Chapter Thirty-Two: Fram
Rúna liked to wake beside Ivar, she found. On the day both Floki and Björn left, she woke to Ivar's warm, even breaths seeping into her hair and tickling her scalp. He held her close to him, curled around her in the narrow camp bed. Out of habit, she tended to wake earlier than Ivar, despite there being no farm animals for her to tend to here in England. That work was left to the slaves brought by individual households and King Harald.
The sun was rising, diffusing the tent with soft morning light. Ivar fought against it, groaning softly and burying his face in her shoulder. Sleep was always hard for him to shake, evidence of his leisurely, royal upbringing. He grumbled something incoherent, hugging her tight about the waist before rolling away from her and taking his warmth with him. Laying on his back, he rubbed at his eyes before cracking one open to reveal a soft, hazy blue.
"I do not want to face this morning any more than you do, Budlungr," she reminded him, rolling back toward him and reaching out to touch his face. An almost-smile tugged at his lips as he rolled his wrists, each cracking away their stiffness.
"I'm sure Björn will be pleased to be rid of you, at least," he teased, voice thick with sleep, reaching for her and pulling her near enough to softly kiss her.
"I did not tell him one lie," she insisted, "and I am not sorry for what I said that night."
A few days had passed since the feast. In all that time, Rúna hadn't caught one glimpse of Ragnar's oldest son, and she wasn't upset by that fact.
His fingers weaved themselves into her hair. "Nor should you be, min dróttning." Ivar had developed a habit of calling her 'my queen', though now only in the privacy of their shared tent. And it still made her blush each and every time.
Neither of them mentioned Floki as they lingered in bed, exchanging kisses and embraces and soft whispers. Eventually, the morning light could no longer be ignored, and Rúna reluctantly rolled out of bed to retrieve their boots and Ivar's tunic. They dressed quietly, Rúna helping Ivar with his bindings before combing quickly through her loose hair, and they left the tent together equally wordless.
Summers in England were warmer than in Norway, the sun already heating the crown of her head as they drifted ever closer to the shore. Usually, the sea was as reassuring to her as her own home, but presently, her stomach churned in rhythm with the waves.
Rúna had very intentionally left Tanaruz slumbering in her own bed, exhausted from yesterday evening's training. She had insisted on a long session for this very reason, a safeguard against Tanaruz following her to see Floki off to sea. Cooler salt air washed over her face, making her eyes sting with the burn of unshed tears. Her father was leaving ahead of Björn and King Harald, his little boat already bobbing in the shallows as it waited for him.
And Floki waited for them, limned golden in the morning light that glittered off the gentle waves and his eyes alike. Seeing him for what Rúna knew could well be the last time had grief strangling her like a hand around her throat. She found herself at a loss for words, silently folding herself into Floki's arms instead. Clinging to him, she tried to memorize his scent—cut wood and sea salt—along with the way he cradled her head to his shoulder.
His back shook under her hand, but Rúna was sure hers did the same. Despite the tremor of tears, she could feel the wiry strength her father carried in every line of him. Too soon, far too soon, Floki withdrew just enough to take her face between his hands. His characteristic glint of merriment was still there in Floki's dark eyes, though his lips struggled to maintain the smile they tried for. Rúna reached up, taking hold of his wrist.
"You are fated for great things, my Rúna," he told her, pressing a hard kiss to her forehead. "You will make this old man proud, yes?"
"Yes." Her voice faltered and failed over that single word. Nodding, she bit into her bottom lip to keep hold on the sob building in her throat. Despite her best efforts, tears streamed hot and thick down her cheeks. Floki attempted to wick some of her tears away with his thumbs, but his efforts were futile against the deluge. His mouth quirked into the ghost of a smile before he hugged her tight once more.
Floki's releasing of her left Rúna cold in his wake. She wrapped her arms about herself, hugging tight around her own waist as she watched Floki crouch and embrace Ivar. He pulled the younger man upright on his bound legs, supporting Ivar with his own weight as they clung to each other.
"You'll take care of my daughter, you crippled bastard, or I will send Jörmungandr inland and we will see who can slither faster, hmm, Ivar?" The sound this elicited from the 'crippled bastard' was something halfway between a laugh and a sob.
"You command the children of Loki now, do you, you crazy old fool?" Tears fell unabashed down Ivar's cheeks. Rúna wasn't sure how Floki was able to keep such composure, his expression sorrowful but his face dry.
"For her, I would find a way." Waving Rúna forward, Floki settled Ivar's weight between them and all three sat upon the beach. The water lapped peacefully along the shore before them, the waves receding a tiny bit each time. England and Norway were different lands, but the ocean was eternal, Rúna knew. This sea was the same that was lapping on the shores of Kattegat even as they sat here on a beach in Wessex.
The tide was shifting, and if Floki intended to be on his way before Björn and King Harald boarded the other ships bobbing in the water to take their leave, he would need to do so soon. Floki knew this, too, of course. All too soon, he pushed himself up from the beach. "I saw the others last night," he explained. "Even Sigurd, laid up in bed as he is. Quite the axe arm you've got on you, Ivar."
This last bit was said with a sardonic smile at Ivar's expense before Floki crouched before the pair. From the pouch he wore at his belt, Floki withdrew a miniature replica of the one-person ship waiting in the water behind him. Just like the miniatures he had built all through Rúna's childhood, the ones she would push into the water and chase through the shallows under the watchful eyes of Floki and Helga. He pressed the boat into her hands, a new wobble afflicting her chin as she took hold.
"I wanted yours to be the last face I saw here in this wretched land, Rúna… though I should have known to expect to get Ivar as well, hmm?" He ruffled Ivar's overgrown hair, sending the strands into chaos around his face. Then he leaned forward, kissing each on the forehead and tapping a finger on the tiny ship in Rúna's hands. "I will be far from you, yes, but I will be here as well."
Unlike when they buried Helga, Floki did not say goodbye. Instead, he parted with another sorrowful smile before hopping onto his one-man ship and severing the mooring line that kept him docked. With the help of a solid push from Rúna, the tide pulled him away from the shallows, but it was the oars and Floki's rowing that reduced him to a small dot on the horizon. Rúna stood in the shallows, arms wrapped around her middle, the breeze blowing through her as she stood watching his retreat. Only when Floki could no longer be seen did Rúna speak, half-turning to look at Ivar over her shoulder.
"We are both orphans now." She came back down the beach, falling heavily to take a seat beside him. "Fate hurts, Ivar." The words barely made it passed her lips before her sob, holding the little boat to her heart. It was a poor substitute for her father, but it was all she had left. Ivar pulled her into him, so that her deluge of tears wetted his neck and tunic. His own fell into her hair as they held onto each other.
"It does," he agreed, his own voice thick, before kissing the crown of her head. "Do you think it will be worth it? For all we have lost?"
Rúna very nearly answered with a sour 'It had better be' before she remembered her branch of mistletoe, sitting beside Ivar's king chess piece on the bedside table. Even Odin has suffered at the hands of fate, she reminded herself, thinking of Baldur and his untimely death brought on by Loki's trick. And yet he has not forsaken the others, keeping them safe in their realms and inviting warriors into Valhalla to defend the gods when the day of Ragnarok comes.
"Of course it will be," she told him, her voice finding strength despite the tears that choked her. Rúna withdrew slowly from him, letting the sun warm and dry her face. It may have been English soil she sat on, but it was her Allfather's smile she felt in those sunbeams. "We have Odin's favor."
They waited together on the beach, for the other sailing parties, drying each other's tears before they were seen. Björn's arrived first, he and Halfdan giving commands as they readied their ships. The two of them watched this as well, Rúna offering no help. When King Harald's posse arrived, it was with Ivar's brothers and Rúna's sister in tow. Ubbe led Tanaruz forward by the hand, holding it aloft with the polite respect Aslaug had instilled in her sons.
"Floki is gone, then?" Ubbe asked, depositing Tanaruz with Rúna. Using Ivar's shoulder as leverage, she stood and took the girl from Ubbe. His question was echoed in Tanaruz's dark eyes.
"He is," she said, busying herself with straightening Tanaruz's veil and smoothing a hand over her rumpled dress. It wanted washing, but then, all their clothing did. None of them were any less grubby, the more menial duties of camp having fallen away with all that had happened over the past few days. Perhaps Blaeja could point her in the direction of a stream, so she might get some laundering done. "How is Sigurd?"
"Still sleeping when we left. I suggested waking him to join us, but Blaeja was not fond of the idea." Ubbe smirked and patted Ivar on the head. "You need to see him soon, Ivar. Hvitserk and I will carry you hitting and screaming if we must."
"Later," Ivar answered noncommittally, but there was no bite to the word. Though he would rather die than admit it, Ivar knew his brother was right.
Hvitserk came to the beach a bit slower, flanked on either side by Gisli and Bodil as he escorted them. He laughed easily with both, sweeping a cheeky bow and kissing their knuckles in turn. "Regretfully, we must all part ways this morning. Say hello to civilization for me, would you? I'm not like to see it for some time."
"We have no need for goodbyes quite yet," Bodil disagreed, greeting Rúna with a smile before nodding toward King Harald. "A sacrifice. This is the first time that I know of where King Harald and Halfdan have parted from each other, and our king will not send his brother off without asking the gods' favor."
Bodil was right, of course. A large goat was slain in sacrifice, the blood collected for King Harald in a deep dish. He flicked the sacrificial blood onto Halfdan's face first, calling on the gods to protect and love his brother as he always had. When the warm blood splattered over her own face, though, it was for Floki's love and protection that Rúna prayed.
King Harald paused when he reached Tanaruz, the brush he held in his hand stilling. Shifting his gaze to Rúna, he inclined his head in wordless question. Rúna nodded, taking Tanaruz by the arm to hold her still. If she was to live with the Vikings, Tanaruz had best get used to their customs. Though pale, Tanaruz met King Harald's gaze with her dark eyes. The girl flinched—but did not object—when the blood splattered on her face.
Björn's party was sent off first, with King Harald watching until his brother became no more than a fleck on the horizon, just as Rúna had watched Floki. Afternoon was creeping up on the group of Vikings, the sun warming the day considerably.
"It is our time, then," King Harald said eventually, turning to greet the crowd with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "How strange it will be to have no sons of Ragnar in Kattegat."
Rúna and Bodil exchanged a knowing glance where they stood with Gisli and Tanaruz, the girls saying their goodbyes and chatting idly while they waited. King Harald turned to Rúna, inclining his head toward her. "And Floki gone, besides. I wish you all well in your endeavors, whatever they may entail. Say goodbye to Sigurd for me. I am sorry to have missed him, indisposed as he is."
"We will," Ubbe assured him, "and we wish the same for you and Tamdrup, King Harald. May we all meet so favorably again, gods willing." Still grinning his not-quite-smile, Harald clapped each of the princes on the shoulder in turn.
With that, the king of Tamdrup took first Bodil and then Gisli from Rúna, helping each of them into his personal ship. Rúna and Ivar were flanked by their siblings this time, watching boats shrink into the bright line of the horizon. The five of them lingered even after the others had retreated to camp, all of them staring out to sea and the salty breeze toying with their hair and clothing. Rúna mused that it was the air of finality that kept them all rooted in their spots, until Ubbe cleared his throat and bent to lock an arm around Ivar. He hauled the youngest brother to his bound feet, Hvitserk taking his place on Ivar's other side.
"Come on, then," Ubbe said, his voice sounding strong yet uncertain at once. Was it only Ivar's weight that had his shoulders slumping, or the weight of finding himself in charge of what remained of the Great Heathen Army as well? "We have much to do at camp if we want to sail when Sigurd is able."
There are slaves for that work. Rúna blew an errant lock of hair out of her face, shaking her head at Ivar's words. The basket she carried against her hip was heavy-laden with the combined laundry of herself, Tanaruz, Ivar, Ubbe, and Hvitserk, but she still intended to add Sigurd and Blaeja's clothing before she got to work washing.
She had found herself unable to sit still, needing to do something with her body lest her grief settle too heavily into her.
"Come along, Tanaruz." She knew the girl's hesitation behind her had to do with the fact that Sigurd's recovery room was down the same hallway where she had killed Helga. Reaching behind her with a free hand, Rúna dragged her along despite the pounding in her own chest. Where Helga died, she corrected to herself. If she thought too much about Tanaruz being the cause, the anger began to gnaw at her again.
Her skirts nearly became tangled around her legs and Rúna scarcely drew a breath until she was fully down the hallway and standing before the thick, wooden door of Sigurd's room. She rapped lightly with her knuckles, waiting for Blaeja to answer. A sliver of the princess's lovely face revealed itself when she peeked out before the door swung fully open.
"Heill, Rúna," she greeted demurely, stepping aside to allow her into the room. Sigurd had taught Blaeja a few Norse sayings, it seemed. The princess had a soft, pretty voice, and Rúna returned her greeting in kind before approaching Sigurd's bed.
He was not sleeping, which was fortunate, because Rúna wanted his clothing. He wore little, admittedly, abed as he was. She snatched his tunic from the floor before turning to him and looking him over.
Blaeja kept the room pressingly warm, afraid for Sigurd to become chilled and take fever. Was that the cause of the seemingly healthy flush in his cheeks? Or was he already so improved in a few days' time? Rúna couldn't help but touch his forehead, where she could, bandaged as he was.
"Still no fever," she commented, surprised, throwing a look over her shoulder to where Blaeja sat serenely sewing by the window. Sunlight glinted off her black hair with an almost blue tinge. "She's very good at being your nursemaid, no?"
"She makes it easier to be stuck here in bed," he admitted. "I was going to send her for you, Rúna. Would you mind… Blaeja insists on changing the wrappings every other day or so, and… what's left of my hair is a mess on this side." Sigurd tapped his own head gently overtop his bandages.
"You want me to cut it?" She asked, surprised enough to forget to ask him for his pants. She had brought him a clean pair to change into, pilfered from Hvitserk's clothing trunk as she hadn't known where to find Sigurd's own. The fact that Tanaruz held them folded in her hands entirely left her mind.
"What you must," Sigurd said, grimacing at the thought, "and braid back the rest, if you don't mind."
Rúna flicked her eyes at Blaeja again before saying, "Of course I will, Sigurd. Could you, um, ask her if she would mind my washing her dress? I brought one of H-Helga's for her to change into." Saying her mother's name aloud was painful, leaving her throat feeling raw. "And I've brought pants for you, if you would not mind."
Pushing himself up somewhat, Sigurd leaned forward and called out to Blaeja. She looked up, her eyes widening in surprise as he asked Rúna's question in her own language. There was a beat where Blaeja sat considering. She asked a question—at least, Rúna thought it was a question—and Sigurd gestured toward Rúna's own clothing. Her shieldmaiden attire was in the basket with the princes' tunics and pants. Rúna and Tanaruz each wore the more traditional combination of a plain, woolen underdress and an embroidered overdress secured at the shoulders with broaches. After a beat of studying their attire, Blaeja nodded and stood to follow Rúna and Tanaruz from the room.
Though she tended to Sigurd throughout the day, Blaeja slept in the room adjacent to his. Her cloak was laid carefully on a chair in that room; it was her only possession, now. Wordlessly, Blaeja gathered her loose raven locks and held her hair out of the way so Rúna could undo the lacing at the back of her dress. She must trust us, Rúna thought, looking at the smooth, milk-white skin of the princess's back. At the very least, she trusts Sigurd.
Like Tanaruz when she came to Kattegat, Blaeja wore silk slippers on her feet. Rúna frowned at that, taking a quick peek at Tanaruz carefully folding Blaeja's dress. She hadn't given much consideration to Tanaruz's life in Iberia, but now she was wondering if the girl was highborn. Not that it much mattered. The three of them in the room were largely in the same position, regardless of their ranking at birth.
Far from fluent, Rúna did know some of the Saxon language. She stumbled over the words and had to resort to miming washing the clothes in the basket to get her question across but understanding lit Blaeja's features with a smile. She pointed out the window, at the least giving Rúna a direction in which to make progress on her laundry.
"Come, Tanaruz," Rúna beckoned the younger girl to follow, after giving her thanks to Blaeja once she was fully dressed again. The Saxon girl lingered in the hallway, tugging at the sleeves of her borrowed dress. She posed a question to Rúna in much the same broken way Rúna had communicated with her.
Blaeja's Norse was better than Rúna's attempts at the girl's own language. "May I…?" A wave of the hand motioned toward the clothing. "Wash?"
The question gave Rúna pause. Björn had insisted Blaeja stay a true captive, confined to her tent and monitored by a son of Ragnar at all times. After Ivar and Sigurd's fight, Blaeja's new area of captivity had expanded only to the latter's sick room. When Blaeja had required more herbs for the thick paste she mixed to treat Sigurd's wounds, it had fallen on Rúna to collect them for her. But Björn was gone now, and Ubbe was in charge of the camp, now. Rúna did not think Ubbe would be so strict, so she nodded and allowed the dark-haired princess to follow her out of the hall. Some alone time for Sigurd would likely be good for him, anyway.
At Sigurd's room, where they stopped before heading outside to the stream Blaeja knew of, Rúna and Tanaruz hovered in the doorway. Sigurd had done as she asked and changed his pants, leaving the dirty pair folded neatly on the end of the bed. From the doorway, Rúna watched Sigurd smile as Blaeja drew near to retrieve his clothing. He said something to her in that odd, lilting tongue of hers, earning himself a little laugh and a soft reply. When Blaeja smoothed the blanket over his chest, her hand stilled for a moment just over his heart.
They exchanged some words softly before Sigurd peeked at Rúna around Blaeja's head. "You'll stay with her, Rúna?"
Nodding, Rúna added, "I can take my sword and axe, too, if it would make her feel better." She was more than capable of taking care of herself, Tanaruz, and Blaeja. Unlike Tanaruz, though, Blaeja had not yet been fully submerged in Viking culture. The concept of women fighting—or doing much more than sitting in the corner and caring for men and children—was foreign to the Saxon princess. It took some more reassuring from Sigurd before Blaeja drew near again to follow her out to the stream, the three of them unchaperoned by a male presence.
At the stream itself, Rúna helped Tanaruz and Blaeja tuck their skirts up into their belts to keep from getting completely drenched through while working. Then, she gathered her hair and twisted it up expertly, skewering it through with her hair stick to keep it secured out of the way. Blaeja watched this with curiosity, motioning to the extra hair stick held in her belt. Rúna had brought the second one for Tanaruz, though she knew the girl preferred to keep her veil on almost always.
"Do you want me to do yours?" Rúna asked, pulling the stick out. Blaeja's only response was to come forward and crouch somewhat, for she was taller than Rúna, so she could more easily reach her hair. The black strands were thick and silky-soft, easily twisted and speared just as Rúna had done her own. Between Helga's dress and her pinned hair, no one would guess Blaeja wasn't a Viking woman herself, provided she didn't speak.
While they washed, Rúna wondered at the distinct change the days with Sigurd had caused in the princess beside her. Obviously unaccustomed to chores, Blaeja watched as the other two had washed a few pieces together and Tanaruz had laid them flat on the grass to dry in the summer sunlight. She was more than willing to join in, though, once she understood Rúna's process. With the three of them working, all the laundry was sorted through and washed quickly.
Tanaruz did much of the sorting, delegating different parts of the stream bank to different people. "Ivar," she would say, pointing to the collection of his other clothing. "Ubbe." Another assortment, some feet away. The rocks were cool and smooth beneath their bare feet, making wading here and there to organize the clothing by person pleasant in the afternoon heat.
Rúna left one of Sigurd's tunics—the one he had worn to the feast, well stained with his own blood—to soak beneath a weight of larger rocks and helped Blaeja climb from the stream. Between the mix of their native languages, not much conversation could be had, but Blaeja was still most helpful in collecting various plants and herbs to replenish Ivar and Sigurd's now-shared medicines.
Not the same as Helga, Rúna mused to herself, eating a wild strawberry that was not quite as sweet as the ones back home. She watched Tanaruz run a hand over each piece of clothing, checking its dryness. Closer by, Blaeja was humming to herself as she braided lengths of grass together. Surely different from Bodil and Gisli, but… not altogether, bad, either.
Rúna's minding of the princess gave Ivar an opportunity to speak with Sigurd alone, a fact that Ubbe had not let escape notice. Loathe to have his older brother haul him there like a petulant child—even if that's what he felt like on the inside at the thought of spending time with Sigurd—Ivar crawled through the halls until he reached Sigurd's sick room. The door handle was too high up for him to reach even when sitting, eliciting another flare of anger in Ivar's chest. Scowling, he knocked on the door and waited for Sigurd to open it for him.
"Hello, Little Ivar." Half of Sigurd's head was covered in thick, clean bandages, making his wound seem more dramatic than it truly was. At least in Ivar's opinion. Tipping his head back, Ivar watched his brother cross his arms over his bare chest. "What are you doing here?"
"Is it so remiss for one brother to visit another?" Ivar asked, rolling himself onto his hands and pushing past Sigurd before he could be rebuffed. "Especially when one is incapacitated as you are, dear Sigurd."
To this, the older boy gave a derisive snort as he shut the door. "Incapacitated at your own axe blade, or have you forgotten? Do not tell me that Rúna feeds you the same lies about your behavior that Mother did."
Ivar hauled himself into Blaeja's chair, waving Sigurd's acidic words away with his hand. "She was like to take my own ear off with nothing more than her scolding. You… you do have your ear, still, yes? Rúna says that your princess is skilled at healing."
Witchcraft, he thought, almost smiling at the joke the brothers shared. Bringing it up now, though, felt wrong. He swallowed it back, waiting for Sigurd to answer. The silence stretched on for so long that his own heartbeat began to fill it with a quick, beating tempo. Ivar hated himself for being scared of Sigurd of all people. Say something, you sorry bastard!
"Why are you here, Ivar?" With his brother half undressed as he was, it was easy to see the way he grew pale in degrees. The wound must hurt him more than he let on. No stranger to pain himself, Ivar easily recognized the rigid way that his brother held himself, steeled against the discomfort and trying not to worsen it. Sigurd sat heavily on the end of his bed, never taking his serpentine gaze off the young man before him.
Ivar's mouth twisted around the words that sat heavy on his tongue. They were not words he said often, and meant even more rarely, but they were the words that had occupied his thoughts every time Sigurd crossed his mind.
"I am sorry," he admitted, feeling small—and angry over the fact that he felt small. He gripped the armrests of the chair, hard, so that the stiff leather of his wrist braces would bite into his palms and help him focus. "More so if you did lose your ear."
Sigurd sat before him, struck blank and dumb by his confession. That was satisfying, Ivar had to admit, seeing his brother flounder for something to say in return. Rúna had warned him not to expect an apology in return, for the things Sigurd had said about him. While Sigurd still struggled to regain his wits, Ivar couldn't help quipping, "Is it your brain I should be sorry for, brother?"
He watched Sigurd open and shut his mouth several times, obviously at a loss as to what to say. Finally, he just laughed, and Ivar was surprised to find himself laughing along with him. Nothing was funny, and yet at the same time, it was hysterically so.
"Dammit, Ivar," Sigurd said at last, through his sputtering chuckles. "Dammit! Look at us! Have you ever seen brothers who behave less so like blood?"
"Father and Uncle Rollo," Ivar offered, laughing again. "At the least, I have never denied you as my brother. Perhaps we are not too far gone, if we do not reach that point."
"We will never be Ubbe and Hvitserk," Sigurd asserted. He was not wrong; that was true brotherhood, what the older boys shared.
Shrugging, Ivar continued, "I like you better than Björn." This only made Sigurd snort once more.
"You like Lagertha better than Björn," he pointed out, not at all wrong. Since when had Sigurd been able to read him so well? "Hardly high praise."
"I would have been most sorry if you had died," Ivar tried again. "Even when you put me in a blind fury, Sigurd, I do not want to be the one to kill you. Even when you ask for it. Even when it would be justified."
That last part came out with more venom than Ivar had intended, leaving Sigurd duly demurred. He dropped his gaze to his lap, the bandages shielding much of his face. "I should not have said that you were fully boneless."
"I suppose I should not have said you bugger other men," Ivar grumbled, picking intently at his wrist braces. "Though no one is like to believe it, given how quick you were to couple with a Saxon princess."
"I hardly 'coupled up' with Blaeja," Sigurd argued, laying back, apparently having expended what energy he had. A hand came up to shield his face, though the only light in the room was that of the sun streaming through the window. "She is simply keeping me from the death you started."
Now it was Ivar's turn to snort. It was plain to see that, of all the brothers, Blaeja preferred Sigurd—and, considering the lengths that she was going to 'keeping Sigurd from death', that preference went deeper than his habit of playing music for her. Ivar had no reply to Sigurd's dramatics. Nor did he bother to close the shutters, though the low window was behind him where he sat and easily within his reach.
"I doubt anyone will think you're impotent, Ivar."
"They have my whole life," Ivar reminded him, pulling at a broken thumb nail. He watched it tear, not daring look up at his brother. There was the anger again, roiling inside him. Swallowing, hard, he made himself take a deep breath. "And you told them all it was true. I won't make you waste your breath telling me why."
With that, Ivar turned and closed the shutters before pushing himself from the chair. He managed to open the door himself, wiggling his fingers beneath the bottom and giving it a sharp jerk. "Sleep, brother. All the healers have told me it helps."
Rúna was still restless that evening, goading Ivar to let her braid his hair. She needed something to do, something to keep her hands busy, and he was most readily at her disposal. Which is how Ivar came to find himself seated on a stool inside their tent, undressed from the waist up, with Rúna washing the grease from his hair with stream water.
"You're drowning me," he grumbled.
"You're dramatic," she countered. Once satisfied his hair was clean, she took a linen towel and began rubbing at his head to dry his hair. Then she took the cool, damp towel and wrapped it around his shoulders. "Sit still, or you'll end up nearly earless, like Sigurd."
The sharp edge of her dagger scraped carefully along the sides of his head, shaving away the short, bristling hair there. "I saw him today."
"And he's still alive?"
"You truly do not have faith in me, do you?" He snapped, ignoring her warning and turning his head to glare over his shoulder at her. Luckily for Ivar, Rúna knew him well enough to have guessed his reaction and had moved the blade before he could nick himself.
"I have put every bit of my faith in you, Budlungr," she said mildly, guiding his head forward again so she could finish her work. A few more passes with the knife had righted his hair, which he wore shaved shorter on the sides. "Or have you forgotten?"
"How could I?" The comb she was passing through his hair brought a memory of Aslaug forward in his mind. She used to comb his hair in much the same way, every night before bed when he was small. Ivar's eyes fluttered shut beneath her touch. "I dream of it every night."
Quick and light, Rúna's fingers flew through his hair and soon finished her braiding and tied the ends tightly with lengths of leather cord. Those same fingers trailed down his neck and across one broad shoulder as she came to stand before him to inspect her work. With his hair braided back, Ivar looked older, the sharp cut of his jaw more prominent and his strong features on display. His hands came to rest on her hips, pulling her nearer.
"I try not to dream at all," she confessed. "It's always of Helga when I do, and I fear tonight it will be Floki's face I see."
Ivar's mouth quirked at that, tugging on her again so he could settle her in his lap. "It is the opposite for me," he told her. "Mother and Father consume my thoughts all day. My dreams are my reprieve. But you, my Rúna, run from your thoughts so that they catch up to you in your dreams each night."
A huff of breath, but no argument. She knew he was right. "Did you know both you and Sigurd describe the other as insufferable?" Rúna ran her thumb across his lower lip. "For that quip, I think I may be inclined to agree with him."
He caught her thumb between his teeth, smirking at her surprise. Then he caught her hand in his, cradling it to his chest. "Sometimes I could say the same of you."
She smacked him lightly on the shoulder with her free hand, laughing all the while. When she leaned forward to press her lips to his, she realized that, in her efforts to stay busy, she hadn't kissed him since that morning. Now she luxuriated in it, taking comfort in the familiarity of him.
Within the castle's stone walls, Sigurd was seeking his comfort from Blaeja for entirely opposite reasons. He liked her dark hair, swinging over her shoulder like a raven's wing when she leaned over him to peek beneath his bandages. Entirely unlike Margrethe. A princess born, with rosy cheeks and delicate features framed by that dark hair. Unbidden, his hand raised to run his fingers through the ends of the strands.
Blaeja smiled, catching his hand in hers and squeezing it gently. "Does it pain you overmuch?" She asked, in her own language.
"No more than it should." Healing hurt, or so Ubbe had told him. Ivar had told him to sleep. And Hvitserk, well… his suggestions for recouping were unbecoming for a princess, for one thing, and beyond his current abilities, for another. Blaeja's free hand skimmed over his cheek, cool and soft. Frowning, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his forehead.
Mother used to check us for fever the same way, he remembered. Rationalized. That was the only reason Blaeja had done that, double-checking for the dreaded fever she was afraid he would come down with. "You are not too hot?"
She asked him these questions each night before retreating to her own bedroom next door. Sigurd answered the same way each time but wondered what might happen if he didn't. "No," he reassured her. "I've no fever, Blaeja."
He liked to say her name, the syllables foreign on his tongue. In Helga's dress, she looked like one of his own people. They had all agreed she must be, now, to save her from a fate of abuse at the hands of her own people. Despite himself, Sigurd shuddered at remembering Ivar's story of Blaeja's sister, Judith, and how King Ecbert and Prince Aethelwulf had publicly had her ear cut off. That shiver of his had Blaeja's frown deepening. Turning from him, she drew her chair from the window to sit right beside his bed.
"To be sure," she told him, settling in. The hearth firelight played over her features, casting half her face in shadow. "Sleep now, Sigurd."
Grimacing himself, Sigurd slid more comfortably into his bed. "You don't have to stay."
Now, she smiled, finding a patch of his hair not covered up in bandaging. Rúna would be coming in the morning, to help him fix his hair. But for now, Blaeja stroked what hair she could. "To be sure," she repeated.
Her soft humming filled the air. Between the pressing warmth of the hearth, her hand in his hair, and Blaeja's song, sleep took him before he could form another argument.
Come the morning, it was not the light streaming through the window that woke Sigurd and Blaeja. Nor was it Rúna's knocking, though she had rapped on the door four times, and hard with each round. No; when Rúna entered the room, she found Sigurd in bed once more, with Blaeja slumped in a chair beside him. His hand rested on her head, Blaeja's holding his forearm.
Smirking, Rúna tiptoed across the room, shaking Blaeja's shoulder to wake her first. The princess sat up with a start, eyes wide with bewilderment when they landed on Rúna. "I need to help him with his hair," she explained, pointing to her own braids and hoping Blaeja's sleepy mind could discern her meaning.
Nodding, cheeks blooming with roses of embarrassment, Blaeja stood with a loud scraping of the wooden chair legs on the stone floor. The noise was enough to rouse Sigurd, leaving him rubbing at his face in much the same way Ivar did each morning. Rúna had left Ivar sleeping in their bed, clutching the blankets to his chest in her absence.
"What…?" Sigurd slurred, peeking through his fingers. Catching sight of a redhaired girl, rather than the black-haired one he had fallen asleep with, had him sitting up sharply. "Rúna!"
"Yes, yes." She waved her hand, dispelling his shock. Carefully, she picked at his wrappings, searching for the end. "Help me with this?" She asked of Blaeja, before explaining to Sigurd, "Ubbe needs help cataloging what repairs must be made and what stores must be replenished before we sail to York. I'm sorry to wake the two of you, but I did not want to get too busy to help you, as you asked."
Beneath the bandages, Rúna found the axe wound well on its way to healing. There was hardly any bleeding, now, and the cut was impeccably clean under Blaeja's ministrations. Raw, red, healthy skin was clear to see—none of the blackening or swelling that would have foretold infection. Sigurd had been right, though; Ivar's axe had made quite the mess of his hair as well as his flesh. This, too, was clean, though.
Blaeja helped her dampen the hair needing cut and then withdrew to her usual corner by the window to watch her work. Thankfully, Sigurd was much better at staying still than Ivar was, making her work much faster. At Sigurd's request, she cut only what was necessary and braided the rest tightly away from the wound.
"There," she said, knotting the leather cord a second time to ensure it would hold for some time. "You're done. I'll, uh, leave you two alone now."
It was not often that Rúna found herself in the position to hold something over Sigurd's head. She quite liked the feeling, especially when Sigurd called for her to stop at the door.
"Don't tell Ivar!" He tried to command, though it came out like a plea.
"Tell Ivar what?" Rúna giggled at him over her shoulder before slipping through the door. For a moment, while teasing Sigurd, she felt light and unhindered. Then Rúna stepped back into the hallway where Helga had died, and the realities of life tugged down on her once more. Sighing, she forced her shoulders back and kept her eyes forward. Ubbe—and her latest distraction—were waiting for her.
A/N: Thank you toooooo mickypants, salvatoresister887, Kate, Guest, and Jackson2bears for the reviews last chapter! A bit of a slower chapter, but I needed to show Floki leaving and I wanted to show how Rúna is coping with the changes in her life. For that reason, I used the Norse word 'fram' meaning 'forward' as the chapter title. Also, I wanted to flesh out Blaeja some more and the aftermath of Ivar and Sigurd's fighting at the feast. Hoping to have the next chapter out much sooner! Thank you all for reading and all the reviewers who have left such kind words!