasks of preparing for the cold season to come were added to her duties. Fish and berries and all manner of foodstuffs must now be preserved to see the village through until spring, so Thorunn could spend more time than normally allowed in the fields and hills, foraging with the others—or occasionally on her own, which she preferred.
She was able to snatch small periods each day after foraging, where she could nap, curled like a puppy among the late autumn flowers under the sky, catching up from the all-too- brief nights. These stolen moments of peace and rest were often the sole thing that kept her moving throughout the day, after hauling water and wood and clearing tables in the main hall and preparing food. Only twice in her memory had Hilde and Haldgren made the long trek to the temple at Uppsala, leaving her behind, and she cherished those quiet days in their absence like a beloved dream.
King Ragnar's intimidating sons and her strange interaction with the eldest passed from her mind quickly enough, and it was with complete confusion she spotted Bjorn, some days later, heading purposefully in her direction where she was crouched gutting fish on a low table outside Hilde's hut. She looked over her shoulder, to be sure he was really coming towards her and not someone of more importance. Indeed, he stopped, a few paces away, with a somewhat bemused expression.
Thorunn rubbed her suddenly itching nose with the relatively-not-fishy back of her hand, looked from side to side, then back up at Bjorn. What to say? What is it you want? No trouble, please. Hilde was just indoors and already in a cross mood over something or another, and Thorunn had no wish to further ignite her wrath. She felt her face settling into a somewhat pained expression, the longer he stood there looking at her. Perhaps he was waiting for her to say something first? But she could think of nothing at all to say.
At last he announced: "I have something for you."
What now was this? She saw now he had something rolled up under his arm. Cautiously, she crouched further back on her haunches and poked the knife into the wood. He was surely too old for boys' tricks, wasn't he? A snake, a headless animal, some bit of unpleasantness to make the unwary recoil?
He saw it in her eyes, the realization of her suspicion coming to him. "It's nothing bad, I promise," he said with a faint smile that had none of Ivar's odd cruelty about it.
Thorunn still couldn't let her taut shoulders relax. "My mistress—" she began, unable to think of any other protest.
"I'm sure it matters nothing to her."
"You're sure," Thorunn repeated, dully. "But you do not know her.."
"She's one of my people, isn't she? Just as you are." Bjorn's tone made it sound simple.
Thorunn stared at him, wondering if she were one of this assured young man's people. And what, if anything, that meant to him. That they were his property, most likely. Which was true, now that she considered it, although she had never thought of herself as being particularly anybody's other than Hilde's, even while the residents of the great hall ordered her about nearly as much. She was simply a slave, and a slave must needs be answerable to anyone. It was not something to rail or protest against, any more than the coming of winter could be railed or protested against.
"Come," Bjorn said, nodding with his head in the direction of away. She could not have been more shocked if he had instructed her to fly over the mountaintops, and it was this shock that startled her into murmuring "Where?" rather than immediately complying.
"I want to go for a walk."
Thorunn moved her eyes in all directions, not insolently, but as if help would appear if she only looked hard enough for it.
"With you," Bjorn specified.
"I have these to gut," she said, helplessly, gesturing at the table in front of her.
"They will keep a little longer. Come with me." He held out his hand, and she was obliged to drop the fish she had been clutching and wipe her hand before taking his, gingerly. He pulled her up, and they stood nearly eye to eye for a moment. She was only a few inches shorter.
Bjorn's nose wrinkled.
Self-consciousness was not a familiar emotion to Thorunn—it was too close to shame, and for a few moments she wasn't quite sure what she was feeling. He had very blue eyes, that was certain. And he smelled—clean, and alive, like trees. She backed up, pulling her hand away.
But she followed, shuffling, when he started to walk away (looking over his shoulder to ensure she was coming.) The gods alone knew what she would face from Hilde whenever they returned from this mysterious destination, but in this moment, whatever his motivations, Ragnar's son could not be gainsaid.
She kept an eye on the shapeless bundle under his arm as they walked, wondering what bad or good thing it might contain.
Bjorn moved quickly through the village and up into the hills, only pausing to make sure she was keeping up. Not having gone out yet to forage that day, Thorunn was well able to, matching her strides to his although she still lingered behind him. On most of the narrowing paths it was not possible to walk side by side in any case. The village fell away below them and they followed the river path further up into the forest.
He stopped abruptly—she nearly ran into him—and pointed to where the river, from this height little more than a quickly falling stream, pooled briefly into the ground below.
"Wash," Bjorn said, succinctly.
The water would be cold—but there was enough of a basin to partially immerse oneself in. But she stared, unmoving.
He shook out the bundle under his arm and held it out for her inspection. She took it with cautious fingers. A dress, simple in cut and cloth, unpretentiously undyed. Clean.
He widened his eyes at her. "Is it all right? You're tall. I don't know how it'll fit."
"I don't understand," Thorunn said, carefully, fearful of a flash of anger, but he only sighed a little. "Go on, wash, and put this on. I won't watch if you don't want."
Modesty was not even really of primary concern, she just wanted to know what he was about. Were his brothers, or friends, lurking nearby, to mock her, to throw pebbles? The rich were easily bored and easily entertained. Thorunn knew better than to put anything past them. In fairness she had never seen Bjorn bothering anyone in public, however.
Slowly, she made her way to the stream's edge, where there was enough undergrowth for her to crouch and slip into the shallow water. She looked back at Bjorn but he had turned a shoulder, apparently uninterested. Bemused, but accepting there were worse things than being granted a few moments to bathe in fresh water, she stuck her head under the cold fall and let it stream over her body. She scrubbed until her skin tingled and there was no trace of fish or other offal about it. The wet dress was a pile on the rocks, but she pulled that in and scrubbed it too, working sand into the material. Thorunn hummed, unexpectedly invigorated by the cold.
"Are you done over there?" Bjorn called, giving her a side eye. She was unbothered; modesty, again, was for the freewomen. There was no need to hide what could be claimed by virtually anyone.
"Nearly," she answered, giving her hair another rinse and twisting the water out before deftly rebraiding it. Now her teeth were chattering so she scrambled out and pulled the dress over her head. She patted her own arms, thrilling to the new feel, the relative softness against her sense-awakened skin. A bit more diffident, she rejoined Bjorn, scanning his face for any evidence of what he might be expecting from her now. It seemed premature to thank him if she didn't yet know what she might be paying for such largesse. Nor did she want to offend him by not expressing appropriate gratitude.
"Better?" was all he said, looking her up and down.
"Better," she agreed at once.
"You should burn that other thing."
"If you wish." Thorunn would do no such thing unless he made her do it in his presence; otherwise, she fully planned to dry it, fold it smoothly with herbs tucked in the creases and set aside for future use. What she could count among her possessions were few enough that she could afford to toss anything out. A wooden comb for her long hair, the teeth stubs by now; a weathered bag to haul foraged food in, a scarred knife she used to whittle bones here and there. Once she had taken the time to make a necklace out of tiny shells before Hilde found and confiscated it, saying that she clearly needed more work if she had that much freedom to make frivolous things.
She shivered, abruptly, her body still attempting to warm itself after the chill of the water. Bjorn pulled a half-cloak of gold-tipped fur off his own shoulders and draped it casually around hers. "Winter's coming," he said.
She stared at him, hunching instinctively into the soft warmth of the wrap—she'd never worn anything so fine. Her own winter furs were a quarter this thick, matted and torn. Was this yet another gift? Surely he would tell her now what he expected. Was his interest lascivious? Why would it be, there were plenty of girls of status or not who would happily go to him. Did he want her to carry stories, betray some trust? Thorunn shifted nervously. She preferred her anonymity. Better to be thought dull than sharp.
"What is it?" he asked. "You don't like any of this? You don't smile."
"I...I do not know what you want," she said, deciding to trust him with a bit of truth.
He shrugged. "I only wanted to fix my brother's rudeness. So I asked someone where I could find you. They said your mistress keeps you busy."
"That is true," Thorunn conceded.
Bjorn's eyes were intent, distracting her by their very focus. "Is she cruel to you?"
Thorunn hesitated. Long enough for Bjorn's lips to tighten. "I don't want trouble," she said, disliking the feebleness of such a protest, but with no voice to push it further.
"There's no reason for anyone in Kattegat to suffer," Bjorn said, "if they're not a criminal or prisoner. Are you a criminal, Thorunn?"
"No," she said staunchly, certain of that at least (although someone in her history had been, of course, for that was the reason there were slaves to begin with, so it was told.)
"Then." He extended hands palms up as if this were indisputable proof. "I will speak with Hilde."
"No, please." Thorunn startled herself with her own protest, but even as she did, she knew the futility—there was already the issue of the gifted clothing to elicit Hilde's questioning and wrath. "You have already given me this dress, this—fur, if you mean me to keep it, I will be very warm this winter." You have done enough, blue-eyed son of Ragnar.
"I will speak to Hilde," he repeated, "because if I do not, she will take these things from you. No?"
Thorunn twisted a damp strand of hair between her fingers and ducked her chin even deeper into the furs. Now that she had it, she did not want to give it up. Such a pelt would be so delicious a pillow at night. She looked up again, meeting his gaze in assent.
"Let us go back," Bjorn said, as if all had been settled, gesturing for her to lead the way and set the pace of their return. Thorunn caught up the wet bundle of old dress and complied, consumed with thoughts of how Hilde would react, the rest of the way down the mountain.
She did not want to return to beheading and gutting fish in her pristine clothing, but the task had to be finished and quickly too, so when Bjorn ducked to enter Hilde's shack (Thorunn herself had to duck) she rolled up her sleeves and set the fur carefully aside before picking up the knife. She could not hear the conversation inside, but she hunched her shoulders when Bjorn left and Hilde appeared, her face sour as an early apple.
Short and wiry, Hilde's hands were already on hips, her posture critical. "Well. And what did you do that Ragnar Lothbrok's eldest gave you such fine clothing? You're not the prettiest of the girls, even of the slaves. Did you lie with him?"
Thorunn shook her head.
"Why not?"
"He did not ask."
Hilde snorted. "He does not have to ask."
Thorunn lifted a shoulder.
Her mistress pondered the oddity of this. Thorunn considered telling her she was honestly just as unenlightened.
"Well, he was quite clear about his wish for you to keep the things," Hilde sniffed. "Are you certain you gave no service to earn such a command?"
"Yes, mistress."
A huff of displeasure. "Be faster with those fish."
Thorunn nodded, bending her head toward the task again. But when Hilde went back inside she looked over at the golden-tipped fur, clean and brushed, glistening in the sunlight, and allowed herself the smallest of smiles.
Kattegat's winters were cold and blustery, a naturally dormant period that preceded the excitement and activity of the coming spring raids that were on most people's minds. Servants had a little more time to sleep during the longer darker nights. For Thorunn this time passed relatively peacefully, as she continued her duties in the great hall and her service to Hilde, wherever needed. Her presence anywhere continued to be largely unnoticed, which was how she liked it, and though several times she had been serving in the great hall when Ragnar's family was all present, she'd been able to make some excuse or another to the other girls and avoid going near them. Ivar made her nervous anyway, there was something not right about him beyond his broken body. She'd noticed Bjorn a few times, but he had done no more than make eye contact before she looked away and found something else to do.
There was much talk of where the spring raids were going to take the warriors. In the quieter moments of night, Thorunn found herself thinking of what it would be like to board the ships and cross the seas to foreign lands. She had much admiration for Lagertha and the other shieldmaidens of note, and had often wished, if she wished for a different life at all, that she had been born to a free family, so she might have trained with the warriors and joined them on their adventures. Mostly she was too practical to indulge greatly in daydreams, but there was something about the inactivity of winter that did stir some of these long-buried urges.
At last the hard freezes began to soften and the milder days of late winter came. The village bustled with preparations for the departures. Thorunn was on shore with many of those who would stay behind in Kattegat, watching while the ships were being loaded. Bjorn and his brothers, all but Ivar, with their energetic jubilance visible even at a distance. Ivar had come to the docks too, his contrapuntal sullenness also easy to spot without being close. With Bjorn's furs wrapped around her shoulders, Thorunn inhaled deeply of the new spring winds and recited some of the prayers to the gods for safety and victory for their men and women about to travel. Fast winds, low waves, the crushing defeat of anyone on dry land who would oppose them. She watched the ships sail out of the bay with a tugging at her heart, wanting to be part of it. Not to return to the huts and halls and crush herbs and wipe tables and empty chamber-pots uncountable times.
The spring stretched into gloriously warm and flowering summer, and the warriors returned, triumphant. The great hall had never been so full and busy the first night. Benches were crammed and many could only stand, giving rousing toasts to the tanned and grinning raiders, men and women alike. Thorunn ducked about her work, trying and failing to stay out of everyone's way. The air was thick with bodies, the scent of roasted meat, and the flavor of foreign lands brought in on the winds. Treasures shared between lovers caught the firelight and glinted before being slid around wrists or slipped into the folds of cloaks. Laughter. A few drawn expressions, a few losses to mourn, a few feuds that never died, but mostly everyone was happy, proud. Satisfaction was on faces, arms were thrown about the shoulders of comrades.
Returning to the kitchens, Thorunn felt a hand encircle her wrist. Reflexively she twisted to move out of it—grabbing hands were nothing new, and she was always quick enough to avoid getting pulled onto someone's lap and then a beery embrace—but this hand's resistance was firm. She turned. It was Bjorn, with a grin. "Come outside with me," he said, and she mostly had to read his lips, as it was so loud. "It's too hot in here."
Thorunn let herself be guided out a side exit where they usually tossed scraps to whichever animals had been banished outside for the duration. She nearly stepped on a careless chicken that squawked and ran underfoot. Brushing the sheen of sweat off her forehead, Thorunn looked at Bjorn evenly. "Your journey was successful?" she said, only to regain the sense of some semblance of control after having been hauled outside. Not that he had been rough.
"Yes! Very," he said, his voice animated. He took a long breath. "All the things we saw. If we could show them to the people here. It was—" Bjorn threw out arms to indicate the vastness, the inexplicability. She nodded, to show she understood, even if she didn't, not really. She wanted to understand. And she wanted him to know that, for some reason. Even if it had been months since they'd spoken. Even if they had nothing in common beyond calling Kattegat their home.
"Yes?" she said, when his face seemed to fall a little, after a few moments of silence.
He looked away for a moment and then back at her. "But perhaps you don't care."
"I do," she said quickly, surprising herself. "I do care. I want to know the stories. I would be part of it, if I didn't..."
The chickens squawked around their feet, reminding her, as she trailed off, that she did. She did have to be here.
She thought there was understanding in his eyes, but perhaps it was just pity.
"I should go back," Thorunn said, after another moment, but didn't move.
"Wait," he said. "I have something for you." He slipped his hand into a pocket and pulled it out, extending it. On his palm, a small round stone with a hole in its center. It was polished and shone, even in the dim evening light. Thorunn took it, closing her fingers around its pleasingly perfect uniformity, turning it up on her own palm.
"I thought it might make you smile. You never smile," he said, the ghost of one around his own lips.
"There is no particular reason to smile—or to be sad," Thorunn added, lest this sound too self-pitying. "What should I do with this?"
"Keep it. Pull a cord through, wear it." He shrugged. "Or throw it away if you don't like it."
"I did not say I didn't like it." She put a hand impulsively on his forearm before pulling it back, somewhat shocked at her boldness to touch a prince so freely, but the mild hurt in his voice had not been concealed. He didn't seem upset by the touch, however. His shoulders dropped a little. "Will you wear it then?"
"If you like." She felt her face warming. Someone let up a great shout inside, and she turned, almost stumbling.
"Thorunn. It's fine. You can be out here with me. If anyone has something to say—"
She looked back, mesmerized by the temptation of wanting to make one's own choices, without consequence. He couldn't possibly understand that. "I would like to hear your stories," she said, emboldened. I would like to know everything that you know.
"I'll tell you some," he said, seeming to brighten. "We can meet, in the afternoons. Tomorrow?"
He must have hordes of eager listeners; she'd seen the women clustered around the warriors' tables. For some reason, this pleased her, even though it was problematic at best, dangerous at worst. Hilde's comment came to her recall; you're not even the prettiest.
"I..."
"I'll say you're needed here. Or, we can walk in the hills."
"Yes," Thorunn breathed, thinking of the beautiful weather that had been predicted as a blessing from the gods on the safe return of their men and women. How lovely to spend a few idle hours in the sun listening to Bjorn's tales of what he had seen and done. Hilde could scream all she wanted. If anyone has something to say...
Bjorn cocked his head and narrowed his eyes at her. "Does this mean I am finally going to get a smile?"
"I will tell you how to get one," Thorunn promised solemnly, without any idea of flirtatiousness in her mind. "Tomorrow."
He laughed and, too pleased with herself, she scuttled back indoors.