Chapter Nineteen: Preparations

Winter was slow in coming, as if the very land itself was reluctant to let the chilly, clear days of fall go. This delay on the season was fortunate for Ivar, as Frode had completed his shield and the thing was wanting use. It mocked him, leaning against the wall across from his bed, until Rúna had a spare afternoon to go with him to the training clearing.

He might have asked one of his brothers, but truth be told, Ivar didn't want them knowing he had the shield. Frode had used some of the leftover metal hoarded from a long-past raiding expedition in the Saxon lands. So he bated his time until the day Rúna walked beside him with her sword and shield slapping gently against her thigh as she strode forward.

"You're very spoiled, Budlungr. I hope Björn's party won't have need for that metal and come up empty handed."

"A little Saxon steel is nothing," Ivar argued, "when Kattegat is already bending to Björn's every whim and desire."

Rúna kicked away a fallen tree branch obscuring his path. "Hmm, perhaps you are not the most spoiled budlungr in town. Did you pay Frode for that shield?"

"Why would I not? Does that diminish my status as 'spoiled'?" She laughed at that, shaking her head.

"Not one bit. Now, let's see how this fancy new shield of yours holds up."

To practice his swordsmanship, Ivar required the stump that sat on the far side of the clearing. Once settled there, he drew his sword from behind his shoulder and raised his shield. Rúna did the same, though drawing from her hip. Her blade was virgin, never having seen the blood of man, the protection runes Lagertha had commissioned be carved into the metal bright and clean.

"Are you nervous?" Ivar asked her, watching the wary look she gave the sword as it reflected the weak afternoon sun back at her.

"We typically use blunted swords," was her only response. She wasn't wrong; it had only been at Ivar's insistence and goading that they brought their sharpened swords to the clearing.

"I'll not hurt you," he promised. Well, his words did, but after his first swing—which Rúna blocked with her own sword—she was not so sure he meant it. They parried back and forth, Ivar's strength echoing in the jolts in Rúna's muscles. "But if you're to have a shieldmaiden's sword, you need to be able to wield it against men."

"Oh, you are a man now?" Flustered, sweating, but determined, Rúna took a quick swipe at his left side. She smirked when the sword glanced over the edge of his shield, not raised in time for a true block. Though she stopped the arc of the weapon short, Ivar still leaned away from the path. "You're not yet sixteen, Ivar."

"Near enough." His counter came close enough she felt the wind of the mock-cut sluice across her chest, making her heart pound instinctively in response. The challenge with besting Ivar was that he was immobile, only utilizing his upper body, therefore exerting less energy. Sure, she could feint back or try to come at him from his side, but all Ivar need to was twist on his seat to match her position. He was agile, in his own way. She had range of motion, but he had stamina, what with half his body remaining still.

Birdsong was absent from the forest edging the clearing, but the air was filled with the music of their training. Sword clashes made a thinner, higher sound than the heavy thud of sword on shield. Despite the cold air, Rúna's tunic began to cling to her as if it were a second skin. Sweat was salty in her mouth and stinging in her eyes. Annoyingly, Ivar was flushed but not slick with perspiration as she was. Not to mention her sword arm felt numb and dead after taking so many blows.

Ever watchful, Ivar took a heavy-handed swing low on her sword, just above the hilt.

"Ivar!" Unlike her companion, Rúna had never broken a bone. The white-hot flash of pain that ran through her wrist had her thinking that had changed. She dropped her sword in response, as if that had been what hurt her. Ivar gave her no time to recover it, following with a sidelong swipe that had her hiding behind her shield.

"I won't hurt you, Rúna, but I cannot take it easy on you, either."

She managed to recover her sword while ducking behind the shield. This minor progress was thwarted, though, when Rúna attempted to take advantage of an opening on his left. Perhaps she should have anticipated this opening to be a trick, but alas, she did not. Ivar blocked her blow, forcing her hand down and away in a repetition of the same move. Again, her sword clattered to the ground. Then, to her utter shock, he threw his own sword and shield down before his hand closed around her throbbing wrist.

A sharp tug brought her stumbling forward and a flick of his own wrist had her turned so that she was trapped, back flush against his chest. One arm held her tight despite her attempts to wiggle from his grasp. With his free hand, Ivar unsheathed the knife he always carried, laying it flat against Rúna's throat just below her jaw.

"I could have killed you." She stilled at the cold kiss of the blade. Slowly, she pulled away from the knife's edge, which meant leaning back into Ivar. His cheek was warm against her own. "Easy."

"Show off," she retorted. When he chuckled, she felt it reverberate in her back. The arm that held her pinned slackened slightly. Like his sword and shield before, Ivar tossed the knife into the grass. Once the knife was safely discarded and Ivar was sure of his supposed victory, Rúna threw her weight backward, unseating Ivar and sending them both flailing over his stump onto the ground.

"Rúna!" Her name left his mouth cloaked in a disgruntled growl.

Sometimes, when the pair were small, their arguments would devolve into wrestling matches. If Ivar managed to get his full weight atop her, the dead weight of his legs was more than enough to pin her immobile beneath him. She remembered this, though, and tucked her own legs close to her chest to prevent Ivar from rendering her prone. The tussle was short, full of grunting and clipped exclamations of protest and annoyance, ending with Rúna triumphantly sitting atop Ivar's stomach, his arms pinned beneath her knees.

Both were left panting, Ivar's hair sticking to his slick forehead while he narrowed his eyes up at her. Yet there was no malice in that glare. Rather, his bright gaze sparked with amusement. "Loki would be proud of such a trick. But you are unarmed."

He bucked beneath her, back arching, but Rúna shifted her weight to dig her knees harder into his arms to keep him trapped.

"What do you mean to do about it, Budlungr, kick me off? Don't think I won't sit here until we're both nothing but bone, if I must."

They glared at each other for a long moment before both dissolving into laughter. Rúna released his arms but did not move from on top of him. She couldn't; once freed, Ivar slid his hands into the crook of her bent knees, keeping her firmly in place. In the fray, his vest had become untied and skewed. Rúna busied herself with righting his clothing and asked, "What was that about?"

Like that day on the boat, his thumb traced idle patterns on her thigh. She bobbed with the motion of his sigh. "If you're to go to the Mediterranean Sea, I would have you go with some semblance of true fighting experience."

"Oh, I suppose helping Torvi and Lagertha when Kattegat was attacked and all the men and boys were on a hunting trip is not considered true fighting experience?"

She smirked at his grimace. Clearly, he had forgotten to factor that night into his considerations with her 'fighting experience'. "Raiding involves more hand-to-hand combat."

"So I've heard." Rúna had finished lacing his vest closed once more. She patted the strings, hand lingering on his chest as she picked her head up to meet his gaze. "But you needn't worry your head over it, Ivar. I am not going to sail the Mediterranean Sea with Björn."

"But Floki—" She trailed her fingertips over his lips, silencing him.

"Is boat master, I know. He will sail with Björn. And Helga always sails with Floki. I remember. But this is Björn's journey, and he has decided not to take his mother nor her shieldmaidens with him. Torvi is still recovering from Asa's birth, and besides, Asa will still be too small to travel or be so long without her mother come the spring. With no other shieldmaidens going, Helga does not want me to go. She will not permit it. I'm to stay behind in Kattegat, with Aslaug, to help her and Torvi as needed."

The relief was evident on Ivar's face, making Rúna grimace. He studied her a moment, the way the low sun shone through the trees to backlight and illuminate her hair. The fading constellation of freckles that stretched across her nose. That downward twist of her mouth. One hand still rested on his chest; he raised one of his own to cover hers. "You wanted to go."

"To sail on boats I spent months helping build, to explore new lands just as Floki and Ragnar did in the stories we've heard our whole lives? Yes, I wanted to go." She shrugged, shoulders rising and falling in a melancholic arc. "But I am not, and there's nothing to be done about it."

Her eyes were dark when she met his gaze again, that soft gray now the steely shade of storm clouds. It was her turn to sigh, warm breath washing over his face. Sadness cast a shadow over her features for only a few moments before a smile stretched her cheeks once more, the levity returning to her tone.

"I suppose the gods are very adamant about reminding me my fate is tied to yours, even when you lie to me."

"I haven't lied to you!" The accusation was enough to make him rise from his prone position on the ground, sitting upright and causing Rúna to slide into his lap. She was small and light, the weight of her hardly felt on his bound legs.

"Oh, you haven't? That wasn't you saying you would not hurt me?"

"I didn't hurt you!" He protested further, but Rúna lifted her right hand to show him the purple bruise forming in the crook of her thumb.

"When you knocked my sword from my hand," she explained, trying not to laugh at his obvious struggle to decide if she were serious or not. His brow furrowed and his lips twitched, jaw going rigid when he gritted his teeth.

"You're hardly mortally wounded, Rúna. What would you have me do, kiss it better?" He spat the words, clearly annoyed. Enough so he didn't realize the words he spoke.

"Well, if you're offering." Rúna held her hand out to him, now unable to contain her giggle as shock widened his eyes. Not one for letting others have the upper hand on him, Ivar quickly composed his face. With an air of exaggerated formality, Ivar took her hand and lifted it to his mouth.

Though he mocked the severity of the injury, the touch of his lips was feather-light over the bruise. He peeked up at her through thick lashes as dark as his hair. "Better?"

"Considerably." She had intended to make him blush, to continue the game she had started, but no red blotched his cheeks. The air felt tenuous around them, like the taut potential held in the ropes that held the sails on a boat. Rúna felt she could hardly breathe the air in, pinned under Ivar's gaze as she was, like even that small movement might shatter whatever fragility had suddenly settled over them.

They were both so still and quiet, Rúna didn't doubt he might be able to hear her heart pounding behind her ribs. Perhaps one of them would have broken the spell themselves, were it not for Ubbe's voice suddenly ringing through the forest.

"Ivar!"

Two pairs of eyes shot wide, the pair scrambling to untangle from the other. Rúna retrieved Ivar's weapons for him before sheathing her own sword. She wiped her hands on her pants, finding that her palms had suddenly grown damp. There was a snicker behind her and she shot a glare over her shoulder to find Ivar calmly settling the weight of his shield on his back before rolling onto his hands.

Even mild winter days were short in Kattegat. It was Ubbe's voice that made Rúna take notice of the gathering dark around them. Ubbe broke through the tree line, relief flooding his face.

"There you are, Ivar. It's near dark, and cold at that. What are the two of you doing in the forest so late?" Ubbe stooped before his little brother, goading him into sitting back so he could undo the lacing on his leg bindings.

"Training," the two said at the same time, though Ubbe had taken little notice of Rúna. He glanced up at her, sighing upon realizing she wore no cloak. Neither had intended to stay so long in the clearing, so she hadn't brought hers. Leaving Ivar waiting, Ubbe unclasped his own and tossed it to Rúna.

She pulled it around her shoulders without having to be told. It was heavy, made of wool and bear fur, and smelled of Ubbe: hearth smoke from the great hall and the woodsy scent of the forest. Ubbe settled Ivar on his back, looking as if he would like to scold them further but ultimately deciding against it.

"We will walk Rúna safely home, first, and pray to the gods Mother is not too cross over our being late to table."

The great hall was most often used for feasting, but as the work for Björn's voyage wore on, the tables were moved against the walls to make room for tubs for fabric dyeing and looms for weaving. Boats were not all a man needed to sail, especially to a new land.

"Bring me that old flag, Rúna. I want to see that pattern again." Aslaug oversaw all the preparations as if Björn were her own son. With Torvi now caring for two small children, Rúna and Helga found themselves at the great hall more often than not. Presently, Helga and Margrethe were looking over the leather brought in by the tanner, sifting through pelts to choose the best to use for armor.

Ragnar had sailed under a black flag emblazoned with a red raven flying across the field. For this voyage, the first Kattegat had seen in nearly a decade, Björn had decided to maintain his father's standard. The flags that had flown on Ragnar's ships were weather-tattered and past their use. One of the tasks Aslaug had set for them was replacing the old flags for the new fleet sitting docked and ready at the harbor.

Rúna quickly rolled up the old flag and hauled it to the table Aslaug was working at. She smoothed it out for the queen, intending to turn back to the madder roots she was minding on the hearth, but a cold hand on her shoulder gave her pause. The hand moved under her chin, lifting it to meet Aslaug's eyes. But the queen was looking just off-center of her face, at the pearl dotting her ear.

"I was right, those earrings suit you." A small, self-satisfied smile curled her lips as Aslaug turned Rúna's face in her hand, continuing the inspection. Just as abruptly, her hand dropped and the smile fell. "Don't let that madder root burn or it will be useless to us and we'll have no more 'til spring."

"Of course not," she murmured, retreating back to the hearth. Just in time, too; had Aslaug kept her longer, the root very well could have burned. Calling to Margrethe, the girls worked in tandem to remove the tub from the hearth and dunk a length of fabric into the liquid while it still boiled.

It was homey work, these domestic duties, but Rúna missed the scent of fresh cut wood and the salt of the sea, the feel of the sun warming her head, the feel of the sand beneath her feet.

Interesting how the bulk of this work is done by women, Rúna lamented, pushing down on her fabric with a wooden pole to keep the cloth fully submerged, yet the men will reap all the benefit. As she had told Ivar, none of Lagertha's shieldmaidens from Hedeby would be sailing with their earl's son, and Asa discounted Torvi from the voyage. Sure, Floki built the boats, but where were the other men's contributions? Frode was doing all the smithing and not even among the number who would be departing. Aside from his own boats and people, King Harald was not aiding in any other way, as far as Rúna knew.

When the fabric was sufficiently saturated, Rúna left it to sit in the dye while she returned to her pile of sewing. Some of it was mending, some the start of new garments to be packed for the journey. Aside from his armor, Björn's clothing had been sorted. Reaching into the pile, she expected to come away with something of Guthrum's, but it was a familiar dusk-yellow tunic she found in her hand.

"This is Hvitserk's," she spoke aloud in surprise, eyebrows knitting together. Lifting her head to seek answers from Aslaug, she found the queen grimacing.

"Yes. He asked Björn if he might go, and Björn gave his permission. Hvitserk will sail with his brother come the spring."

"Oh." Hvitserk's easy smile swam into her mind's eye. She wasn't sure how she felt about the thought of him being absent from Kattegat. There was a tear along the right shoulder seam that needed mending. Offput as she was, Rúna took up needle and thread and began to sew the hole. Once repaired, she moved on to the embroidery around the neckline, matching thread shades to spruce up the faded patterns.

Her ire over the unequal workload leeched from her as she watched her hands push and tug on the needle. Helga had already denied her permission to sail on the voyage. A false sense of security had settled over her since then; if she herself was not leaving, then all things in her life would stay the same. It was not until she learned that Hvitserk would be going as well that Rúna realized things would change with this voyage.

And that realization chilled her, despite the hearth fire burning at her back.

Neither of them brought up the moment in the training field, but that didn't mean the effects weren't there when the pair found themselves alone. Such as during Ivar's walking practice.

"You've been jumpy lately," Rúna commented, all innocence and sweetness, as she helped him find his balance.

"Hardly." He had no room to protest much, though. They had both been acutely aware of the start he gave when her hand brushed across his stomach. Once steady, she moved away from him. Ivar took a deep breath and slid a foot forward. "You flatter yourself, Rúna."

"Then I will flatter you instead. You're getting better at walking. How do your legs feel?"

"Stronger than they have my entire life. Though Mother thinks I am weakening. I can hardly stand the soreness some days, but at least the pain is useful, now." He spoke easily, not through a clenched jaw. That alone was proof of improvement in and of itself.

Though these improvements were only evident on Ivar's good days. On the bad, his legs refused to cooperate, overtaken with stiffness. Today, though, was a good day, and Ivar cleared the floor in that shuffling stride of his in good time. He looked steady enough that Rúna chanced sitting down beside the fire, pulling Athelstan's book from the mantle as she did so.

"Have you managed to parse anything else out in this?" Some of the shapes were almost-familiar, runic-like in their form. She ran her finger along them before peeking up at Ivar, who was still across the room. He took his shuffling steps to her, punctuated by the clack of his crutches on the wooden floor.

"Mmph," a quiet groan slipped past his lips as he settled his weight on one crutch. Reaching for the book, he flicked a finger through the pages until he came to one that was folded in on itself. Rúna smoothed it out, running her palm across the dry, soft page. "See, here, he wrote Ragnar's name again. There are Lagertha, Gyda, and Björn's names. Here is Mother's, and then four more. Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd, Ivar."

Rúna ran her finger down the length of names, eyes tracing over the form of them. A pang of misplaced guilt ran sharply through her chest. "Athelstan must have cared greatly for your father to have kept a record of his family."

"I think it is just a Christian habit," Ivar dismissed with a shrug. "There is something similar in the back of the bible. Names, I think, all connected with lines, like ours here."

He flicked through the pages again until he reached the final one. "As for parsing out any words that would help me read what Athelstan wrote, no, I have not. But I did manage to form something from what I've learned so far."

On that final page was not Athelstan's thin, elegant scrawl but Ivar's own bold hand. She recognized these shapes from the others' names, but had no idea what word they formed. Ivar ran a finger along the top of the word, his nail skimming the ink. "Rúna."

First, he watched her eyes widen in surprise. Then, a wide, bright smile illuminated her face. She tipped her head back, beaming. "You wrote my name?"

Her happiness warmed him. Nodding, he pointed to the letters in turn. "I pieced it together from Ragnar, Ubbe, Björn, and Lagertha's names. They all share… runes—I don't know the Saxon word for these shapes—with the same sounds in your name. The success of writing your name is also my failure, however. I know these runes and their sounds, from these names, but I do not know enough to form other words from our language. And Björn? He learned the Saxon language from Athelstan and our father but cannot connect the language to these runes. I am at a stalemate."

"As if that will stop you." Rúna was examining her name again, soaking it in here in its Saxon form. She reached up to tuck a wayward strand of hair off her cheek, still smiling all the while. He was watching her, leaning against his crutch. It did not escape his notice when her smile petered out and her face became somber. "Did you know Hvitserk is sailing with Björn?"

Sighing, Ivar tossed his unused crutch to the side. His legs had grown tired of standing, that familiar tingle of inactivity creeping ever upward. Ivar used Rúna's knee and his remaining crutch as leverage to lower himself to the ground, stretching his legs as much as he was able to along the hard, wooden floor. He pressed his open palms down atop his thighs, sighing again as the not-quite-painful pressure counteracted the tingle. "Yes, he told us. Sigurd was none too happy. I suppose he assumed he would make the voyage with Björn, but Hvitserk showed more initiative."

"You don't think Björn would let Sigurd go as well?" She returned Athelstan's book to the mantle before joining Ivar on the floor beside the hearth. He began picking at the brace straps on his thigh, choosing his words before answering her.

"If he took both Hvitserk and Sigurd, he must also take Ubbe, if he wanted to go. He does not. He told me. But if Hvitserk, Sigurd, and Ubbe all wanted to make the journey, and Björn allowed them passage, then he must also extend the same to me."

His fingers went from picking to gripping, knuckles white around the strong, boiled leather that constituted the brace straps. The next words that left his mouth carried a knife's edge that was undercut by a barely-contained current of hurt. "Tell me, Rúna, who would want to allow a cripple to join their raiding party?"

Ivar does not like to be looked at when he cries. She knew that yet was unable to stop herself from watching those angry tears cut tracks down his reddened cheeks. The white-hot flare of his anger made it clear he had spent some time thinking about this.

"He's an idiot." Both were surprised with the ferocity that fueled her words. They burst forward, almost too loud for such a conversation, tinged red with her own growing anger. Ivar looked up in surprise, dark brows furrowing together, but Rúna took no time to pause. "You are stronger and smarter than all your brothers, Ivar, your legs be damned. If Björn cannot see that, then he is even dimmer than I thought."

Ivar began to snicker, shoulders releasing all trace of ire as they shook. He made no effort to swipe the tears from his face, instead letting them drip from his chin and dry on his cheeks. "You find Björn dim?"

Her face heated in embarrassment, dropping her gaze to her hands laying in a fold of her skirt over her lap. "He thinks with his strength, not his head, like a bear for which he's named."

Gaze still downturned, Rúna didn't notice Ivar's hand move toward her. His hand slipped under her hair, curving on the nape. Still laughing, he tipped his forehead against hers affectionately. Belatedly her tentative giggle joined in his humor.

"Don't be so funny when I'm walking," he told her, withdrawing from her and using the edge of the table to haul himself up. "I am not looking to break a leg this winter."

She helped him get settled on his crutches once more before returning to her seat. On these good days, Ivar had become committed to basically exhausting himself with this practice. Though it left his minimal leg muscles sore and aching, as he had said, Rúna couldn't deny the positive effect it had on him. He was stronger, more capable in his movements, and in turn more confident.

From her seat beside the fire, she watched him complete a full fifteen rounds about the one-room cabin. An attempt at a sixteenth round was mad, but Ivar paused toward the middle of the room, his face flushed from exercise.

"Rúna." He only said her name, but she understood. One crutch was tossed to the side once she was closer, clearing the space for her to fit herself under his arm instead. Then the other crutch was done away with and she helped him sink onto the floor. Braces were quickly undone and tossed aside as well, clattering as they landed on top of the crutches. He slumped forward almost immediately after, letting his head come to rest on her lap. "Remind me why I am doing this."

His eyes drifted shut as she ran her fingers through his hair. Unknown to her, his legs burned as if on fire. Usually, snow on the ground was a nuisance to Ivar, but for once he was thankful for the cold, wet weather. He would have to be carried to the great hall, anyway, and now he could avoid the mixture of pity and concern he would have met in Ubbe's eyes had he asked his brother for help.

"I think 'spite' is the main motivation," she mused, continuing to stroke his hair. "Perhaps some self-satisfaction, too, when you watch the shock on everyone's faces."

"Mmm," he murmured his agreement into her skirts. His back rose and fell with the rhythm of his deep, even breathes.

"Ivar?"

"Hmm?" Apparently, words were now beyond him.

"Are you falling asleep?"

"Mmm." At that, he turned his face into the wool of her skirts. Rolling her eyes, Rúna worked herself out from under him. She could hardly leave him sleeping on the floor—especially not with his leg braces on and crutches strewn about the floor.

"Come along, then." He was surprisingly easy to maneuver, lax as he was in his half-sleep. There was no resistance on his end as she hauled him into his bed. Like a child, Rúna thought, shaking her head as he pulled his pillow to himself. She managed to undo his bindings before he rolled onto his stomach, legs following slowly behind his torso.

Though not a stranger to the look of Ivar's legs—pale and too-thin, skin clinging to more bone than muscle, almost void of fat entirely—she knew he was loath to expose himself in such a way with anyone other than Aslaug or Ubbe. Still, she couldn't imagine he would be much comfortable napping in the stiff boots he wore until Ubbe retrieved him for supper.

After a brief argument with herself, Rúna ultimately decided to take his boots off. He didn't stir as she took first one and then the other foot in her hand, loosening the laces before slipping them from his feet. She made sure the blanket covered his now bare feet, lest they get cold, and set his boots neatly beside his dressing stool. His crutches and braces were easy to slip under the bed her slumbered on.

When she straightened, Rúna paused a moment to study his sleeping face. He looked peaceful, with his cheeks still flushed and long lashes brushing his cheeks. Watching him sleep now reminded her of waking to the same relaxed face when she was sick, her heart giving a little squeeze at the memory. Smiling to herself, Rúna ran her fingers through his hair one more time before turning to leave.

Winter passed in a sequence of cozy days working in the great hall beside Helga and Margrethe. Sometimes, the boys would congregate there as well. Margrethe hummed idly along with the pretty chords of music from Sigurd's oud. Aslaug would pause in her work, or abandon it entirely for Rúna and Margrethe to complete, taking the time to comb and braid her sons' hair for them.

Hvitserk sat still and obedient beneath the ministrations of his mother's fingers, most often the object of her attention when it came to hair dressing. She pulled the little wooden comb carefully through sections of his sandy hair before plaiting it in complicated patterns. Ubbe's hair took the longest to dress. He wore it in the same fashion as Björn and Ragnar before them, cropped on top with a long, thick, blonde braid down his back. Aslaug would wrap his braid with fabric or lengths of leather cord to help keep its shape between dressings.

But more often, Ubbe was with Ivar, playing cards or dice or perhaps making a game of who could throw their knife the farthest distance. That last game was only played when Aslaug was not in the great hall herself.

Margrethe was no Bodil or Gisli, but Rúna had come to like her well enough. The slave girl tended to be quiet, but Rúna didn't mind. She was surprisingly kind and pleasant, given the woman she served. Presently, Margrethe was telling the story of how she became a slave while the two of them worked at ripping old, clean fabric into strips. Björn intended to raid on his journey; bandages would be needed in the aftermath.

"I was born free, in Denmark. My parents owned a tavern." Margrethe kept her voice pitched low, so as not to be overheard above the ripping fabric, Sigurd's playing, and the bickering going on between Ivar and Ubbe. The former had accused his older brother of cheating at cards after an impressive five-round defeat. "Our town came under siege. The Vikings who came—they were not from here, not Kattegat or Hedeby or Tamdrup—they razed our village after pillaging. It all happened in the night. The last I saw my mother, she pulled me from my bed and dunked a bucket of water over my head, wrapped me in a wet shawl, and pushed me through the flame. I was nine, then."

When Rúna had been nine, she was already three years in Kattegat. She recalled sitting on the floor and talking to Ivar while Floki fit his legs with the first set of bindings he had ever used, having outgrown his cart that year. She looked up from the nightshirt she was ripping a seam from, searching Margrethe's face. But the pretty features were calm and blank beneath the crown of her blonde braids. Denmark explains her accent, at least, Rúna mused.

"I am sorry," she murmured, and she meant it. There had been no flames and chaos the night Helga had taken her, but she felt she could sympathize with Margrethe in this small way. Beside her, the slave girl shook her head resolutely.

"Do not be. She saved me, as she intended, and I have had luck since then. Before serving Queen Aslaug, I was the slave to an earl and his family. If I must be fated to be a slave, at least it has been in luxury. I have wanted for not and my work is not back breaking. There is little I could dare ask for."

Rúna nodded agreeably, but Margrethe's tone sounded… hollow. Rehearsed. She had called herself fortunate, yet Rúna had seen Margrethe subjected to Aslaug's dark moods as often as anyone else. Was this an echo from the girl's mouth, the words originating from Aslaug and her scathing tongue?

"You came from meager beginnings yourself, no? I have heard Queen Aslaug's comments. I suppose neither of us can complain with our lots in life. The youngest sons will do. They are princes all the same." This caught Rúna by surprise, head jerking in the other girl's direction. Margrethe did not meet her gaze, though; those sky-blue eyes were locked on Ubbe, gilded golden in the firelight and laughing at Ivar's sour pouting.

They are princes all the same. Yet the hard look in Margrethe's gaze made it obvious she did not consider the four princes equal. Ubbe was the oldest. Ubbe was the heir of Kattegat. Rúna's stomach twisted, hard, in her middle, gaze flicking next to Sigurd. He was unaware, though, entirely consumed by the music he played. Such was his nature, but Rúna wished desperately he might feel her eyes on him, that he might look up and catch Margrethe looking so…hungry for his brother.

"It is stifling in here," Rúna made a hasty excuse, abandoning her work to slip away through the doors of the great hall. Her intention had been to be alone, lest the anger that flared in her chest at the implication of Margrethe's gaze spill from her mouth. The cold, thin air soothed the flames when she took a deep breath, but she had chosen a poor time for reprieve. Helga was returning from healer with the herbs, tonics, and tinctures Aslaug had commissioned. Some were familiar to her, peeking out of the basket half-hidden under Helga's cloak to keep it safe from the falling snow flurries. A good portion of the medicines would go with Björn, yes, but a few of those familiar bundles were for Ivar, she knew.

Beneath the shadow of her hood, Helga's face crumpled in concern as she drew nearer her daughter. "Are you unwell, Rúna?"

"I got too hot, is all. The boys are here, and you know Aslaug always keeps the fire hotter for Ivar." His tendency to run cold was the best excuse she could muster with her mind still reeling. The night of Asa's birth and all those days working alongside her, Rúna had thought she was coming to know Margrethe. She had been wrong, it seemed.

Helga's chilled hand fluttered from Rúna's forehead to cheek to neck, checking for sign of fever. Of course Helga would be cautious, after the close call not yet a whole year ago. Rúna tamped down the annoyance that tried to rise in her at the fussing, instead making herself smile. "I feel fine, now that I've got some fresh air. I promise."

Returning the smile, Helga nodded. But Rúna was not unaware of her watchfulness through the remainder of the afternoon, her mother often stopping to tuck a wayward strand of hair away for her or trailing a hand on her shoulder. Though she was thankful for the attention, even as she groaned internally under it. Margrethe had lapsed back into their routine of meaningless prattling back and forth as they worked now that interruption was a possibility.

Yule came quietly that year. Many of the men were joining Björn and their families were preparing for the voyage just as the great hall had been since the turn of colder weather. Aside from the big sacrifice, Yule celebrations were more intimate that year, celebrated primarily with families rather than the entire town.

For Floki's family, that meant congregating with the sons of Ragnar, Torvi, her children, and Queen Aslaug in the great hall. The Yule log burned in the center of town that year, rather than the great hall's hearth. Aslaug served her guests with hot ale and spiced wine, honeyed bread, fish in butter sauce, dried berries swimming in sweet cream. Torvi braided mistletoe into Rúna's hair. Baby Asa was passed around while Hali ran the length of the hall over and over, unencumbered by anything other than his uncles and brother making surprise grabs at him and eliciting peals of shrieking laughter from the little boy.

That year, Ivar's Yule gift for Rúna was one she never expected. Viking men had their sacred arm rings, bestowed upon them when they became young men. Ivar's was heavy bronze, she knew, the ring a twisting intricate design spanning from wolf head to wolf head. Sigurd's motif was a serpent, like the snake in his eye. Björn's arm ring boasted bears; Ubbe and Hvitserk wore Thor's goats and stags, respectively.

Lagertha carried a trinket, a miniature of Thor's hammer, Mjöllnir, for luck. But shieldmaidens had no equivalent to the arm rind worn by Viking warriors.

Until Ivar slipped the cool, silver band over her hand to circle her wrist. It was dainty in comparison to his, the writhing pattern pretty and thin. She turned her wrist, watching the firelight glint golden off the metal. "Shieldmaidens don't have sacred arm rings," she whispered through the tightness squeezing her throat.

"This one will." He took her hand gently, a finger tracing the cool metal hugging her wrist. The finger stopped on one end of the ring, where an intricately carved cat's head mirrored its twin on the other end. "Freya seemed an appropriate emblem."

Rúna squeezed his fingers, hoping that small gesture conveyed her feelings well enough. Gods, an arm ring. Were they alone, she would have thrown herself at him, likely knocking him from his seat in an overflow of exuberance. As it were, she could feel Aslaug's critical gaze on her the back of her head.

She thought of her own gift for him and felt suddenly paltry in the wake of what he had given her. Feeling shy, she pulled his gift from her skirt pocket. The year before, he had given her a gift of bone, her hair beads he had carved from the antlers of the massive stag he had felled on that year's hunting trip. She had planned a gift of bone herself. Frode forged the blade, of course, and fitted it to the handle, which she carved and polished herself. At the end of her efforts, the handle bore the image of a raven dyed red with madder root paste, a replica of Ragnar's red raven sigil on the flags Björn would sail under.

How strange that they were both thinking of the journey to the Mediterranean neither of them would take when they chose gifts for one another. Despite her qualms, Ivar smiled when she produced the blade from her pocket, sheathed in a black leather sleeve she had embroidered with the same raven to create a matching set.

"You're a son of Ragnar just as much as the rest," she whispered to him, slipping the knife from her hand to his. "Don't let anyone make you forget that."

Ivar pursed his lips, sliding the blade free of its sheath, and tested the sharpness of the point on his fingertip. A little, red bead surfaced at the touch, leaving Ivar nodding approvingly. "Rúna, if Björn cannot accept that he shares his father with a cripple, that is his own problem. I share Father with Sigurd without complaint, after all." Smirking her raised his finger to his mouth, blotting out the drop of blood raised by his new knife.

Shaking her head, Rúna's fingers drifted to the cool metal at her wrist. The arm ring looked incongruous with the blue silk sleeve of her dress, yet she was certain she had never seen any jewelry prettier than this. Her heart gave a squeeze as she studied it, a lump threating to form in her throat.

"Ivar," she forced around that lump, blinking away the sudden moisture in her eyes. She was not sailing, she knew that. His gift would not change that fact. But Ivar considered her strong and capable and worthy of Viking life, of voyaging to new lands and all that raiding would have entailed. The proof of that confidence in her was catching the firelight at her wrist. "Thank you."

Smirking, Ivar let the leather sheath drop from his fingers. "How clumsy of me," he mused, bending at the waist to retrieve it from the floor. Rúna raised an eyebrow at him. Ducked down beneath the edge of the table, he was well out of sight of the others. No one would notice anything amiss about his actions, unseen as they were, if he were to catch Rúna's hand once more and quickly press her fingertips to his lips.

To her credit, Rúna covered her surprise by quickly taking a large drink of her wine. Surely, she thought, between the wine and the roaring hearth fire, her heated cheeks wouldn't be too conspicuous. She glared into his bemused face over the edge of her cup.

"You're welcome, Rúna."

A/N: Thank you to mickypants and Megan VR for reviews on the last chapter!

I feel I'm always full of apologies. I'm trying to be more consistent in updates, but pesky life keeps getting in the way.

Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this one! It was SO fun to write. I have a confession: I like Margrethe. I think she had a lot of potential that was wasted, since she was a side character. I intend to give her more agency, working with that glimpse of a girl who had lofty dreams and some ambition to get them we saw in the show.

Until next time, I hope everyone is staying healthy and safe! Best wishes to you all!