Chapter Thirty-One: Brotherhood
Sitting on the fence railing, Rúna watched the preparations for the coming celebratory feast. Tanaruz was… somewhere, she was certain, but where that somewhere was, she could not say. They had unloaded their trunks from the ships earlier that morning. Perhaps she had been a bit brash, but she had tossed her trunk next to Ivar's inside his tent in the stone wall-enclosed yard of the conquered castle.
King Ecbert was dead, having chosen his demise in the deep, sprawling baths in his private rooms. Björn had fished the man's body from the blood-thick water that morning, or so Ivar had told her. This place now belonged to the Great Heathen Army, at least so long as they had use of it.
"Björn is leaving, then?" She asked. The fence was low enough that Ivar was able to kneel before it, resting his upper body on the top rail. His chin was pillowed on his folded arms, blue eyes watching the preparations as well. A long blade of grass bobbed between his lips as he idly chewed it.
"He is," Ivar confirmed, sounding none too pleased. "Back to the Mediterranean. His destiny—or what he assumes it to be—is more important than Father and his bleyða mother."
Rúna shook her head at his calling Lagertha a coward. Many other words could be applied to the shieldmaiden that fit better, she thought. "His being gone will be good for us," Rúna reminded him.
Turning his head to the side, he studied her in the morning light. When they were little, and Rúna was nervous, she would run her thumbnail back and forth over the smallest of chips in her front tooth. She was doing so now, staring out at the slaves working to set up tables without really see them, it seemed. "I have not seen Floki since yesterday."
He reached over to her, taking hold of her ankle, and giving it a small squeeze. "You said you did not think he would stay," Ivar reminded her. She sighed, mouth tugging downward. Looking up to a pale blue sky, she blinked several times.
"Yes, but I hoped he would say goodbye before going."
Though her eyes had taken on a watery shine, it did not escape his notice that she refused to let any tears fall. He squeezed her ankle again, at a loss. Ivar knew well the pain of a father abandoning his children; he hated to think that Rúna might feel that pain on top of her deep sorrow for Helga.
Don't do this to her, you old bastard, he cursed Floki in his mind, though he would like to say them to the boatbuilder's face. I'll track your arse down myself if I must.
"What of Blaeja? What will Björn do with her?" Rúna's voice cut through his thoughts.
"Who?" He asked, brow crumpling in confusion. He raised his gaze to her face in time to watch her roll her eyes at him.
"Blaeja, Budlungr. The princess? Aelle's daughter?"
"Oh, her." He waved her annoyance away with his free hand. "Our captive. Sigurd is watching her at present. She seems to prefer him. He plays music for her while he is on duty."
"But what will be done with her? Will she go to the Mediterranean with Björn? Remain here as captive? Returned to… someone, some Christians?"
Ivar shrugged. "Does it much matter? In my opinion, we ought to just kill her now that we've no use for her."
Her reproachful look bored into his cheek, a look he refused to meet. Whatever reprimand she had for him, he was saved from it, but only by another form of torture. A flat palm hit him sharply on the back of the head, nearly sending him face-first into the railing. Half-turning, he glared murderously up into Sigurd's face.
"We're not to kill her, you demented little cripple. Ubbe will decide, if Björn does not take her." Ivar swiped at his brother, though Sigurd danced away from the blow easily.
"And why should Ubbe make the decision? Hmm? I can tell you what Ubbe will decide. That princess will go from royalty to farmer, now that we've the deed to land from King Ecbert in hand."
"Ubbe is next oldest." Sigurd said plainly. "Command of the army goes to him after Björn."
Ivar scowled at this logic. "You would like to be a farmer, then, Sigurd? Give up on Father's revenge and any hope of regaining Kattegat, which is rightfully ours? If so, then you are even more of an idiot than I ever thought."
"What would you have us do instead, huh? Forsake our father's dream?" At this, Ivar chuckled.
"Our father. Sometimes I wonder if the rest of you cowardly lot truly are sons of Ragnar. At least Björn has the fortitude for voyaging."
"You can keep telling yourself that you are Father's true heir all you like, Ivar, but you do him a disservice. What kind of man would choose a crippled little boy as his heir? A weakling who cannot even walk on his own two feet without falling flat on his face?"
Ivar was quick, of course, but Sigurd had better thank the gods that Rúna was quicker. With a solid kick to the stomach, she sent Sigurd just out of reach of the slashing arc Ivar made with his dagger. She grabbed the back of Ivar's shirt, pulling him within her reach before grabbing his shoulder and squeezing, hard.
"Stop it. Both of you. I don't have the patience for your childish squabbling today." She glared at each of them, ready intervene again if they chose to ignore her. To Rúna's immense relief, though, Sigurd merely spit into the dirt before turning on his heel to leave them. Sighing, she let herself slip from the fence to stand over Ivar and cross her arms. "Quit feeding into this," she chided him. "He does this to get a rise out of you."
"He is insufferable!" Ivar nearly shouted, slamming a closed fist on the fence. Crouching, Rúna took him by the jaw and forced his face forward so she could meet his eye.
"And if you do not stop, you are going to prove everything he says about you to be right, Ivar." Her whisper was more of a harsh hiss, washing over his face. "It is not wise to use your anger to kill your brother, now, is it?"
He glared up at her, his eyes burning as the heart of an angry flame. They held each other's gaze for a moment before Ivar dropped his, face falling. "I can hardly allow him to publicly shame me as is his habit, Rúna."
"But silencing him forever will do no good either, Ivar. The two of you will never be like Ubbe and Hvitserk, and you need not be, but please. We are all sick of this as well. Prove him wrong…but do not kill him." She kissed him softly on the lips despite his lingering ire. "I am going to find Floki."
Ivar watched her go, trying to decide if he was more furious at Sigurd or at the fact that Rúna very well might be right.
The ringing of a hammer led Rúna to her father, just as it always had during her childhood. These woods were unfamiliar to her; she was thankful for the din, lest she get turned about and lost far from camp.
"Floki," she called out when she drew near enough, now within clear view of the small boat he was crafting. At the sound of her voice, he paused in his work, straightening slowly and turning to face her. Already, Rúna felt her throat tighten and her eyes sting with tears. "I would like to sit here a while with you, if you do not mind. Like I did when I was still too small to help you."
With a soft, mournful smile, Floki nodded. "I would like nothing more, my dear Rúna."
Trying—and failing—to compose her wobbling lips into a smile in return, Rúna took her father's outheld hand and climbed into the hollow center of the boat. She sat down on the rough boards, not minding the splinters that poked at her legs. "It is small."
Only room for one. Her heart gave a squeeze. Rúna held her arms out straight; her fingertips easily brushed the frame of the boat on either side.
"What do you mean to do, then, Floki?" She asked when he did not answer. "I know you cannot stay…but where is it that you'll go?"
She watched him hammer on for a few moments, waiting. Finally, he turned and crouched before her. "Wherever it is the gods bid me. I am submitting myself to their will, to be sent along with the waves and the wind as they please."
When she blinked, the tears came hot and fast. Floki will be as good as dead to me as well. She closed her eyes against the thought, sniffling softly, her grief running freely down her cheeks. Rúna gave a little start when Floki took her by the chin, gently wiping her face dry. "And you, my daughter? What is it that you mean to do?"
She had to swallow down her sadness several times before being able to answer. "Raiding with Ivar, gods willing. Neither of us want to farm in the settlement given to us by Ecbert. He will be my only family, with you gone away." Floki sighed, breath washing warmly over her face. At last, Rúna opened her eyes, meeting his gaze.
"What of the girl?"
"Helga," her voice still broke over the sound of her mother's name, "asked me not to forsake her, so I will not. I promised." The last bit was tacked on in a soft whisper. Floki smirked, running his thumb over her cheek.
"She knew us very well, Rúna. I could never have kept the promise she's asked of you."
Her lips quirked up into her own sad smile at that. As Floki returned to work, she tucked herself into the front of the ship to watch him. Though the splinters of rough, un-sanded wood poked and prodded beneath her legs and along her back, she didn't mind. Studying her father, Rúna decided she must commit him to memory the way she had once done Ivar.
Lithe and hard-muscled, Floki's outward appearance gave no hint of his giggling, mischievous nature. He was always calm when he worked, his face the picture of serenity. The wood was cut with an expert eye; Floki never needed to measure. While she watched him, Rúna began to consider revealing the full truth to him. It sat heavy in her throat, clawing ever upward as Floki worked quietly. She had just made up her mind to do it, to tell him how she and Ivar would come to rule Kattegat, when something tugged sharply on her hair.
"Hey!" She protested, Floki giggling behind her as her hand flew up to her hair and she turned to see the raven perched on the bow above her. At the sight of the bird, she quieted, rocking back on her knees to peer up at the raven. It met her eyes with its own impenetrably dark gaze, a glitter of intelligence shining there as it canted its head to the side. Almost as if reprimanding her. Tentatively, she reached out a finger to stroke the raven's sleek, dark head. "Have a friend, Floki?"
"He's been with me since I began the boat," the man explained. Smirking, Rúna pulled a few hazelnuts from her pocket and offered them to the raven.
"Seems your journey to the gods is rather short, then, no?"
Floki broke into a full laugh at that, causing Rúna to start though the raven's feathers were unruffled. He calmly pecked at a nut in her palm, too interested in his treat to give his human companions much mind. She felt Floki's broad, warm, calloused hands come to rest on her shoulders. He dipped low over her, kissing the top of her head.
"I will miss you fiercely, my Rúna."
When Rúna returned, it was with two wooden swords in hand.
"Have you seen Tanaruz?" She asked of them, interrupting the card game Ivar and Hvitserk were in the middle of. Her fingers trailed idly across the back of his neck when she stopped short behind him, causing a shiver to run down his spine.
"She was making herself useful, helping Bodil and Gisli, last I saw. What's with the training swords?" Hvitserk asked around a mouthful of fruit. A 'pear'; Blaeja seemed to like them, and Hvitserk had deemed them edible. It was one of the only foods the princess would eat.
"If Tanaruz can stab a person in the neck, she can learn to fight." Rúna said plainly, causing Hvitserk to nearly choke in his surprise. As for Ivar, he chuckled and tipped his head back to look at her. He found her expression entirely serious, a hard and determined set to her jaw.
"You will train her, then?"
She slipped her fingers through the strands of hair at the back of his head, tickling over the base of his skull. "Would it not be more beneficial to us both?"
He missed her caressing touch as soon as she withdrew from him. Following her movements with a turn of his head, Ivar watched her retreat in search of the girl. "Well," his brother's voice broke him from his reverie, "shall we follow?"
When Hvitserk reached across the table to pluck the cards from his hand, Ivar let him. "It is like to be a good show," he admitted.
"Then let's be on our way, Little Ivar." Likewise, he let Hvitserk toss him over his shoulder to carry him through the yard. As they made their way through the camp, they caught Ubbe's eye.
"Where are you two off to?" He asked, standing from where he lounged and tended to his own sword, rubbing down the naked blade.
"Rúna's decided to train Tanaruz," Ivar explained, pushing himself up somewhat against Hvitserk's back. "We are, naturally, curious."
This piqued Ubbe's own interest. He hastily rose from the ground and sheathed his sword, having the thought and care to grab a stool from his own camp for Ivar. They added Sigurd to their band of brothers, called in by Ubbe when they passed him sharpening his axe, before they made it through the gate in their pursuit of Rúna.
They found her with Tanaruz, pressing one of the wooden training swords into the younger girl's hand. Afternoon sun gleamed off her hair, off her wicked smile. "You're going to learn to defend yourself honestly, Tanaruz."
Hvitserk dumped him unceremoniously onto the stool Ubbe had thought to bring him, giving Ivar a clear view. The wooden sword was clumsy in Tanaruz's hand, even after Rúna showed her how to properly hold it. In contrast, Rúna held her own confidently, shifting the weight until she liked the feel of it. She raised hers, waiting for Tanaruz to do the same so they might tap 'blades' as was the habitual opening of their practice swordplay.
Due to their stances—Rúna light on her feet, sword held loose and fluid, ready to strike; Tanaruz rigid, clutching the sword with both hands and a slight tremor—Ivar didn't have high hopes for the Moorish girl. Rúna's face was a hard, blank mask. Her hand shot out, catching Tanaruz on the shoulder with a smack! The girl shirked away from the blow, a small whimper sound escaping her.
"Hit me back, Tanaruz," Rúna told her. She was speaking in that hard voice again, the one she had used hours after Helga's death. Though Tanaruz had whimpered at the blow, Ivar knew Rúna had not truly hit the girl hard. He had dueled with her often enough to see how restrained her movements were. A second blow tapped Tanaruz on the hip. "Hit me back!"
Ivar also knew her well enough that his sudden desire to train Tanaruz had less to do with making the girl skillful and more to do with Rúna's grieving and anger. It was there in the flash of her eyes, her lightning-quick strikes. She had firmly refused his suggestion the girl be killed, but her fury had found an outlet here. In the context of training, Rúna could slake her thirst for revenge while passing it off as being in Tanaruz's best interest.
"She might be a lost cause," Ubbe pondered when, even after suffering multiple blows, Tanaruz still had yet to raise her sword to Rúna. At the thirteenth strike, however, Tanaruz let out a feral shriek of frustration. Surprisingly, she was nearly as quick as Rúna herself. A flashing banner of red hair signaled that Rúna had been hit. She nearly crumpled, and Ivar pushed himself forward in his seat reflexively.
But she caught herself and rose, hand cupping her cheek. What Tanaruz lacked in technique, she apparently made up for in strength, for when Rúna smiled victoriously, her teeth were bloodstained. She spit the excess blood into the dirt, facing Tanaruz again. This time, when Rúna lifted her sword, the younger girl was ready. Now spurred to sparring, Tanaruz managed to parry and block Rúna's swipes with some accuracy, though the wooden blade still hit its mark more often than not.
"Perhaps not," Ivar commented mildly, settling back into his seat. Soon enough, they all joined in on Tanaruz's training. Ubbe helped her adjust her hold. Sigurd took Tanaruz's sword to demonstrate how to lunge. Hvitserk took the girl by her shoulders and adjusted her stance. Ivar watched it all, smirking as he did so and calling out his own suggestions here and there. Tanaruz was a quick learner, though still no match for Rúna's experience. Still, by the time the sun was low and Ubbe suggested they all head back to camp for supper, Rúna was radiant in the dying light with her cheeks flushed and a sheen of exercise brightening her skin.
She was more content than she had been in days, sitting serenely beside him before the cook fire that sat in the middle of the brothers' tents. For all that Björn warned Ivar not to 'fracture the brotherhood', the eldest of them made camp closer to King Harald than he did his own blood. The English princess had been coaxed from her own tent by Sigurd. She sat quiet and demure on the other side, picking through her food.
"Does she think we might poison her?" Hvitserk asked around a large bite of the lamb leg he held in his hand. The question was directed at Sigurd. Tanaruz must have been ravenous after the ordeal Rúna put her through; for once, the girl ate heartily.
"How should I know? I hardly speak the Saxon language." Only a half-truth. They had all been learning the longer they spent in the Christian lands. Watching his brother through the flickering flames, it wasn't lost on Ivar how Sigurd's color rose at Hvitserk's question.
"You spend the most time with her," Rúna pointed out. "And she is not so scared of you as she is the rest of us."
"Because he plays her pretty songs," Hvitserk added, catching onto the thread of teasing in Rúna's tone. He turned to Blaeja, who flinched away from him slightly. "I am sorry the rest of us are not so musically inclined. I suppose we make poor company."
But when Hvitserk smile apologetically, Blaeja attempted to smile back at him. It didn't quite reach her lips, though, and she soon dropped her gaze back to the plate balanced in her lap.
"We must decide what to do with her," Ubbe said softly, letting the crackling of the fire cover his words. His eyes flicked about to each of them. "Björn is not taking her when he sails in a few days. Hvitserk?"
"Why change anything?" He asked with a shrug. "She has been fine, no?"
Nodding, Ubbe next turned to Sigurd. He flicked his eyes toward the princess beside him, who was staring desolately at her supper. "I agree with Hvitserk. We should keep her as captive."
Last, Ubbe raised his eyebrows at Ivar. The youngest brother took his time in giving an answer, first sucking the marrow from a rib bone before asking in turn, "What is your opinion, Ubbe?"
"I do not know that returning her to her people is the best decision," Ubbe murmured delicately. "We know she is safe with us. We do not know what assumptions will be made of her for having lived in a Viking camp, should we turn her over to the Saxons."
"So we keep her," Ivar prompted, waving his hand, "and…?"
Turning his eyes skyward, Ubbe thought for a moment. "And I suppose she joins our farming settlement at her leisure. She is young and healthy; I am sure she can handle farming."
"A royal to farmer." Ivar's mouth took on a humored twist. "The very opposite path Father took. Very well."
The surprise was clear on all three of his brother's faces. Ivar pointedly ignored the look Rúna was throwing him, instead focusing on using the heel of his bread to sop up the juices on his plate.
"That is all?" Ubbe asked after a beat, to which Ivar shrugged.
"I agree that the Saxons may well be unkind to her. Father told me a tale of Princess Judith and how King Ecbert and Prince Aethelwulf had her publicly tortured until she confessed to having sex with the priest Athelstan. She lost an ear for it." Though Ivar shared Floki's sentiments concerning the priest, his disgust was evident in his voice as he told the tale. Rúna shivered beside him. Glancing her way, he saw the horror on her own face. He felt other eyes on him and he raised his gaze to meet Blaeja's through the flames.
The names of her family members had caught her attention, as Ivar knew they would. "Killing her ourselves would be kinder than that. No; Björn has likely taken her chance at life with her own people from her. I suppose it would only be right to attempt to give her a life among our own."
Surprise still colored Ubbe's face even as he nodded. Hvitserk shrugged and went happily back to his eating. As for Sigurd, he was now watching the princess. Ivar knew it was unlikely his brothers knew that tale. Even when he was home with them, Ragnar rarely if ever spoke of Athelstan. He knew more of the man from Floki, who had hated him with a passion, than he did from his own father.
With the issue of Blaeja settled, the rest of the meal passed in easy conversation. Once it was full dark and the fire smothered, the brothers disbanded to their respective tents, save Sigurd. He took Blaeja gently by the arm to escort her to her own tent, guarded by trusted men from Kattegat through the night.
Rúna saw Tanaruz to the tent adjacent to the one she now shared with him, the tent left behind by Floki and Helga. Ivar was already in bed himself by the time Rúna returned from seeing the girl to bed.
"Will she be alright?" He asked, watching Rúna ready herself for bed in the dim light. She toed off her boots before reaching into her armor—they had all been wearing their pieces during the day, just in case—withdrawing something. She set it on the low table before drawing close to him and perching on the edge of the bed, waiting for him to help her off with her armor.
"There is no one left who she fears," Rúna said simply.
He pulled and tugged at the fastenings at her side, loosening the leather so that she could slip it over her head. "What was it you took out of your armor?"
There was a beat before Rúna answered. He ran his fingers along her thigh idly while he waited for her answer. "My branch of mistletoe, from the Seer," she revealed. "I felt I should bring it here, and now I… I need it, Budlungr, lest I forget the Seer's words to cling to the gods. It is not easy to put my good faith in them, presently."
Her confession was punctuated with tears; an errant one landed on his hand. Ivar drew her into him, pressing a kiss to her wet cheek. She turned toward him, catching his mouth with her own. Rúna took her time kissing him, so that he was lightheaded by the time she withdrew to ask, "Was that true? That story you told us all about Princess Judith?"
"Mmm," he murmured, slipping his hand beneath her tunic to rest in the warm curve of her waist. "Ragnar told me of it himself. He was not there, but he had heard the story from Ecbert."
Rúna shivered, scooting closer to him reflexively. Ivar ran his hand up her spine, eliciting another shiver from her. "And they have the gall to call us savage heathens." She sighed, her breath warm against his neck and bare chest. "That was kind of you, though, not to tell the truth… that you wouldn't think twice about killing Princess Blaeja now that she's 'no use to us'."
He heard the smirk as she quoted his words back to him. Ivar gave a smirk of his own, pressing his hand into her back to pull her close enough to kiss again. "Sigurd may be infuriating," Ivar murmured, moving his lips from her mouth over her jaw and down her neck, "but he did commit to killing Margrethe. And he did love her, truly, did he not? I suppose the Saxon girl can be his reward."
"Kind of you, indeed," she teased, voice turned breathless at the touch of his lips. Rúna didn't oppose him when he slipped her tunic off, leaving them both only half-dressed.
"Besides," Ivar continued both his explanation and his exploration, "my brothers will be mad enough tomorrow evening during the feast, when I announce our intentions to raid rather than farm."
"Mmm," Rúna answered, unable to form any other response with the way her head was swimming. She was tired of thinking of all the recent sadness in her life, between Helga's death and Floki's plan to leave, not to mention all her conflicting emotions concerning Tanaruz. Bucking them all, she gave herself to the temporary reprieve of a shared bed with Ivar.
The feast was raucous, as was the nature of Viking celebrations. Ivar and his brothers sat on a dais above the others, commanders of the army as they were. Rúna found herself and Tanaruz a place at King Harald's expansive table alongside Bodil and Gisli. The older girls betted amongst each other on the wrestling matches that broke out amongst the feasting, Sigurd's oud strumming giving the whole thing a jaunty musical backtrack.
Though there was still a hollow weight in her middle over Helga, Rúna found herself smiling with her friends. It was fate that the gods should take Helga as they did, Rúna reminded herself, pressing a hand briefly to her pocket, where she kept the mistletoe branch. The hard press of it into her thigh echoed the sentiment of her thoughts. She would be unhappy if I were to torture myself over it so much.
So, she felt only a little guilty for laughing over Gisli's highly animated annoyance at having to hand over the three loose jewels she had lost in a bet to her sister. A blast from Björn's war horn cut through the merrymaking, bringing everyone's attention up to the dais so the oldest of Ragnar's sons could announce his intentions to sail back to the Mediterranean.
"We have the legal right to the land, and to farm here!" Björn shouted, his proclamation met with cries of approval. All the younger sons had turned to their eldest brother, watching with the same rapt attention as the crowd. Ivar's bemused smirk, the dip of his head, the slouched way he sat in his seat…none of these details escaped Rúna's notice. She watched Ivar more closely than the victorious Björn, anxious to know what it was he was plotting. "It is up to all of you to use this opportunity to send over new settlers and young families! Unfortunately, I will not be here to see this new settlement grow and thrive."
At that, Ivar turned his head, seeking and finding Rúna's gaze so that he might raise an eyebrow at her. Suppressing another smile, Rúna shook her head back at him. Behave, Ivar. The smile he gave her in return was entirely too innocent.
Ivar waited until Björn had made his announcement that he intended to follow his destiny away from England and the settlement Ecbert had promised in East Anglia. As the latest cheer died down, Ivar called out, "I will be here, but not to settle down and plow! Who wants to be a farmer now? Hmm?" He asked, turning and addressing the crowd.
Rúna stilled in own seat on the bench between Bodil and Tanaruz, watching him carefully. Though he had warned her the night before that he would do this, Rúna was still anxious to see how Ivar's announcement would unfold. Sensing her unease, Tanaruz slipped her hand into Rúna's. She could feel the younger girl's dark, questioning eyes on her face, but Rúna had no time to try to explain.
"We have a great army, and we should use it. There are many other places that I want to attack and raid! And those of you who feel like I do, you should come with me. And those of you who don't, ask yourself, 'Who can stand in our way now?'" The passion in Ivar's voice was met with more cheering and affirmation, allowing Rúna to relax somewhat. But she knew it was not the people of this feast that would provide a son of Ragnar with resistance, but rather the very men that sat on the dais alongside him.
Still, she raised her cup of wine to Ivar, ignoring the incredulous looks being sent her way by Ubbe and Sigurd. When Ubbe turned that gaze from her to give one of pity-tinged sympathy to his youngest brother, he dropped his voice low enough that it could not be heard where Rúna sat. Her attention was instead taken up by Gisli, leaning across Bodil with her dark blue eyes swallowing up her face as she asked, "Surely you would not go with him, Rúna?"
"Where else would I go?" Rúna asked plainly in turn.
"What of Tanaruz, though?" To this, the redhaired girl shrugged and gave Tanaruz's hand a reassuring squeeze.
"She will go where I go until she is old enough to choose for herself." Rúna knew she owed Helga at least that much. Tanaruz would be safe with her; she would make sure of it. Already around twelve, the girl wasn't far off from being grown, anyway.
Gisli was still unimpressed. "And here I thought taking a prince as your lover would bring you the same opulence it has us. Yet you will be bloody and muddy, won't you?"
"We will be adventuring," Rúna amended. Until the time is right to take Kattegat. She suppressed the smile that threatened her lips at that thought. How little they know. "We will be Viking."
"If seeing new lands and sleeping on the ground interests our dear Rúna, who are we to judge, my sister?" Bodil teased, reaching out to tap Rúna on the nose. "We will be warm and dry in Tamdrup, reaping the benefits of our good King Harald. But, truly, Rúna, would that be best for Tanaruz? Björn is returning to her homeland, or near enough."
Rúna was shaking her head before Bodil finished her suggestion. "She will not go. I've already asked her." Surely sending Tanaruz back to her own lands would not be forsaking her, as Helga had feared with her dying breath. Rúna had broached the subject that morning, speaking in a careful mix of Norse and Tanaruz's own language, to ensure she understood. The girl had gone rigid with fright at the suggestion, lapsing into her native tongue and clinging to Rúna's hand as she begged.
Flicking her gaze at the younger girl, Rúna found her pale beneath the olive tone of her skin. Tanaruz clutched her hand tighter and Rúna gave her an absentminded, reassuring pat. "No, she will remain with me." Tanaruz nearly deflated with relief at Rúna's soft smile. She had told the truth when she had told Helga that she very much liked Tanaruz. Rúna was just uncertain if she had the strength to ever truly, fully, forgive her for Helga's death.
Gisli opened her mouth to dispute further, but Ivar was not finished. "Who among you will follow me?" He asked into the crowd. "Who will follow me into battle for the love of fame and for the love of Odin, our Allfather?"
Many warriors took up his call, echoing his enthusiasm. It thrilled Rúna to hear it, her heart fluttering beneath her ribs. The exasperated expressions on Ubbe, Björn, and Hvitserk's faces undercut her excitement, somewhat, but she only rolled her eyes at their displeasure. Ivar taking forces for his own voyaging would splinter the brotherhood, but how was it different than Björn doing the same for his all-important destiny? It is Ivar's destiny to rule, she reminded herself. He is the heir; they just refuse to see it.
They—the brothers—had always underestimated Ivar. She knew that. Even knowing he was cunning and strong, they still saw him as a cripple first. But that will all be changing soon.
"I have no one to go home to, anyway," Rúna said softly. "Helga is gone and Floki will not stay. Nor will he return to Kattegat. I know him, and I know it would be too painful for him to continue on there without her. I don't have any blood family, like the two of you. All of my family has always been chosen." She gave another shrug of her shoulder, a rueful smirk playing at her lips. "Now I choose Ivar. You always knew I would, before I even admitted it to myself."
Gisli was still nonplussed, her fair brows drawing together over dark blue eyes. To choose a life of hardship and fighting over one of creature comforts was so alien to her that she seemed unable to comprehend it. But Bodil, ever the wiser of the twins, merely smiled sadly and took Rúna's free hand in both of hers.
"There's no swaying you, is there?" Concern was clear in her eyes. Rúna smiled at her, hoping to dissuade the good-intentioned, though unneeded, care. She would not die in this raiding, she knew.
"None at all," Rúna confirmed with a shake of her head. "Just as well save your breath, Bodil."
The weight of the secret, filling her chest and throat and mouth, nearly broke past her lips at the dark shadow of woe in Bodil's eyes. She very much wanted to reassure her friends fully that nothing was going to happen to her; she was destined to sit on Kattegat's throne beside Ivar, to take the inheritance that Ragnar had placed on his head. The memory of the raven tugging at her hair the day before ran through her mind. She knew she could not reveal it all, swallowing heavily against the words instead when Bodil squeezed her hand and leaned forward to kiss her as if they were saying goodbye to one another.
Maybe, in a way, they were. When she next saw the twins, after all, it was likely to be as a queen. Rúna felt tears prick at her eyes as she took in the sad acceptance coloring the identical faces before her. Her lips parted, poised to say something else, when again the girls were interrupted by an outburst from Ivar.
Though, this time, his cry was wordless. Something between a shout and a growl, his eyes fixated on Sigurd. Whatever argument they had been having angered him Ivar indeed. Rúna half pushed herself from her seat, but Björn spoke, his tone harsh despite his benign words.
"So, who is going to stay and farm?"
Eyes narrowing, Rúna looked from Ivar to Sigurd. The former had gone pale, so that his dark hair and blue eyes stood in stark contrast to the pallor. As for Sigurd… he was looking mostly at his lap, though Ubbe and Hvitserk were throwing hard glances she couldn't quite read at their younger brother. It had been bad, indeed, then, and Sigurd knew he had gone too far, if his face was any indication.
"I would like to stay," King Harald was rasping some ways down the table, though Rúna hardly heard him. She was working her hand free of Tanaruz's, intent on going to Ivar, before Bodil grabbed hold of her wrist, hard.
"What are you doing?" Her friend hissed.
"You don't know how bad their fights are," Rúna told her, trying to tug herself free. She thought back to that morning, when Ivar had very nearly succeeded in slashing at Sigurd with his dagger.
"You would undermine him and scold him, here, in front of all these people?" Bodil asked. The fierceness of her friend's words gave her pause. She looked at Gisli, who shook her head.
"Would that not be worse than what Sigurd has already said to him? You did not hear, but I did, Rúna. Sigurd loudly proclaimed that Ivar is not truly a man, that he is well and truly… Boneless."
At that Rúna fell heavily into her seat. What a sorry bastard, she thought looking again at Ivar. He was staring resolutely at the table. Even from this distance, Rúna could see the tic of his pulse in his clenched jaw. Sigurd knows that is not true, yet he would sink that low to bring Ivar down?
It was a common assumption—misconception, Sigurd damn well knew—that the weakness of Ivar's legs would affect everything below the waist. Other boys of an age with the princes had made taunts based on Ivar's assumed impotence. It had plagued him since he started to grow into a man, and Rúna knew the taunts continued even after the day Ivar had beat a boy near to death before Hvitserk pulled him off.
No one had dared make such suggestions to his face for years. Until now. And it just had to be Sigurd to say it.
Fuming, Rúna halfheartedly turned her attention to Halfdan, taking Bodil and Gisli's advice and watching the man commit himself to Björn's cause. She watched Björn jump over the feasting table and hop down from the dais to draw Halfdan into his arms.
"Then it seems the only thing that really kept the sons of Ragnar together was the death of their father," Björn was saying, embracing Halfdan and then turning to pin his younger brothers with a look of reproachful distaste.
As the shock of Sigurd's jab faded, it was replaced with a white-hot, burning wave of anger and hatred. He would have liked nothing more than to haul himself up, crawl across this table, and take Sigurd by his sorry throat.
Björn's jumping over the table took him out of his reverie. But it was Björn's scolding that did him in, the last fuel to the fire burning in his chest, feeding the flame so that a wildfire of hateful, venomous ire overtook him.
Damn him, Ivar thought. Damn them all. Straight to the Christian hell. Our gods are too good for them.
"Poor Björn! It is you who doesn't want to keep the army together!" Ivar was no longer able to contain his anger. He gripped the arm rests of his chair tightly, so that his knuckles went a bloodless white and his braces bit into his palms. "It is you who wants to go away to sunny places! Everyone else can follow me."
"I do not want to follow you, Ivar!" Sigurd had risen from his seat and was looking down on him with that look of contempt he knew so well. "You are crazy! You have the mind of a child!"
"And all you do is play music, Sigurd!" A small, rational part of his mind not suffused with anger knew this very argument was childish, even as he bit out the words. Yet, had he and Sigurd ever grown from their boyhood squabbles? No; they had only grown larger, and more effective at hurting one another.
"I'm just as much a son of Ragnar as you are!"
"I'm not so sure… as far as I remember, Ragnar didn't play the oud. And he certainly didn't offer his arse to other men!"
If Sigurd could lie, Ivar rationalized to himself, then so can I. He pointedly ignored the way Ubbe was glaring full-on into his face, focusing instead on the chuckles of the crowd. I hope it hurts him down to his bones.
"You make me laugh," Sigurd said, though his face was anything but amused, the snake in his eye seeming to writhe with his own barely contained resentment. "Just like you do when you crawl around like a baby."
"Shut your mouth!" He hardly recognized his own voice. It had deepened with his fury, his fist hitting the table with enough force to make the bones of his hand throb in protest.
"Enough!" That came from Björn, though, as always, a reprimand from their eldest brother had never carried the weight that one from Ubbe did. He still sat silently glaring at Ivar to stop. Does he not realize I am of no mind to? Not this time.
"This has nothing to do with you!" Ivar shouted at the blonde man, slamming his open palm on his chair once more. As he turned back to Sigurd, he caught a glimpse of Rúna's face. She was pale beneath her blazing hair, shaking her head ever so slightly as his eyes briefly met hers. Her words from the morning came back to him, rising from the ether of his ire. Prove him wrong…
"What's the matter, Ivar? You can't take it?" Sigurd continued on.
"Ivar, do not listen to him," Ubbe cautioned, but his words held little weight compared to that almost-imperceptible shake of Rúna's head and the silver edge of warning in her eyes. He could live with Ubbe and Hvitserk being mad at him, and he couldn't give less of a care what Björn thought, but Rúna… could he truly handle her being upset with him? Of that, he was not sure.
"No, I guess it must be hard for you now that your mummy's dead. Knowing she's the only one who ever really loved you."
He was shaking with his anger, feeling it course through his veins as surely as his blood. His hand found the axe handle as if on instinct, Ubbe's warnings sounding dull and useless to his ears. With another ferocious, wordless shout, Ivar sent the axe flying.
…but do not kill him.
It was only Rúna's words that kept him from delivering a deathblow. Instead, it was glancing, the axe moving with too much speed to cut too deeply. He never missed; he knew that, and so did his brothers. It was with great precision that the axe blade skimmed the side of Sigurd's head, taking with it some of his braids and—truthfully—nearly his ear. But it remained attached, if a little flapping, to his head.
Ivar ignored the gasps and screams of the crowd, the shocked, pale faces of Ubbe and Hvitserk. He focused instead on Sigurd's gaping mouth, his eyes comically wide in his face, one hand drifting upward to touch the wave of blood streaming from his wound. Unless infection took hold, the man wouldn't die, and if he did die of infection, that would be no blood on Ivar's hands. He pushed himself up, forcing himself to stand on his feet though his legs protested painfully in their bindings.
"Valhalla is too good for a spineless coward like you, my dear brother," Ivar spit, leaning across the table to meet Sigurd's astonished gaze. "That is the only reason I have not killed you just now, when we are fighting. You've no place beside Father, no place fighting for Odin in the Ragnarok, cur that you are. That is the only reason you still draw breath, Sigurd."
The awestricken look faded from his brother's face, again replaced with rage. He turned, intent on retrieving the axe that had clattered to the floor, but Rúna's foot intercepted him. She pinned the axe beneath her boot, her sudden appearance behind him giving Sigurd pause.
"There's been enough damage today, don't you think, Sigurd?" She asked, her tone low and soft, yet still too loud in the deathly quiet that had seized the feasting crowd. Rúna's presence stirred Ubbe and Hvitserk into action at last, breaking their stillness so that they were both rushing forward to take hold of Sigurd on either side. Head wounds always bleed heavily, and thick waves were staining Sigurd's neck and shirt. They led him away, to see his wound tended to, and Rúna bent to take hold of the axe herself.
He let himself fall back into his chair, watching Rúna draw closer to him. There was nothing, no one else, but Rúna walking toward him, her face unreadable, the axe she carried dripping his brother's blood. She offered the handle to him, when she was near enough, letting the weight of it settle into his palm just as the weight of what he had done settled into his chest.
Rúna's little smile was a balm soothing the burn of his earlier rage. His eyes fluttered shut, taking a deep breath for the first time since the fight with Sigurd had started. Despite anything else that came from this altercation, he could rest assured in the fact he had done right by Rúna.
To think the fighting was done for the day would have been folly. After the feast, Björn gathered them all inside the walls of the castle, away from the ears of the camp. Only Sigurd was absent from the second round, asleep in his bed with Princess Blaeja tending to him. To Ivar's surprise, the girl was knowledgeable in something, that something being caring for the sick. She had cleaned the wound with heated wine and created a paste of herbs to slather on before wrapping Sigurd's head tightly in bandages.
He slept now, Ivar having given Ubbe some of his own herbs he carried for his leg pain to be given to Sigurd. The feverfew and bitter tea had seen Sigurd to his restful dreams in one of the chambers in the castle, a guard left outside the door and Blaeja left as his healer.
Tanaruz had followed behind Rúna into the large room, small and dark in her wake. A shadow indeed. She stood now with the older girl, both of them having taken a post near the wall. Rúna glared openly at Björn.
Ivar himself had chosen to haul himself into the chair farthest from the man, letting Ubbe and Hvitserk take the nearer seats. Björn stood at the door, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Was this the same stance he took when scolding Guthrum and little Hali? He glared down the length of his nose at the younger brothers, though only Ubbe had the sense to look cowed by it. Hvitserk, lounging in his own seat as he was, seemed rather unaffected at being here.
"I warned you not to break up this brotherhood, Ivar."
"Is that what I have done?" Ivar asked, raising his hands palms up. "Hmm, Björn? It has always been fractured. You would know that if you paid attention to anything other than your cock."
He had lost his ability to pretend otherwise. Likewise, he had lost his filter. Watching the color rise in Björn's face, Ivar continued. "I have done nothing that has not happened most of my life. I hurt Sigurd? Indeed, I did, but that is nothing new for the two of us. It is true I hurt him more gravely than we ever have before, but can any of you tell me, honestly, that he did not earn it?"
Turning to Hvitserk and Ubbe, Ivar waited for the only brotherly opinions he cared about. The former gave him a sardonic little grin. "The proof of your virility is standing behind you," Hvitserk quipped, tipping his head in Rúna's direction. He could just imagine the way Hvitserk's harmless taunt made her blush. Ivar reached over his shoulder, waiting for Rúna to slip her hand into his.
"Ubbe?"
They held a look between them for a moment, four matching blue eyes peering into the others, before Ubbe sighed heavily. "You were both in the wrong, Ivar. Surely you can admit that?"
Ivar did demure a bit at Ubbe's words, dropping his gaze down to his hands. "I gave him my medicine," he said, voice sounding small. That was as close to an admission of guilt any of them were like to get, and Ubbe knew it.
"You did," he agreed. "He may even thank you for it one day, should he keep his ear. But… Ivar, you cannot take the army for your own means."
"I do not mean to take the army," he argued immediately. "Only those with the spine for raiding. Ecbert and Aelle are dead, yes, and we have fulfilled Father's revenge. But how long until Aethelwulf seeks his own? Rather than waiting for the inevitable, I would like to meet it head on. To sink such fear into these people that they never forget the might of the Northmen."
A half-truth. Yes, he wanted what he had said, but he also needed a loyal following with which to take Kattegat from Lagertha. Rúna understood that; he knew from the way she squeezed his fingers. The others need not be privy to that motive.
"What makes you think you are worthy to follow?" Björn bit out, his face still splotched red.
"And what makes you think you are more worthy, Björn Ironside? Because you sailed to a new land, as Ragnar had done? Only with a map and my father's help. Or perhaps because your mother slaughtered old men and hapless women and children to take a vulnerable land while you were away? Don't tell me you are basing it off your ability as a strategist, because it was Ivar's own that defeated Prince Aethelwulf so spectacularly." Rúna's words, laced heavily with venom, caught them all off guard. Björn's face flooded red again, so deeply that it was nearly purple before he recovered his speech.
"You will not speak to me like that!" He roared, though Rúna did not flinch in the face of his fury. Even when Björn clutched at the closest object, a jug of mead, and hurled it in her direction, Rúna did not bow to him. It whizzed just above her head, coming to smash against the stone wall behind her.
"I am sorry you dislike the truth so much," she said instead. "Perhaps that is why you will not accept that someone might want to follow your crippled brother. That's what it is, isn't it? Afraid someone called Ivar the Boneless would best someone called Björn Ironside?"
A snarl ripped past Björn's lips. He made a move around the table, one that Ivar or Rúna easily would have countered themselves had Tanaruz not intervened. A shard of the jug gripped in her little hand, the girl inserted herself between the calm form of Rúna and Björn's hulking frame.
Perhaps it was the fact that, for the first time, the girl spoke openly in Norse that gave them all pause. "No touch her," she said, heavily accented, and not quite correct, but Norse all the same. Or perhaps it was the iron in her own gaze, dark and blazing, as she fearlessly met Björn's. Whatever it was, the man froze for a moment before taking his anger out on flipping the table Ivar sat at. It clattered to the floor, rattling with Björn's kick.
Rúna caught Tanaruz by the elbow, pulling the girl back and working the shard of sharp pottery from her hand. Then she put Tanaruz on Ivar's other side, effectively removing her from Björn.
"You are a hypocrite, brother," Ivar spat. "Who is to say that raiding these lands is not my destiny, hmm? Destiny is very important to you, is it not? You feel yours is in the Mediterranean. I know mine is not farming a Saxon land. You follow your destiny, Björn, and I will follow mine. We are both the sons of Ragnar; I am sure the gods will smile down on each of us." He flicked his gaze at Hvitserk and Ubbe, remembering they, too, were in the room. "They will smile on all of us. To get to East Anglia to start this settlement, though, you need to travel north."
Ivar pulled a map from his pocket, smoothing it across his lap as the table lay toppled before them. He waved Hvitserk and Ubbe forward, purposely ignoring Björn. He traced his finger from Wessex, where they currently resided, to the coastal area of East Anglia.
"We can go by land, and cut through the lands of Mercia, though there is risk to be considered there."
Hvitserk and Ubbe crouched tentatively before him, studying the map. "We would be rather open, traveling by land."
Ubbe wasn't wrong. Even with the forces Björn was taking, they still had a considerable number to move to East Anglia to begin the settlement. "Yes, an army of Vikings will not go unnoticed. There is an alternate route, though, by sea. We can sail from the Wessex coast straight to that of East Anglia…" again, the path was traced by Ivar's finger.
"Any man that follows a spoiled child such as yourself is a fool, Ivar." The slam of the door heralding Björn's leaving hardly registered to him. Neither did his intended insult.
"…or, we might sail around East Anglia, to this very southernmost portion of Northumbria. There is a formidable stronghold there, called York. Ecbert's dispensation should give protection from Mercia, which borders East Anglia here. But Northumbria, as we know, was Aelle's land. Holding York would give your settlement protection from Northumbria, as well, Ubbe."
The older boy studied the map for some time, flicking his eyes up to Hvitserk, who gave a nod of affirmation.
"Then let us sail to York, brothers. Though, Ivar, I think we should give Sigurd a few days to regain his strength, no?"
A/N: This chapter was a BEAST to write. Deciding, fully, to keep Sigurd alive, researching the kingdoms of England during the time of the Vikings to make sense of certain things in the show (like the brothers taking York when it is far north of East Anglia, where they are meant to make the settlement? The writers stress me), further fleshing out Ivar and Sigurd's relationship so I can keep him alive...
If you haven't noticed yet, I am trying to add in some of the more accurate historical aspects that the show cut or neglected, mainly because I think Ivar's story would have been more interesting had they done the same.
There was a lot to go/write through. Sorry for the long delay! Life has also gotten busier, with summer ending. Even if updates come slower, trust they are coming!
Thank you to: Puffgirl1952, Nightwingstress, Kate, and dreamsnhugs for the reviews! Y'all have no idea how much each and every one of them means to me. I hope everyone enjoys this chapter, because I can't tell you how sick of working on it I was getting!