Chapter Twenty-Three: Goodbye

For once, the queen was gentle with her, which was fortunate because Rúna felt cold and insubstantial as sea foam. She opened her mouth several times, only for her teeth to click shut a moment later. You're wrong, she thought. You must be wrong.

And Aslaug had been wrong, on occasion, in the past. Rúna knew that. She also knew, deep in the icy, heavy middle of her fear, that Aslaug was not lying. Her eyes were shot through with red, the black that lined them smudging down wan cheeks covered by taut, pallid skin. This was the face of a woman in mourning.

In the end, all Rúna could manage to do was shake her head. Vigorously. Yet the awful things Aslaug told her would not clear from her mind, nor would the ashen face before her dissipate. The hands that gripped her shoulders were strong and steady but lacking in the usual sting she had always found in the queen's touch.

"Poor child," Aslaug cooed. Rúna was drawn into a sharp shoulder, all edges. But she let Aslaug hold her, let her stroke her hair and sigh against her temple. Hot tears plopped onto her head, and Rúna wasn't sure if Aslaug was lamenting over her or Ivar.

For that was the subject of the terrible vision. Ivar, drowned at sea after a storm pulled Ragnar's borrowed ship into the undertow. Rúna closed her eyes tight against such a vision, as if it were she herself who had seen the terrible sight rather than the volva queen she clung to. And cling to Aslaug she did, hands full of the queen's sumptuous silk gown. For the first time they were united, the string holding them together the deep, harrowing grief of losing Ivar.

After some time, Aslaug pulled away from her. She held Rúna's chin in one hand, using the other to wipe away the tears streaming down the girl's face. Sighing, she smoothed back errant locks of red hair until Rúna was deemed acceptable. "My son will not listen to reason."

Aslaug's beauty, austere and striking, crumpled as she lost her composure over this confession. Her breath rattled through her as she tried to quell her pain long enough to explain. "He says a day with his father is worth his entire life, to embark on a raiding voyage as a Viking."

Not as a cripple. Aslaug did not say the words, but this thread of common understanding hung silent in the air between them. Rúna only nodded. To be treated as Ivar, not his crippled legs, that was Ivar's greatest wish. And Ragnar was offering it to him.

There was nothing else to say. Both Aslaug and Rúna knew trying to stop Ivar would be in vain. Rúna lingered in the queen's bedroom, letting her hold her hand while they cried quietly. The morning slid into afternoon as they grieved. Then, the mask of Queen Aslaug slid back over the older woman's features. She swiped first at her own tear-stained cheeks and then Rúna's, before drawing the girl to her feet.

"Come, Rúna. The world does not stop for aching hearts. There is work to do, and I would rather it be done by you than that insufferable slave girl of mine."

Rúna performed Margrethe's tasks with no complaint, happy to have the distraction from her thoughts. By the end of the day, her work brought with it another blessing: exhaustion. She fell into sleep easily, body too tired to give her mind much time to ponder over the sad turn her life was taking. But her relief was short; it felt as if she had just shut her eyes when there came a hand shaking her from sleep.

Had he roused her from her bed at home, she likely would have found herself sitting in the sand watching the moonlight glint off the waves next to Ivar. But she had not been at home. She had been in the great hall, as Helga had bid her when she left with Floki earlier that day. So it had been his own childhood bed that Ivar had coaxed Rúna from some time after midnight.

Sighing, Rúna looked down at their legs, thighs pressed flush together as they sat side by side. The tide very nearly lapped at Ivar's boots where his feet dangled just a hair above the water. She couldn't see her own feet for her skirts, crossing her ankles beneath the cover of the fabric. Her stomach had been in knots since that afternoon, when Aslaug had broken the news that rattled her world further.

Ivar must have known, somehow, that she already knew without his telling her. He was silent beside her, but extended an offering: his hand, resting open and palm-up just above her knee. It was all too natural to slip her fingers between his, welcoming the pressure of his stiff leather wrist braces on her own palm. Taking his hand seemed to give him courage. He straightened his hunched shoulders, drawing himself up beside her. But when he opened his mouth to explain, Rúna squeezed his hand and shook her head.

"I understand." Those were the only words she managed before the tears started, hot and heavy down her cheeks. She tried to swallow the hard lump that had taken up residence in her throat only to find it holding fast, making her voice thick around her next words. "I do not have to like it or agree with it to understand."

She had told him something similar just days ago, before kissing him. When the journey with Ragnar had seemed another great adventure she would be missing out on. Not the death sentence it was now.

He drew her in, then. Into the warm embrace of his arms, her cheek coming to press flushed and damp in the crook of his neck. Her hands had always been so small; the feel of them twisted, desperately, into the fabric of his tunic made his heart feel tight in his chest.

"My mother…" He began but stalled out when he felt her shaking her head.

"She told me all of it," she murmured, voice muffled against cloth and skin. Her back rattled with her breath as she grasped at composing herself. "A pity you never learned to swim."

Perhaps she was attempting a joke, but her voice was filled to the top with bitterness, and he couldn't blame her. He pulled away from her, cupping her face in his hands and drawing it upward so that he could meet her gaze. Her eyes shone silver in the moonlight, leeched of all the warmth he usually saw in that dove gray shade.

"I am sorry," he told her, tipping his forehead against hers. Those were words he rarely ever said. "I'm so sorry, Rúna. I…"

But she was shaking her head again, closing her eyes against his words, hands still clinging to him. "Do not say it. Please. Do not tell me now, when you're leaving, and I will be the one who has to live with it after you…go."

So he did not tell her. Instead, he pulled her close again, pressing the words to her lips with his own. She tasted of her tears, the salt of them bright on his mouth. Rúna seemed afflicted with the same need that had overtaken him: to mold themselves into one another. His hands weaved into her loose hair, one of her own releasing tunic in favor of curving along the back of his neck as leverage to bring herself impossibly closer to him. Her warmth made him want to melt, to fall into her and change his mind. To watch his father sail away from this very dock come the morning.

He was struck by the finality of what would happen when, after some time, he withdrew from her. The full moon still hung heavy in the sky, robbing Rúna's hair of its fire and leaving it as inky as his own. She did not ask him to stay, the way his mother had. He traced the curve of her cheek with the pad of his thumb, watching the rise and fall of her chest as she took a deep, steadying breath.

"Please do not marry Sigurd. Or Hvitserk. Or Ubbe."

She laughed, the sound thin and shaky. "Why would I marry one of your brothers? I suppose I must become a spinster now. I don't see how I could—"

His thumb ran over her lips, sealing the words away. "Don't you say it, either. I think we are a sad enough pair already, no?" Her lips quirked up into something almost like a smile beneath his thumb.

"I suppose so."

In that silver gaze, he could see just how much she did not want him to go. Yet still she didn't say it. Instead, she pulled away and pushed herself up from the pier. "Come on. You should at least rest."

"Already taking me to your bed, Rúna? Perhaps Bodil and Gisli had more influence on you than I thought." Though looking at her back, he still felt the annoyance of the eye roll she had surely given him.

"I'm taking you to your own bed, and if you were listening, then you would know that I intend for you to rest."

Rúna led the way from the port through a sleeping Kattegat, holding his cabin door open for him. She might have lingered in the doorway, or perhaps she might have left altogether, if Ivar had not made a nodding motion with his head for her to follow. Very simply, he murmured, "Stay."

"Who is inviting who into their bed now?" She whispered into the dark, but no argument followed. Her hand fumbled for a moment before finding purchase with the rough wooden wall, leaning against it to remove her sandals. Already the spring was so warm and mild that summer wear was needed, and no night fire was banked in Ivar's hearth, leaving the room black and only a little chilly.

She would always remember the feel of the rough, cold wooden floor beneath her bare feet. The dull thud-thud-thud as he discarded his boots and leg bindings. The soft dip of his bed beneath her weight. The warmth of his skin when he pulled her in so that her head found a place to land on his chest. Only now that it was hidden in the impenetrable dark did he cry; she could feel the tears plopping, heavy and wet, in her hair. Her own tears sunk into his tunic, so that the fabric became stuck to her cheek.

There was a long time where they laid entwined, neither speaking, only finding comfort in the feel of one another. Her head rose and fell with the rhythm of his breathing, nearly lulling her to sleep before he spoke again. "Do not marry Guthrum, either."

"Ivar, he is a child."

"He is only a few years younger than us. And besides, he is fond of you."

"And a child," she reiterated, which earned her a soft chuckle.

"He will grow." And I will not. The words hung heavy and silent, not needing a voice to settle uncomfortably in the air. Laying a hand flat on Ivar's chest, Rúna pushed herself up above him. The loose strands of her hair tickled across his face for a moment as she leaned across him. "What are you doing?"

"Lighting a candle," she explained. "I cannot see you in this gloom, and I would very much like to."

The light of a single candle was not much, but it was enough to throw his features into dim clarity once more. If she was expected to live without the sight of his face from the morning on, Rúna intended to keep it in memory if nothing else. Kneeling beside him, her fingertips trailed across his hairline, down his cheek. Those cheekbones; all Aslaug's sons had gotten them, the cut of the bone sharp beneath the skin. Over the knife's edge of his jawline. When she reached the curve of his lips, he caught her hand there, pressing a kiss to her fingers.

"Rúna," he murmured beneath her touch.

"Shh." She replaced fingers with lips, bending forward to kiss him again. Ivar rose beneath her, somehow managing not to break the kiss as he sat up and pulled her to sit in his lap with her thighs straddling his on either side. But he did pull away once she was settled, drawing back just far enough to make room for him to start undoing the leather braces he wore over his wrists. Silently, she took first one and then the other hand, loosening the buckles and slipping his hands free for him. "Better?"

Nodding, he placed his now free hands on her hips. His thumb ran over the ridge of bone there, causing her breath to stutter. She felt wound up tight in her middle, that feeling only intensifying when he pulled her into another kiss. The urge from the dock was back, as well. An insatiable need to be closer to him, impossibly close.

"I thought I was meant to be resting," Ivar murmured against her mouth. That had been her intent, genuinely, though it was becoming increasingly obvious that rest would not be the result of their first—and last—night spent together.

"Do you want to rest?" Her voice was breathless and insubstantial. Searing blue eyes fluttered open to meet hers, dark and serious as she recognized all the unfamiliar emotions coursing through her reflected back in his gaze. His hands slid down her waist, skimming over hips and thighs and calves, until her reached hem of her skirts. There, his hands slid underneath the fabric and began to track back up the curve of her legs. A shiver racked down her back, Ivar's hands coming to rest in the hollow behind her knees.

"No."

And though her heart beat like a frenzied war drum in her chest, Rúna knew her answer was the same. She also knew the two of them were toeing a line that could never be taken back, once it was crossed. For all her past blushing, Rúna found she no longer cared about that line.

"Good." Fueled by a sudden confidence, she took his chin in her hand as she had the day she started their game. It had all led to this moment, this night. Tipping his head to the side, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to the jumping pulse just below his jaw. "Neither do I."

His hands tightened on her legs, his gasp only adding to her confidence. It was fate, she was certain, for this to happen. A glorious night of reprieve before they must face the ugly truth of destiny at dawn. Her other hand trailed down, slipping beneath his tunic to map the ridges and valleys of his stomach and chest. She felt him tense beneath her touch, his hands framing her face so he could kiss her, hard.

"Dammit, Rúna." There was no hesitation as he shirked his tunic, leaving him shirtless before her. "What was it you said, that night? Something about it being different if I'm without a shirt in bed."

Her face did heat at that. "You remember that?"

"Only vaguely." A true smile lit his face, entertained as he was by her embarrassment. Vaguely, she knew they were about to cross a bridge they could not go back on. But most of her mind was consumed with the rush of heat his skin brought with it, not to mention his lips, which had begun to wander down her neck. When his hands went searching for the ties at the back of her dress, she helped guide them there with no hesitation. Another shiver racked her spine at the implication, but she didn't stop him from tugging at that lacing so that her dress slipped free of her shoulder. Pulling her in, he pressed a kiss to the now-exposed swathe of skin.

There were some logistics that needed sorting through, once all clothing was shed. To her pleasant surprise, Ivar didn't appear to have any qualms over exposing his legs to her. As if I haven't seen them before, she thought, ruefully. But without boots or braces to assist him, Ivar's legs were weaker, and that fact meant adjustments were needed until both were in a comfortable position.

"Before the sunrise, Budlungr," she teased him, giggling, after their fifth and final rearrangement. Though he scowled at the taunt, his eyes were still bright with excitement and desire.

"Shut up," was his only comeback before catching her about the waist. There was only a moment for her to gloat, inwardly, over having rendered him speechless before he drew her to him. Bodil and Gisli had described the flash of momentary pain at losing one's maidenhead. It barely registered for Rúna when Ivar pressed into her, mumbling something about the gods as he did so. She was too determined to have this one night, this only night, that any discomfort was given less than a fleeting thought. Within the same breath, she found herself gripping his shoulder and tipping her head back so she might see his face, desperate to remember every detail even as she lived it.

"Gods, Rúna." His voice was thick and soft, but his lips were seeking and almost rough when he kissed her. "I can see, now, why my brothers are obsessed with this."

She giggled breathlessly at his enthusiasm, but her amusement soon faded into a dizzying, weightless pleasure as they found their rhythm together. Ivar gripped her hip in one hand, this leverage allowing him to press fully inside her, causing a wonderful shiver to run through her.

Gods, indeed.

"After, she lay stroking Ivar's hair, listening to their ragged breathing and the errant tempo of her own heart pulsing through her body. She felt hazy, as if she might have floated off into the sky had it not been for the weight of Ivar atop her. He held her by the waist, bare skin sticking to hers, his head resting on her chest.

Again, they didn't speak. Ivar shifted, pushing himself up to kiss her again. Now it was tinged with the same sadness Rúna felt creeping into her limbs to replace the fuzzy remnants of their lovemaking.

"A sad enough pair, indeed," she told him when he drew away from her. He pulled her to her side, so that they lay facing one another in his bed.

"I would not have wanted to spend my last night in Midgard any other way."

Rúna nearly smiled at that, but she dared not, lest she lose control of the sob bubbling in her chest. Ivar caressed her face, oddly calm now. A wayward tear slid down her cheek, one that Ivar caught on his fingertip.

Perhaps Aslaug is wrong. The words bubbled behind her lips, yet Rúna lacked the strength to say them. Aslaug had been wrong about small things in the past. Inconsequential details. Never had she been so wrong about something as big as this, and what could be bigger than her most favored son's death?

"What am I meant to do without you?" She asked after some length. "I have always believed it was my fate to come to Kattegat and that you were part of it. But how, Ivar? How am I meant to know my fate if you are gone?"

"If you are my fate and I yours, as I believe it to be, then I will wait for you. Valhalla won't be for me, Rúna. Drowning at sea will grant me Hel, most like. Perhaps I will dine with Baldur and learn histories from old men who died peacefully in their beds instead of in battle."

"I will never fight again," she vowed. "I'll return my sword to Lagertha and forsake everything shieldmaiden… except the arm ring you gave me, which I shall never take off." She wore it even now, just as Ivar wore his own. "Valhalla and Folkvangr cannot have me if you are in neither place."

Her enthusiasm only served to bring a smile full of mourning to his lips. Drawing her in, he pressed a kiss to first her forehead and then her mouth. "How I will miss you, Rúna."

"But you need not tonight," she reminded him, sealing the words with another kiss. This one was much longer, seeking, yearning. Rúna felt the echo of her own feelings in his touch; this kiss may well be one of their last, she knew. Her head was swimming again by the time Ivar pulled away, drawing her into him so that her head was tucked beneath his chin. She felt the wobble of it on her head, followed by considerable sniffling. They clung to one another. Only his heartbeat, thrumming against her cheek, kept Rúna calm.

Eventually—impossibly—the young lovers fell into sleep together.

The sun rose in the morning, just as it always had every day of her life. How unfair it seemed for the day to carry on as normal when her whole world felt like it was ending. Yet she rose from a bed that was not hers before the sun could fully rise, intending to make a quick retreat lest she be seen by Sigurd or Ubbe.

"Where are you going?" Ivar muttered, voice sleep-slurred and muffled by his blankets. For someone who hadn't intended on sleeping, he had done so deeply. Only the call of a rooster had woken Rúna; at home, it was what roused her near every morning.

"I can't be seen leaving your cabin in mussed clothing, Budlungr."

"Why not? Margrethe does it often enough. With my brothers, I mean." He corrected himself, rolling over and rubbing at his eyes. Then he twisted his wrists in a circle until they popped, loudly, and pushed himself up into a half-sitting position.

"But I am not Margrethe." When she had finished slipping back into her dress, he lunged forward to catch her hand.

"No, you are Rúna. My Rúna." He took her hand and turned it so that he could nuzzle his cheek into her palm. Though she smiled fondly at him, tears pricked at the back of her eyes. Loath as she was to do it, Rúna knew she must take her leave of him and their night shared together.

"I will see you again, before you leave," she promised him. "I will be there at the docks."

She bent to give him a kiss; a last, lingering kiss. As she slipped through the cabin door and into the misty pre-dawn light, she tucked that kiss away in her heart. It would be one of the only memories she had of Ivar as a lover rather than the playmate and friend she had known him as for much of their lives. Cutting through the forest, Rúna all but ran to the seaside cabin she called home. She had much to do if she was to see Ivar off as she intended. First on her list of tasks was changing clothes and taming her mussed hair.

With her appearance sorted, Rúna hurried outside to tend to both animals and garden alike, as Helga had instructed her to do in her parents' absence. But she was not alone as she had thought herself to be. On the beach, limned golden in the rising sun, was King Ragnar. She stilled just outside the cabin door, her milk pail banging against her thigh at her sudden stop.

"King Ragnar?"

"Do not let an old man like me interrupt your work, Rúna. I simply want to remember this place."

Keeping one eye on the king, Rúna went about milking the sleepy cows. After some time walking the beach just shy of the morning tide, Ragnar turned on his heel and came to lean on the fence. "I never thought I might see the day Floki would become a farmer."

Giggling, Rúna shook her head. "He is not. Helga and I farm, but Floki is as he has always been. A boat builder, a carpenter. You have seen his workspace."

She motioned with her head to the forest's edge, where a maze of half-finished projects, animal skulls, and lengths of fishing nets and old sails made a messy—but serviceable—'room' for working. "You are much more than a farm girl, Rúna. Ivar tells me you have learned your runor. King as I am, even I cannot read—in our own language, that is."

That surprised her. "Queen Aslaug did not teach you?"

"She offered." Bending over the fence with a grunt, King Ragnar plucked a stray piece of grass from the earth. "I did not see the value in it. But I am glad she has taught my sons…and you."

The blade of grass tickled her nose, making her giggle again. "Athelstan taught you to read his own language, I take it?"

When Ragnar smiled, it was so like looking at Ubbe that it took Rúna off guard. Ragnar tapped her temple, much the same way Ivar did when he liked a thought she shared. "You are as bright as Floki and my son gloat. I did not learn runor because our people write little. But the Saxons, that is a people obsessed with writing. I think," Ragnar dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper though they were alone, leaning over the fence to whisper near her ear, "the damned Saxons would write down every time they shit, were it not likely a sin to their sensitive God."

Despite herself, Rúna laughed at King Ragnar's bawdy joke, earning a pat on the head. "Yes, my wife may have taught you court manners and knowledge, but you are Floki's daughter. I will see you at the docks, Rúna."

"Oh, but wait!" Rúna sprang up from her milking stool, stealing back into the cabin and grabbing the cloth bag from the table. Outside, she pressed it into King Ragnar's hands. "Floki wanted me to give this to you. He said it was the same sunstone and board that took you to England the first time."

Shifting the weight in his hand, Ragnar nodded. "Thank him for me."

Tucking the bag into his belt, Ragnar turned from her. She watched him go, fading back into the trees like the spirit Ivar had described him as. It felt almost like a reverie, one that was only broken when he was no longer in her line of sight. Only then did she feel free to hurry through her remaining chores before snatching up another bag from the table and rushing back into the heart of Kattegat.

At the pier, she took her place between Sigurd and Ubbe. "Nice of you to show your face."

"Some of us have responsibilities beyond bedding the slave, Sigurd." She quipped, expertly knocking his hand aside when he tried to flick her. King Ragnar had beaten her there. He was already aboard the ship, tightening sail lines as they all waited for Ivar. On the other side of Ubbe stood Queen Aslaug, back straight as an arrow. All hints of weakness she had shown Rúna the day before were gone now, her face stoic as she watched for her son's arrival. Rúna was still watching her face, seeing the way it softened into affection when Ivar made his appearance.

Shifting her gaze, Rúna's breathe caught in her throat. There was Ivar, yes, but he was not crawling as he typically did. He was upright, supported by his crutches, stiff leather braces encasing each of his legs. Ivar was dressed in proper Viking armor, black leather studded with silver and a length of silver chainmail to protect his left arm. He still wore his sword across his back rather than at his hip. It was easy to take in all these details, for though Ivar was walking—by the gods, properly walking, in front of everyone—it was still his slow, shuffling gait.

The smile that overtook Rúna's face felt like it might split her cheeks directly in half.

She forced herself to stay in her spot between Ubbe and Sigurd, though she wanted more than anything to run to Ivar. Pride swelled within her, making her throat tight and eyes prick once more with tears she blinked quickly away. The majority of his attention was devoted to walking, but Ivar still lifted his head to wink at her as he passed by.

Unlike the floor of his cabin, the wooden pier beneath them was warped from the elements. Near the end of the dock, the blade-tip of Ivar's crutch snagged, causing him to lose his balance and fall with a heavy thud. Sigurd began to snicker beside her but was quieted when Rúna reached over to pinch his arm. She glared up at him for good measure. Sigurd scowled in return, but quieted. Queen Aslaug made a move to go to Ivar only to be stopped much more gently by Ubbe catching her hand.

As for King Ragnar, he merely told his son, "Hurry up. We have a tide to catch."

And then Ivar was aboard the ship that would take him to his death. He turned to smile at them—his mother, his brothers, the girl who had grown beside him. When his eyes alit on Rúna's face, she smiled back at him, hand flicking out. Across the length of water already separating them, a small leather pouch plopped heavily in his palm.

Despite himself, Ivar laughed, drawing his father's attention. "What did she give you?" Ragnar asked, brows drawing together.

"Strawberries." He opened the pouch and placed a dried berry on his tongue, savoring the sweetness. "She always gives me strawberries when I leave Kattegat."

Blissfully unaware, Ubbe and Sigurd went off together to do some hunting in the forests close to Kattegat. Rúna and Aslaug, however, sagged beneath the weight of their shared knowledge once Ragnar's ship was reduced to a dot on the horizon. A dark smudge marked the sky where it met the water; they were sailing directly into the storm Aslaug had foreseen.

"You did well," the queen complimented her. "I would have you join me for supper, Rúna. It will just be the two of us."

Rúna looked up at the tall woman, brow knitting together. She knew better than to ask how Queen Aslaug could be so certain. Though there was nothing left to see with the ship gone, the queen kept her eyes fixed forward. Whatever it was she knew, it was clear she would not share it here, with fisherman and traders clogging the docks.

"Of course," Rúna murmured, taking a step back and turning to go. A pit formed heavy in her stomach. She need not be a volva herself to know Aslaug intended to share more secrets with her. Given the day for her disposal before Aslaug required her again, Rúna slipped into the forest herself. She followed the flow of the river winding through the trees until she reached the beach Lagertha had taken her to a couple of summers ago.

The gods' beach, she had come to think of it. Rúna had not returned—physically—since that walk with Lagertha. Stepping foot on the sand, she felt the air shift. It was heavier here, hanging low over her head. Just as she had in her vision where she saw Freya, Gyda, Hel, Siggy, and Angrboda, she lowered herself to sit upon the beach. From her pocket, Rúna withdrew the knife Floki always used for sacrifices. She didn't feel right taking one of the animals for her purpose. Instead, with a shaking hand, Rúna set the tip of the blade against her left palm.

The bite of the blade was sharp, leaving her skin burning as it opened in a line of red. Squeezing her palm, Rúna dripped her blood into the sand. Then she drew Freya's rune into the sand where her blood pooled, hoping to evoke the goddess.

Volvas got their power of foresight from blessing given by Freya, she knew. Rúna also knew that Freya could alter what was seen in the visions, casting a different future than the one shown. As far as she knew, only the Seer could divine what was to come with certainty and clarity. Though she lacked the courage to face the Seer, Rúna had never feared praying to her gods.

"Freya," she whispered, knowing she need not speak loudly if the goddess were close enough to hear her pleas. All the tears she had managed to contain while seeing Ivar off streamed freely down her cheeks now. "I give you my blood. Though not my life's blood, it is given in good faith and with humility. I should not ask you for more than you have given me—my life—but if it pleases you and the Allfather, smile on Ivar and Ragnar. Show them your favor and see them through the storm. Ragnar has made it no secret he intends to die in England; for one that has been so loved by the gods in the past, why cut his intended journey short as he plans to meet you all so soon?"

Tipping her head back to the sky, Rúna let the sea breeze wash over her. The winds picked up suddenly, tangling in her hair and ruffling her skirts about her legs, warm and soft as a summer's day. Smiling to herself, Rúna gave her thanks before returning to the forest.

A/N: Thank you to Puffgirl1952 the 2nd, mickypants, Guest, Guest, and Nightwingstress for the reviews on chapter 22! Also, Nightwingstress, I'm glad you caught my Vance Joy reference with the title chapter. ;)

This dock kiss scene was nearly the first kiss scene. As you can see, they're pretty similar, but I didn't want to change it because I liked the symmetry.

I like how in the story description I call this fic a slow burn and then I go on to have them sleep together so soon after their first kiss. Woops. In my defense... they are love-stricken and both thing Ivar is dying very soon... Also, yes, I DO know and remember the infamous scene with Ivar and Margrethe. Anyone who has seen Season 6B knows that particular scene is proven null and void later on, so we're just skipping that plot point entirely. I think this works because Ivar and Rúna have a genuine connection and it was pretty obvious in the show that Ivar only pursued Margrethe because his brothers had.

If you want some more Vikings content and/or love Hvitserk, I've been reading Still? Yes, Still by MIMitationBalance. It's been a fun time so far, though I'm not very far in!