Chapter Nine: Precipice

Though it was the season he was born in, Rúna knew Ivar hated the onset of winter. Fall never lasted long in Kattegat. A mere handful of weeks after the hunting feast, the first snow came. Granted, it was too powdery and light to last the day, but the arrival still had Ivar scowling. Snow greatly hindered his mobility, considering he crawled almost always.

He still wasn't steady enough on his crutches to chance using them in the snow and ice.

So it was really no surprise that Ivar was grumpy even after that first snow melted and was drank up by the earth. It wasn't even enough to turn the ground to mud, but the frown on Ivar's face would suggest it had been a full winter storm.

"What do you think?" Rúna asked, motioning with her chin toward Ubbe, Hvitserk, and Sigurd. The sea had already turned icy cold, adding weight to the Seer's prophecy of a hard winter. Each of the boys were taking turns running and plunging into the waves, seeing who could stand the cold the longest. "I think Ubbe might've just beat the record."

"I think they're all idiots," Ivar groused, taking a bite of the apple they were sharing. When fall slid into winter, there were a few precious days to eat the sweet, frosted apples before they began to rot. Something about the cold gave the apples a delicious, crisp bite to them. He offered her the apple from his gloved hand.

Prone to cold already, Ivar was always chilled during the winter months, no matter how many layers he wore. His gloves were leather, half a size too big to fit over said braces, but soft and pliable. Rúna took the apple from him, sinking her teeth into the opposite side. Usually soft, the fruit now crunched satisfyingly as she chewed, the sweetness filling her mouth.

The pair were sitting beneath a bare tree, watching Ivar's brothers in their foolish game. Just then, Sigurd slapped himself on the chest before running into the waves. He plunged headfirst, and Rúna began counting silently. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven… not as long as Ubbe's last submergence.

"I would bet they're trying to get sick." She glanced over at Ivar beside her, cheeks reddened by the chilly air, eyes searing in their brightness. Ubbe and Ivar had the same eyes, King Ragnar's eyes: shockingly, electrically blue. Like lightning had been trapped there. Those bright eyes weren't looking at her, though, rather glaring at the shoreline.

Rúna bumped him with her shoulder, earning herself the smallest of half-smiles. "So that new slave girl will have to tend to them. What's her name, again?"

"Margrethe."

"Mmm. Margrethe. She's pretty."

The girl was older than Ivar and Rúna, more of an age with Sigurd. She had soft blonde hair and a lilting accent in her high-pitched voice. Rúna couldn't remember where Aslaug had gotten the girl from, but she was fluent in their language despite her accent.

Ivar only grunted in response. He took another bite, somehow managing to look annoyed even while he chewed. Rúna drew her knees to her chest, making sure to keep her legs covered from the cold under her skirts. "You're no fun when you're grumpy. Maybe I'll leave you here and go run in the ocean myself."

"You'll drown in your wool. Or do you plan to strip down like the other three idiots?" The boys were all bare-chested and barefoot, having shirked their cloaks, tunics, and boots further up shore where the tide wouldn't touch them.

"Perhaps I do." Ivar turned to her, then, a wicked smirk on his face.

"No, you wouldn't. You're surprisingly modest for a girl raised in a brothel."

The time for layers had arrived. Rúna was wearing a gray, woolen long sleeved underdress with a dark blue overdress on top. Ivar reached for the bronze brooch holding secure the straps of her overdress. Nothing would have been exposed should he have succeeded in undoing the closure, but Rúna smacked his hand anyway, a burning blush climbing up her cheeks.

"See?" That mischievous look only brightened. "No one would even see anything through all that wool, and you still wouldn't remove even one layer."

"The more you say, the better giving myself to the ocean sounds. I could wear seashells in my hair."

"You could do that now if you really wanted to."

She threw her arms wide, letting herself fall back into the moss behind them. The cold of the snow hadn't been enough to hurt it, so though a little wet, it was still spongy soft beneath her back. Ivar remained upright, back rigid. "I could commune with the sea creatures. Invite all the little fishes and eels to sup on the finest seaweed."

"Njord would send you back," Ivar glanced at her over his shoulder, raising a dark brow before passing the fruit back to her. "If not for being annoying, then because I would insist upon it."

"Since when do the gods listen to you?" They were nearly to the core of their apple. Rúna could feel the seeds between her teeth in some bites. She spit them discreetly into her hand before tossing them to the half-frozen ground beneath them.

"They listened to my father for a time. Perhaps they will heed my voice one day as well." He shrugged, taking the last reasonable bite the shared apple could manage before tossing the core over his shoulder. It went sailing over Rúna's head, landing with a thud somewhere behind them.

"Perhaps."

The pair lapsed into a companionable silence, as was their habit. That silence was cut short, however; a triumphant yell from Hvitserk rang through the air. Ivar grabbed Rúna's hand, pulling her back into a seated position in time to watch Hvitserk swimming back to shore.

"His face is nearly blue!" Rúna exclaimed, taking in the ghoulish pallor. Hvitserk's lips were blue, and it looked like his teeth were chattering. Understandably. She shook her head, Ivar sneering beside her.

"Idiot."

They said it in unison, leaving Rúna smothering her laugh in her hand while Ivar gave his first true smile that day. Ivar couldn't help but laugh, either, doubling over at the waist when Hvitserk began to chase their brothers across the beach. He was a little stiff from the cold, but it wasn't much of a detriment for Hvitserk. Ubbe and Sigurd were slipping in the loose, wet sand, tumbling and tangling over themselves and one another. Hvitserk had the intention, it seemed, to get his brothers as soaking wet as he was from his prolonged stint in the sea.

"Let's get out of here before they remember we're over here and come after us, too." Rúna used Ivar's shoulder as leverage as she stood, pausing as he settled his weight on his wrists. They slipped into the trees unnoticed, Rúna keeping pace with Ivar at a light jog. Growing up in Kattegat as the two had, the lay of the land was comfortably familiar. Without even discussing it, their trajectory took them on a wide arc through the forest, curving around the town in a half-circle that led them to the other side of the long beach that framed the town.

On this side of the beach, set back on the more solid ground but still in clear sight of the ocean, was Floki's cabin. The sound of hammer blows rang through the air. Floki was working, it seemed. Helga must have gone into the forest clearing Floki worked in, as Rúna found the cabin empty.

"C'mon," Rúna waved him in. "I want to show you something."

For all Ivar's teasing over her supposed modesty, she had no qualms ushering him into her bedroom. She crouched to rummage through a large wooden chest tucked beneath the window while Ivar hauled himself onto her bed. Though he knew she thought nothing off his legs, he was still thankful Rúna's back was turned as he pulled himself up and arranged his bound legs so he could sit comfortably.

Her bed was not so high as his own. His feet touched the floor, so that when he scooted forward just a bit, he was able to press them flat on the ground. Now his thighs looked almost normal; stiff, and flush together thanks to the bindings on his shins, but straight. Hardly giving away the thin, weak flesh and bones beneath his pants.

There had been no time to train. Well, not for Rúna, anyway. She had been busy helping Helga dry meats and store vegetables and cheese down in the hollowed-out earth beside the cabin to hold them over through the winter. Not to mention the mending of winter clothing; all her underdresses had needed letting out to be suitably long enough, and there were socks and underclothes besides to be patched and made ready for winterwear. She had not had the free time to join Ivar and his brothers, so Ivar had not yet seen her new sword.

She laid it across his lap now, unable to keep her giddy smile off her lips as she took a step back. Ivar slid the slim sword from its sheath, pausing to read the runes etched into the blade. It was a beautiful sword, shining even in the dimmed candlelight of her bedroom. Rúna knew it was wicked in its sharpness, being a fresh blade, but she watched Ivar run his thumb along the edge all the same. He caught his skin there, raising a thin line of red blood.

"Hmm." A noncommittal noise as Ivar popped his bleeding thumb into his mouth. His next words came out muffled as he spoke around the digit. "Where'd you come by a sword like this?"

"From Lagertha." She sat beside him, tucking her skirts beneath her.

"Lagertha?" His mouth curled into a sneer around the name. Rúna hadn't told Ivar about the almost-argument she had interrupted between Lagertha and Queen Aslaug while he was away on the hunt. Ivar already held so much disdain for the shieldmaiden simply for the fact she had been Ragnar's first wife. There was no need to give Ivar more fuel for that particular fire.

"Yes, Lagertha." She mimicked his tone and face. "She trained me how to use it, too."

"You already knew how to swordfight. We taught you." He sheathed the sword, setting it gently aside though it was obvious he was put off by the idea of Lagertha having gifted it to Rúna.

"Well, yes… but I'm better with this new one." The damper he had put on her excitement smarted in her chest. She tried not to let it show on her face, but Ivar knew her better than that. If she weren't upset, the light wouldn't have dimmed in her eyes and she wouldn't have pulled one of her braids forward, to partially shield her face.

Ivar hated to be wrong in any capacity. He hadn't admitting a wrong even more. Gritting his teeth for a moment, he forced himself to take a deep breath before he got angry.

"Maybe," he grudgingly conceded. "It's a nice sword either way."

"It is." Rúna leaned over him, grasping the sword before standing to tuck it back away. He caught her wrist before she could sit back down, stopping her in her tracks. Tipping his head back, Ivar made sure to meet her eye before speaking.

"We'll go soon, before the heavy snow falls, so you can show me."

She gave him an approximation of a smile before returning to her spot beside him. Just like earlier, at the edge of the forest, she laid back. Only now, instead of looking at a sky heavy with white clouds threatening more snowfall, she was looking at the sea glass-strung ceiling of her bedroom. Beneath her, the bed shifted with Ivar's weight as he laid beside her.

In tandem, they rolled to their sides to face each other. They used to lay in the same manner as children, telling stories and secrets to one another when Ivar no longer wanted to sit upright. Only then, it was on the floor, not Rúna's bed.

"Who do you think will be the first one?" All the hurt from moments ago appeared to be forgotten. Rúna's tone turned conspiratorial, her eyes glittering with mischief. "Margrethe is too young and pretty for them to ignore. I think it will be Hvitserk."

The middle brother was flirtatious in nature. He was nearly incorrigible at feasts, when girls were around, and Ivar had a whole litany of supposed escapades Hvitserk liked to recount over games of dice.

Supposed because Ivar was almost certain the majority of them were not true.

Ivar fell quiet, considering. His eyes always drifted upward when he was truly thinking about something, as if he were trying to look back into his mind to see his thoughts. "Sigurd."

Rúna's eyebrows jumped up. "Explain?"

When Ivar sighed, his breath washed over her face. He rolled onto his back, folding his hands across his stomach. She looked at his profile. "It will sadden your sensitive little heart."

She rolled, too, toward Ivar and onto her stomach. Her face floated over his now, the tail ends of her twin braids tickling his cheeks. He took one of the braids and twirled it around his finger. "Indulge me."

Ivar smiled beneath her. "Always. Think about it in terms of who is alone most often. Hvitserk is usually with Ubbe, or they are with Björn. I am with you or Mother. That leaves Sigurd as the odd man out and the most likely to seek companionship from a slave girl."

He could tell that she was about to scold him. It was obvious in the pout of her mouth, but he beat her to it. "I warned you."

"You did," she agreed, making a mental note to check on Sigurd more often. "But you were right. It's sad to hear."

It had truly saddened her, he could see. Her eyes had darkened a shade, turning a more somber gray. A sure sign she was upset. Not to mention the downward twist of her mouth. She turned her gaze toward the window, though she had it shuttered against the growing cold. Ivar left her to contemplate her thoughts for a few moments, watching the light catch her hair while he weaved it around his fingers.

"Rúna?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm sorry." That caught her attention. Ivar did not often apologize, even when he knew he was in the wrong. He could be maddeningly stubborn. Add in the considerable spoiling Aslaug had done with him, and the surprise over his remorse was entirely understandable.

"For?"

"Making you feel bad about your sword. It is nice, even if it came from Lagertha. We'll go training tomorrow if you want."

She smiled, rolling onto her back beside him once again. Her braid slid from his fingers with the motion. Rúna copied his posture, folder her hands across her stomach, looking up at her ceiling.

"I'd like that."

Ivar was right.

Of course.

The proof came to Rúna a handful of weeks later, when she was in the great hall with Queen Aslaug. When they had all been children, Aslaug had taught them to read and write their runes. Vikings rarely bothered to write anything down, but Aslaug had been raised a princess with the intent to rule. She understood the importance of agreements written on paper, especially when it came to bills of sale.

Ubbe and Rúna were the ones most often tasked with this work. The former because Aslaug intended for him to rule Kattegat one day, as was his birthright inheritance as the oldest son of King Ragnar and Queen Aslaug. Rúna, on the other hand, was given the task when Ubbe was busy to spare Aslaug from doing it herself.

She was doing just that, holding sheets of thick yellow paper up to the candlelight to read Aslaug's neat—but tiny—runor.

At least it's not Björn's, she consoled herself. Actually, only Ubbe had neat handwriting among all the brothers. Reading any of the others' always left her with a pinching headache behind her eyes.

Sighing, she set her papers aside to look out the window. After weeks of snow that never lasted until the evening meal, Kattegat had been blanketed in persistent white. The sun was shining, glinting off the snow, but far too cold to melt any of it.

It was really not her fault that she saw the contrasting figures Sigurd and Margrethe cut against the snow. His cloak and fair hair might have blended well, but Margrethe's plain wool cloak was a dark, sooty gray. She stuck out like an ink blot against all the white, though Rúna had no doubt the couple assumed they had full privacy. And they would have had it, had Aslaug not opened the shutters to let some fresh, icy air into the hall before she left for the market.

They were in the odd little alley that existed between the great hall and Ubbe's personal cabin, after all. The barn closed off the back of the alley, creating a nice little hideaway Rúna herself had used in the past to hide during games of chase. She had never considered it a prime location for a clandestine meeting, however.

Curiosity outweighed courtesy, and she watched as Sigurd slipped his hands beneath Margrethe's cloak. The slave girl moved closer to the prince, turning her face up so he could kiss her. A few seconds after their lips met, Rúna's face began to heat with embarrassment over her spying. She dropped her eyes quickly, hoping she was making herself appear consumed with her work as she sorted Aslaug's receipts should either Sigurd or Margrethe realize they weren't quite so alone as they thought.

She was supposed to be figuring the expenses spent during the fall season. At the very least, making headway for Aslaug so she didn't have to spend as much time on it. Well, she was thinking of Aslaug. You would like a husband one day, wouldn't you?

Rúna had seen people kiss before. Obviously. She had seen much more than that at the brothel, sneaking in and out of rooms as she did to collect anything valuable she could from the patron's discarded clothing, as was her job at the time. Floki kissed Helga often. The same could be said of Björn and Torvi. She didn't understand why seeing Sigurd and Margrethe do something she had seen countless times over caused her cheeks to burn and made her squirm in her embarrassment.

Fixing her eyes back onto words before her, Rúna tried to force her attention away from her embarrassment. There was no reason for her to be embarrassed. If Sigurd had caught her looking, her burning face would perhaps be justified. But he hadn't, so there was no reason for her to be feeling this way.

There was no reason for her to be embarrassed.

There was no reason for Ivar's face to float into her mind when she remembered Aslaug's question, either.

She pushed those thoughts away. Ivar was her friend. Her best friend, she would venture, and she liked to think Ivar thought the same.

Her best friend. He would laugh, she knew, when she told him he was right. If she got this work done, surely Aslaug would let her leave the great hall once she returned from the market. Rúna would go to Ivar's cabin to tell him what she had seen, she decided. Ivar would think it was hilarious and gloat in his rightness and absolutely would not end up with a stupid, blushing face like she had.

Rúna didn't allow herself to look up again, rather keeping her eyes locked on the pages. Even when she finished checking over Aslaug's accounts, she made herself do it again. She had read through the stack of papers three times before Aslaug returned to the great hall, shaking snowflakes from her hair.

When had it started snowing again?

"It is freezing in here!" The queen scolded, but her narrowed eyes didn't even light on Rúna. "Where is that girl? She should have shuttered the windows and stoked the fire. You are obviously busy."

Aslaug began shutting the windows herself, and Rúna jumped to her feet, immediately helping. She built up the fire herself, both in the hearth that sat close to the throne dais and the long fire pit that ran down the center of the hall. A small part of Rúna felt bad for the ire she was sure Margrethe would have to face when she returned from her tryst with Sigurd, but she could muster an excuse for the girl's absence, either. Instead, she left Aslaug fuming over Margrethe's apparent incompetence in serving a queen.

She slipped through the huge doors, pinning her cloak around her neck with the golden sunburst broach Floki and Helga had given her years ago. It had become one of her prized possessions, and the broach was just as pretty and radiant as it had been the day Helga placed it in her palm. The walk from the great hall to Ivar's cabin was not far, yet she found herself hurrying to avoid running into either Sigurd or Margrethe.

Rúna let herself into the cabin, finding Ivar laying on the floor before the fire, a thick, worn book in front of him. "What are you doing?"

Ivar held the book up and waved it at her, in answer to her question. She tossed her cloak onto his bed before coming to the fire and sitting cross-legged before him.

"I know you're reading," Rúna said with an eye roll. "But what are you reading?"

Books were not at all common in Viking culture, given that most things were not written down. Most of their writings were preserved in rocks, not on paper.

"It's called a bible." He told her, which still wasn't much of an explanation.

"Bi-ble?" Rúna repeated, the word awkward in her mouth. It wasn't from their language, the tongue feeling unnatural as she formed the word.

"Yes. And I cannot read it." It was Ivar's turn to roll his eyes. "The idiot Christians don't even write about their God in their own language."

"You cannot read the Christian language, either," Rúna pointed out. "At least, not that I knew of. Where did you get this, anyway?"

"From Björn. It belonged to Athelstan." His lips curled into a sneer around the name. Floki had taught them about Athelstan when they were children. The Christian priest who had nearly led Ragnar astray from Odin and the other Viking gods. Floki had never hidden his hatred for the man, nor the fact that he had killed him, when he told the stories.

"Why would he keep it?" She took the thick book from Ivar's hands, flipping through the yellowed pages. The writing was tiny, in strange letters. Here and there, illustrations were included within the words. Rúna paused on one such illustration, towards the front, showing a naked man and woman before a tree. A snake curled around one of the branches, looking almost like the snake was speaking to the couple. She tilted her head, trying to make sense of it.

But the snake on the paper made her think of the snake in Sigurd's eye. Which, of course, led her thoughts to stray back to Sigurd and Margrethe in the snow. She shook her head to clear it of such thoughts, hoping Ivar wouldn't notice.

"You know Björn had love for the priest." The disgust was evident in Ivar's voice, but 'the priest' was the reason any of them understood any words at all from the Christian language. Saxon, Björn had called the language once. Just as Aslaug had taught them all to read and write their own language, Björn had taught them all the words he knew from the Christian language, learned from Athelstan, Ragnar, and time spent in the Christian lands overseas. "He kept this bible."

Ivar took the book from her hands, flipping all the pages back to reveal the front cover. More unusual letters were written on the inside, but this one in a different hand. Only a few were vaguely familiar, looking slightly like the letters that made up their runor. Ivar ran his finger beneath the second name.

"According to Björn, this is a name. Our father's." Again, Rúna tilted her head to the side, analyzing the writing. Had Ivar not told her that it said 'Ragnar', she never would have guessed. Ivar merely pointed at the second name, the one on top, more faded than Ragnar's. "And this is Athelstan."

"And since you know this one says 'Ragnar', and the other 'Athelstan', you were going to teach yourself the letters in their names and how they sound to try to read other words in this…bible."

His face became animated as he nodded, clearly pleased that Rúna had latched onto his line of thinking. "Yes, exactly. But the stupid Christians didn't even write this damned book in their own language."

"It was a good idea, anyway." Ivar pushed the bible aside, crossing his arms and pillowing his head before looking up at her. "Did you want to learn just for the language or the bible specifically?"

"I have no interest in their God." There was that sneer again. "Only their language."

Rúna wasn't sure how much she believed that. Ivar, she knew, liked to learn and understand everything. She didn't call him on it, though, instead copying his posture and laying herself flat against the floor.

"Forget the bible. I have something to tell you." He didn't look too interested, but the joke was on him. Rúna smiled in anticipation. "You were right. I saw Margrethe with Sigurd."

His answering smile was slow and self-satisfied. "I told you. We should have made a real bet. Tell me about it."

She giggled, voice dropping down to a conspiratorial whisper though they were very much alone there beside the fire.

"I was looking over records for Aslaug, and I looked up to see them in that little path between Ubbe's and the barn."

"Your favorite hiding spot." He, too, remembered the days when they would all chase one another, Ivar pulled along in his cart or riding on one of his brother's backs.

"Yes, there! And I only saw them because Aslaug had Margrethe open all the windows before she went to the market…"

She continued on, exaggerating the truly rather tame encounter between the couple to earn herself laughs from Ivar. When blushes did rise in her cheeks, Rúna hoped they would be mistaken for a flush from the fire heat. However, Ivar was too keen, as she should have known even before he tapped a finger on the tip of her nose.

"Look at you, Rúna, blushing over two people kissing. I'm sure they did much more after, away from the alley and watching gray eyes." Rolling her eyes at that, Rúna's blush only deepened. Which, of course, only amused Ivar more. "One day, little modest Rúna, perhaps you won't blush as red as your hair over every natural thing that happens in this world."

"Perhaps one day you will tire of pestering me and I will finally know peace." Ivar laughed heartily at that, eyes bright and smile wide.

"No, I don't think I ever will."

A/N: The state of the world is so hard right now. Everything feels heavy, but writing this has been a source of relaxing and fun for me. I love anything historical and this is the first time I've written historical fiction. It's been almost cathartic to have this to work on when I'm able to.

I realized the title of this chapter won't make sense until others are posted, but I chose 'precipice' because I feel it is the tipping point. Ivar and Rúna are almost to the age we first see an older Ivar in the show; I incorporated Margrethe this chapter. When writing, I'm moving more into the plot points we see in the show now! While bending them a bit to fit Rúna's narrative of course.

I hope all of you who have taken the time to read this story are doing well!