Chapter Thirty-Four: Sigr

The sound of women and children screaming was almost too much for her. All the desperate din took Rúna out of York, out of England altogether, back to that dark morning in Kattegat when Lagertha had slain and claimed 'her people' in a matter of terrible minutes. She had walked in the cover of Queen Aslaug's guard then, buffeted from the fleeing bodies. Now, though, people slammed into her over and over as they ran, and unlike her companions, Rúna refused to raise a weapon to them.

Not to the innocent. Not to those who did not choose to fight.

"Stay close to me!" Ubbe shouted into her ear, so that he could be heard over the racket. They were on foot, unlike Ivar and Hvitserk; they sped past in the chariot, parting the crowded mass of vengeful Heathen Army and woefully scared Christians alike. Perhaps I should have gone in the chariot, myself. Rúna fought back the urge to take Ubbe's hand when a woman and her child fell at her feet, the former soaked with her life's blood from a deep gash in her neck. The child, though, unharmed. Rúna plucked the squalling bundle out of its dying mother's arms before it could be trampled, pressing its warm weight into the arms of a different woman running by.

The woman's brown eyes widened in shock, but her arms cradled the infant in reflex. There was no time for words to be exchanged, but Rúna felt slightly less retched as she stepped gently over the dead mother. This is too much.

The ground was slick beneath her boots, a macabre mud made of dirt and spilled blood. Salty sweat, metallic blood, the reek of human waste—all the scents of the dying, filling the air just alongside the music of swordplay and the screams and shouts of the fighting. Bile rose in the back of Rúna's throat, but she forced it down.

King Ecbert had warning, if only in the form of Aelle's blood-eagled figure hanging in the forest. Still, it was enough time to make preparations. His kingdom had been empty of all those who did not—or could not—choose to fight. Sacking Wessex had not brought back the memories of the horrible morning Kattegat fell to Lagertha. But York did.

Rúna followed Ubbe's swinging, golden braid, pushing her way through the press of bodies to stay close, as he had instructed. It was better in the center of the town, away from the crush of fear. She could breathe here, cold, early morning air flooding her lungs and clearing her mind. Rúna righted herself just in time; now that she was through the gates, she was firmly in the fray.

A man—no, a boy, really, even younger than Guthrum—lunged at her, his sword clanging on her upraised shield. He had gone for a brutal, downward blow that could have sheared her arm clean off if she hadn't been prepared. The shock of impact reverberated through her arm, burning well up into her shoulder. This boy was young, yes, but he was strong. Planting her feet, she pushed forward with her shield, buying herself just enough room to get her own sword unsheathed before his next attack. Their blades collided when Rúna blocked, swiping and pressing down in an attempt to disarm him.

The boy held firm to his sword and feinted back before charging her again. But Rúna had always been light on her feet; she stepped to his side easily and caught him with the flat edge of her blade. She had hit his knee hard, hesitant to use the sharp edge, his rounded, flushed cheeks reminding her too much of the fleeing children at the gate.

A potentially fatal mistake.

Her armor was strong and the boy's sword blunt; she thought, dumbly, that she must thank the man who made it at Floki's commission. That leather armor cushioned the savage swipe she caught on the ribs. White hot pain, muscle and bone in revolt to the attack. Black dots swam in her vision, her head going light and woozy with the shock of the pain. Was this what it was to break a bone?

She crumpled around the injury out of reflex, but had mind enough to hold her shield up one-handed to block another blow. "Heathen bitch!"

Blaeja had taught her enough of the Saxon language for her to recognize the insult. The shock of the pain faded, burned away by the wave of anger filling her. Pushing up with all her weight, she slammed her shield into the boy's face. Bone crunched beneath the wood, filling her chest with a cold satisfaction. The boy's face was slick with gushing red blood from a shattered nose and broken teeth. Dazed, he spit the fragments of his teeth into the mud beneath them, giving Rúna enough time to recover her sword—when had she dropped it?—and run him cleanly through his middle.

He wore no armor at all, unlike her.

"Go to hell," she spat at him, withdrawing her sword and watching him fall back into the mud. Rúna had no time to wipe his blood from her sword nor to rest. A new assailant was on her in the next heartbeat. This one was a man, much older than her, older even than Floki. He was brave, she had to give him that, but he was feeble. She tried not to think too much about that fact, catching him with a deep cut to the thigh, so that he would bleed out quickly and his death would not be long-suffered.

Soon enough, the pain in her side was forgotten, falling away to the more urgent need to focus on survival. Fighting in true battle was harder than she had imagined. The day she ran through King Ecbert's halls alongside Hvitserk and Sigurd paled in comparison to the physical exertion of this morning. She was slick with sweat and blood alike, unsure how much of the latter belonged to her. Every muscle ached, some spots stinging with scrapes and cuts she had no time to worry over. Still, no matter who she faced, the opponent fell and she was left standing in victory.

There was a rhythm to battle, even the mock skirmishes she knew in the training clearing with the boys. The rhythm of this one led her out of the side streets of this township called York, into the very heart of it. Much of the slaying was taking place in a building she remembered Blaeja calling a 'church'. Indeed, she could hear both Ivar and Hvitserk's laughter among the screams spilling out of the structure.

She had to step over several bodies to make her way inside. One of the figures was not as dead as he appeared, grabbing at her ankle and causing her to stumble. She caught her balance on a pillar, giving the man a solid kick with her unrestrained foot to free herself. Those acrid scents of death were amplified in the warm, close space of the church. Despite the crowd, Ivar was not difficult to find. He was harassing one of the Christian holy men not far from the altar at the back of the church.

Rúna shook her head, picking her way through the room. When close enough, she knelt beside Ivar and the frightened priest. It hurt to do so, her ribs protesting, but she did her best to keep the pain from her face.

"What are you doing?" She could smell the fear of the man pinned beneath Ivar, the tang of his sweat filling her nose. He was adorned richly in costly fabrics. As Rúna watched, Ivar ripped a golden cross from around the man's neck.

"I am sending him to the God he so loves," Ivar explained, pressing the necklace into her hand. "Though he does not seem very happy to go, does he?"

In fact, the man was squirming. Rúna knew it for the pointless attempt it was; Ivar was dreadfully heavy when he let himself go to deadweight. Tears streamed down the man's face, beneath the bloody symbol of a cross on his forehead. With her free hand, Rúna lightly touched the grim marker of faith.

"Aelle marked Ragnar so, I have heard. Before he was given to the vipers." The names of the kings seemed to catch the man's attention, his eyes widening and lips moving in quiet, fervent prayer. He knows who we are, Rúna mused. Good. Gently, she wiped the moisture from the priest's cheeks and bent close. "You would meet your God so pitifully?"

Her use of the Saxon language shocked the priest enough for him to forget his praying. Beside her, Ivar laughed, the sound a mix of mirth and hatred that made her skin prickle.

"You," Ivar commanded to one of the passing Viking. "Hold his head."

When a brazier was brought in, Rúna dropped the necklace into the pot above the flames. It did not take long for the precious metal to melt.

"Now you can kiss your cross," Ivar told the priest, using his spikes to hold the man's mouth open. The molten gold was poured by someone above, clogging the priest's throat so that he could not scream. Rúna wrinkled her nose at the scent of the burning flesh, but she found that she felt no pity for the man.

It is your job to defend your flock, she thought as she watched the dying priest. Blaeja says it is so. Yet your flock lays dead around you.

"Horse!" Ivar called, before Rúna could give the holy man's corpse much other thought. He was drug out into the streets, a grim and certain message to the remaining residents of York: the Vikings were here, and the town now belonged to them.

She wouldn't fully hurt until after the battles, after Tanaruz had helped remove her armor and peel the sweat-and-blood-soaked tunic off her. The younger girl gasped, touching her lightly on the side, just below her chest wrappings. Rúna winced at even that feather-light touch, her skin mottled with bruising. But it wasn't the deep, dark bruising of a broken bone. That she knew well from Ivar's breaks in the past.

"I am fine," she told her sister, waving away the look of concern on her face. "I am alive. The gods watched over me."

As if it were proof, she plucked the sprig of mistletoe from her discarded breastplate. Rúna had slipped it there for safekeeping that morning, carrying it with her into battle as an emblem of her faith in the gods. It had survived the battle unscathed, unlike herself. The berries were still plump, the branches straight and leaves vibrantly green. She held it before her, for Tanaruz's examination.

"Do you have wise men in your land, Tanaruz? Those that commune with your Allah, and pass along his intent?"

"Yes," she murmured, dark eyes trained on the mistletoe.

"Our Seer gave this to me. A gift from our gods. It has not wilted or browned; in all the time I have had it."

"But what does it mean?"

Rúna canted her head. How often had she asked herself the same question? "I don't know… yet."

She did not share with Tanaruz that she had thought one of the meanings had already been revealed in Helga's death. The betrayal was healing between them, true, but that wound was still ragged and raw. Rúna was not eager to rub salt into it. "But it reminds me to trust in my gods, even when it is hard to do so, and so I will carry it with me and treasure it."

Rúna laid it carefully aside and finished stripping herself of her battle-worn clothing. With York now won, she pulled on a clean tunic and pants, relishing in the light freedom of it. The fabric skimmed over her bruised ribs, allowing her to move more comfortably now that she was without her armor. She breathed as deeply as she could, holding her side as she bent to retrieve her sword.

"Come, Tanaruz. There is work to do be done now that we hold York." Out of the tent, Rúna sent Tanaruz off to help Blaeja become settled. If her Saxon brethren—those left alive had been taken as slaves—recognized her as a princess of their own land, Rúna couldn't say. Presently, she was more concerned with cleaning the blood from her sword as she already had from her hair and body. The summer sun felt good on her damp hair as she set to wiping her sword clean. That warmth helped to ease the leftover tension from the fighting from her shoulders and spine.

"You needn't do that yourself," came a chiding voice above her. Tipping her head back, Rúna found Hvitserk smirking down on her. "You mean to tell me Ivar hasn't given you your own Christian slave yet?"

"I don't need a slave, Hvitserk. I've been caring for myself for sixteen years." Hvitserk only laughed and offered her half of the small meat pie he was eating.

"He did ask, then. Perhaps he does have more manners than we give him credit for." Rolling her eyes, Rúna took the proffered pie. She hadn't realized until then how ravenous she was. Her stomach growled before she could take a bite. When she did, her eyes flutter closed as the warm meat and vegetables filled her mouth.

"This is good," she said around the second mouthful.

"Surprising, isn't it? The only thing I have liked about the Saxon lands so far is their food." Hvitserk waited while she finished tending her blade. He offered her a hand when she was done, drawing her to her feet beside him. Still holding her hand, Hvitserk tucked it into the crook of his elbow. "Walk with me, Rúna."

Peeking up at Hvitserk through her lashes, she found Hvitserk's expression impossible to read. Outwardly, his face was impassive. But his eyes had darkened and hardened, sending a small shiver down her spine. This was a look she knew well but not one she had seen since Aslaug's death. The late queen had always been good at hiding her thoughts behind a blank face. It seemed her second son had inherited her skill.

"I think we are approaching an impasse," Hvitserk confided, dipping his head low and close to her ear. "Ubbe is ready to farm, but I saw Ivar today. I do not think his thirst for raiding is slaked. Far from, in fact."

Rúna inhaled deeply, immediately regretting that choice. The streets of York were still littered with the dead; the slaves—new and old—hadn't yet cleared the town. Rubbing at her nose, she flicked her eyes up at Hvitserk once more. "And that leaves you and Sigurd in the middle, no?"

"As ever," Hvitserk chuckled. "But… I am not so sure the stakes are the same any longer."

"Speak plainly, Hvitserk." They were coming up on the grandest house in York, the one that, naturally, the Ragnarssons had taken for themselves. And myself, Tanaruz, and Blaeja. Hvitserk brought them to a stop just before the doors. Even from outside, Rúna could hear the cacophony of voices. The victory feast, of course.

"Who leads the Great Heathen Army now that Björn has left for his destiny?"

Frowning, Rúna gave the only answer there was. "Ubbe."

To this, Hvitserk merely smiled sardonically and pushed the door open for them. It was crowded inside, the joyful faces and light air an antithesis to the stormed church from that morning. Ubbe sat at the head of the table, a seat of honor afforded to him by birthright, yet most of the excitement at the table was taking place three seats down where Ivar sat.

Rúna watched as a man clapped Ivar on the shoulder, the latter smiling over the edge of ale horn. To his left, Sigurd was being regaled with stories of the morning's events by the other warriors. Every now and then, he sent a look Ivar's way. Jealousy, disbelief, and contempt all colored Sigurd's face.

And at the head of the table sat Ubbe, his face just as impassive as Hvitserk's, electric blue eyes watching the praise being laid thickly over his youngest brother.

Ivar was still riding the high of his latest tactical success in the small hours of the morning, when the Viking revelers had finally disbanded for their beds. Camp beds for the night, but now that they held York, Rúna was intensely looking forward to sleeping in a real bed again. She was only listening with half an ear to Ivar's rambling, instead preparing for bed as he talked.

"… that sniveling, sorry excuse of a man—Rúna!" Their tent was small enough that he needed only to stretch himself to catch her by the hand pulling her to him where he sat. If Rúna was only giving Ivar part of her attention, she was giving less to herself, intent on changing into her shift and crawling into bed. Her body ached from the strain of fighting and her bones felt heavy.

"What?" She nearly snapped, not that Ivar noticed. He was looking at her bared torso, his brow crumpled and jaw tight. It was not until he carefully touched her mottled skin that Rúna remembered the bruise. Blue eyes, darkened by Ivar's infamous anger, rose to meet hers.

"The man who did this to you—"

"Is dead at my own hand," she reassured him, touching her fingertips to his clenched jaw. Bending carefully, Rúna pressed a kiss to his mouth. "You needn't worry for me, Budlungr."

"I worry only that the bastard did not get the death he deserved."

"He is dead," Rúna asserted. "Is that not enough?"

"For daring to harm you?" Ivar took her by the hips, guiding her onto his lap. He dipped his head and skimmed his lips along her injury, leaving Rúna with hitched breath. The mingled sensations of distant pain and stirred arousal made her stomach flip. "There isn't revenge enough for such offense, min dróttning."

He held her with one hand splayed along her back, keeping her still as he kissed her again. Though he kissed her long and deep, she could feel the exhaustion in the lines of his body as well. "We both need to sleep," she chided him, pressing a hand over his heart when they pulled away from one another.

When Ivar smirked, it reminded her of Hvitserk's face that afternoon. I think we are approaching an impasse. His eyes were bright again as he ran the pad of his thumb over her lips; his cheeks still wore the ruddy flush of excitement. Rúna had always been cognizant of his strength, but now it shined from his face. They saw Ivar today, she realized, not as merely a cripple, but as he truly is.

Her heart gave a squeeze of pride at this realization. Kissing him one more time, Rúna led them to their bed. They fell asleep in much the same way, clad only in their trousers beneath the blankets. Sleep took them both deeply, entangled in one another, until mid-morning when Tanaruz roused Rúna from her dreams by shaking her shoulder.

"Rúna," the young girl whispered, her breath tickling over her sister's ear. Neither Rúna's body nor mind were ready for wakefulness. Her thoughts moved sluggishly through the remnants of a dream, slowly becoming aware of Ivar's warm, bare skin beneath her cheek and the solid hold his arm had around her waist. Pushing away from him, she looked over her shoulder to find Tanaruz's blushing face.

"Hmm?" Rúna hummed, rubbing at her sleepy-heavy eyes. "D'you need me?"

"It is… not urgent," Tanaruz replied, keeping her dark eyes trained on the clothing—Rúna's—that she held in her hands. "The, uh, princess wanted you. She sent me to fetch you."

"Is Blaeja alright?" Carefully, Rúna worked herself out of Ivar's sleepy hold. She was sure to pull the blankets up over him, for Tanaruz's benefit. It was not until she felt the cool morning air on her bare chest that she realized how compromising they must have looked in sleep, though each of them were dressed from the waist down. Rúna quickly pulled on the dress Tanaruz had brought her, shucking her pants from underneath and pulling on her boots.

"She is well," Tanaruz reassured, pressing the comb Rúna was looking for into her hand. Quickly, she did away with the tangles and plaited her hair into a simple braid tied off with a length of leather cord. "She only wishes to speak to you, is all, shaqiqa."

That is all? Rúna slowed in her preparations, then, taking the time to dress properly with an overdress and brooches. She had taken her earrings out for the battle yesterday, but now she righted them. Leaving Ivar sleeping soundly, she followed Tanaruz into the bright summer morning.

The princess in question was not hard to find, the sun glinting blue off her dark hair. She stood beside a wooden market stall, sorting through rolled bolts of fabric. All around her was commotion—men and slaves moving the last of the bodies, gathering supplies in the center of town, households bustling about into new lodgings vacated by their original owners in the fray yesterday.

Blaeja, however, was the picture of serenity. She still wore her hair in the style Rúna had arranged for her, and she wore Helga's blue dress and beads. As if unawares of the hustle and bustle around her, Blaeja ran a hand over a thick, cream silk, a contemplative look on her face. A few paces behind her was a young girl, no more than a child and decidedly younger and smaller than Tanaruz, her arms heavy-laden with other fabrics.

"Gōdne mergen," Blaeja greeted her, a wide smile overtaking her face at Rúna's arrival. "This is Morwen. Ubbe brought her to me this morning and said she is to be my servant. Not slave," she said over her shoulder to this Morwen, who dipped her white-blonde head and stared at her feet when Blaeja addressed her. "The spoils of sacking have afforded me plenty of coin to pay her for her work."

"I am glad Ubbe has remembered your station," Rúna mused, looking over Blaeja's fabric bolts herself. Though Ubbe himself was a prince of the blood; of course, he would not forget that Blaeja was equal to him and his brothers in this land. "Tanaruz said you wanted me?"

"Yes, I was wondering… how do you say 'victory' in your mother tongue? This heathen army is good at it. I thought I should learn the word."

"Sigr," Rúna supplied for her, smiling as surprise colored Blaeja's face.

"Sigr," the princess repeated. "Like… Sigurd?"

"His name means 'guardian of victory," Rúna explained. "He was named for his grandfather, who is said to have slayed a dragon. That is why a serpent resides in Sigurd's eye."

Morwen and Rúna seemingly forgotten, Blaeja turned away from both to watch the very man they discussed. He was across the square with Ubbe, watching over the accumulation of goods. The latter had his arm around his younger brother's shoulders. Given the persistent pallor that plagued Sigurd's complexion, Rúna guessed this stance had more to do with Sigurd's benefit than brotherly affection.

"It's a strong name among your people, then?" Blaeja asked. Her features had gone soft as she watched Sigurd. He must have felt their gaze; Sigurd found Blaeja's gaze and threw a smile over his shoulder for her.

"Yes… Blaeja, you do know what happened yesterday morning? What we did to take control of York?" When the princess turned to her once more, all tenderness was carefully closed off.

"My father was a battle-hungry king." Blaeja's voice had dropped to nearly a whisper. "I understand well what goes into a violent victory. A sigr. And I also know it is best to be on the victor's side."

A mere beat passed before Blaeja's face shifted again, her smile returning. "We will be here some time, yes? The summers are warmer here, so I understand, than in your Norway." She reached a hand out and rubbed Rúna's woolen sleeve between her fingers. "You will need something lighter to wear, Rúna, or you will spend the whole season sweating. Morwen, come here."

From Morwen's full arms, Blaeja plucked a length of dark blue-gray silk and held it up to Rúna's face. That look of determination was gone from her lovely features, and yet Rúna could not shake it from her mind. It would stay with her throughout the day, even as she moved Tanaruz's things into her new room in the 'duke's' hall, the grandest and largest building in York, with enough rooms to house the four Ragnarssons and Blaeja, Rúna, and Tanaruz besides. She thought of it as she walked the layout of the hall, learning the terrain of her new home.

Tanaruz's bedroom was two doors down from her own, with Blaeja's between. There were rooms enough, here, that they were all given one. She doubted this had to do with modesty, for no one had batted an eye at her sharing Ivar's tent before. No; there was a strategy to this. Ubbe had readily accepted Blaeja, as they all had, but her own people were her in York. This allocation of rooms was a safeguard, should Blaeja decide to exert her power with her fellow Saxons.

Yet Rúna knew in her heart that Ubbe's safeguard was smart but useless. Fate had given Blaeja the same opportunity of choice that her sister, Judith, had clutched for herself. Judith had chosen the priest Athelstan and King Ecbert; she had chosen the freedom of reading for herself and forming her own thoughts.

And Blaeja, the lovely younger sister of the ambitious Judith? It seemed quite clear that she had chosen the Vikings. Rúna's insight was confirmed for her on that first peaceful day in York, as she wandered from room to room. Eventually she found herself in the kitchen, a large space filled with strong sunlight from the large windows. Beside one of those windows sat Sigurd, Blaeja before him, turning his face toward the light so she could inspect his much-improved, healing wound.

The sight of them gave Rúna pause, stilling her in the shadow of the doorway. Later, she would try to convince herself it was because she was concerned about Sigurd's progress. But she knew her voyeurism for its truth; she wanted, needed, to know if her assessment of Blaeja was accurate. So, under the cover of those shadows, Rúna watched Blaeja lightly run her fingers over Sigurd's puckered, scarring skin.

Sigurd smiled under the princess's touch, the sunlight catching his eyes and leaving them shining up at her. Something was said between the two, but Rúna was too far away to catch either of their murmured words. It didn't matter, though. What she witnessed next needed no words. Blaeja trailed her fingers down his cheek and under his chin, tipping his head back so that she could bend and press her lips to his.

A giddy smile overtook Rúna's face as she stepped backward, slipping from the shadows and into the hallway once more. Smug self-satisfaction filled her chest, not only at having been right but at having intel on Sigurd's love life. Surely Sigurd does not think I would forget his taunts in Tamdrup. Now, this was what Rúna carried with her through her afternoon, the secret bringing a smile to her face each time it crossed her mind. But she kept the secret to herself, bursting as it was behind her teeth, not even letting Ivar in on her stolen knowledge.

Until that night, when the newly established household in the duke's hall of York converged in the grand dining hall for dinner. At Hvitserk's request, they dined on more of the meat pies he and Rúna had shared after the battle the day before, washing it down with chilled wine brought up from and underground cellar. Save for Tanaruz, of course, who drank water in accordance to her own god.

Across the table, Hvitserk's eyes fluttered shut as utter reverence washed over him. "These are so good," he enthused, lapsing into their native Norse. They generally tried to speak Blaeja's language while she still learned their own, but Rúna took Hvitserk's lapse as opportunity.

"They truly are. I would like to learn to make them myself…" Rúna mused mildly, keeping her eyes on the flaky crust of the pie on her own plate. "Remind me where the kitchen is, Sigurd?"

"Why would I know where the kitchens are, Rúna?" Sigurd asked, voice edged in suspicion. He glared at her across the table, raising a fair brow at her.

"I did not see you there today?" Rúna asked, keeping her tone innocent. Beneath the table, Ivar touched her knee in silent question. She took his hand and twined their fingers, giving him a squeeze. Shrugging, she continued, "Must have been a vardøger…"

Gray eyes flicked to Blaeja, who was watching the scene in confusion. No doubt she knew some of their words, but not all. "Or two."

Her implication was enough; understanding dawned on the brothers' faces all at once. Unable to smother his laugh, Ubbe looked between the bewildered Blaeja and red-faced Sigurd. Hvitserk clapped a hand on his younger brother's shoulder, pulling him near for some good-natured hair mussing. "Getting your taste early, huh, brother?"

For her part, Rúna sipped her wine to hide her smug smile. Beside her, Ivar dipped his head, warm breath washing over her cheek as he whispered, "Kicking a man when he is low? You surprise me, dear Rúna."

She was entirely unable to keep that satisfactory grin off her face when Ivar pressed a kiss to her cheek, the smile evident in the feel his own lips on her skin.

"Skol, Sigurd," Ubbe toasted through his laughter. "A foreign princess. Following in Father's steps, no?"

The praise from his brothers—and the lack of subsequent taunts from Ivar—was enough to remedy Sigurd's embarrassment. His red cheeks were replaced with a rather pleased look as he leaned into Blaeja to explain the exchange that had taken place before her.

In that warm room filled with laughter, the victory of York truly settled into Rúna. Ivar had promised her that all their loss would not be in vain, but she didn't believe it until she saw the easy smile on Tanaruz's face. Helga had bid her to save the girl and for the first time Rúna felt that she would be able to honor her mother's dying wish. She was safe, here, with familiar people and inside sturdy walls.

But this peace was short-lived as she remembered Hvitserk's words anew. They came back to her as she looked at Ivar, his cool blue eyes watching Sigurd and Blaeja. There was calculation in that gaze, enough to still her in the communal mirth. What Ivar was thinking, she could only guess; in the next moment, he was smiling at her again and the cold, analytical look was gone.

Though all the valuables had been stripped of the church, the building still stood, a fact that seemed to puzzle Blaeja.

"It will not be torn down?" she asked, stopping their walk through the streets. Tanaruz tipped her head back, taking in the towering cross that still reached for the sky.

"No, why would it? There are still Christians in York. Ubbe would not deny your people their God. It is not the Norse way." If Blaeja caught the barb in Rúna's words, she did not give it any mind. "The priest Athelstan lived in Kattegat for many years, or so my father told me.

"The priest is dead, but…" Blaeja pressed a hand flat on the closed door. "Come with me. It has been some time since I have been in a church."

Rúna swallowed. It had been only a handful of days since she had been in the church, helping in the death of the priest Blaeja now lamented the loss of. Still, Rúna took Tanaruz's hand so that they might all enter the church together. Blaeja made a beeline for the altar, which now stood empty. An image of Hvitserk toppling the cross that once occupied the space ran through Rúna's mind.

"Tanaruz," Blaeja called over her shoulder, waving a hand to summon the younger girl forward. She spoke to her in that language they shared, the one that Rúna did not understand. There was some hesitation from Tanaruz as Blaeja spoke, but then the girl tentatively nodded and sunk down to her knees.

Blaeja did the same, as Rúna watched. Tanaruz lowered herself further, bending in half so that her forehead came to rest on the stone floor beneath her. Beside her, Blaeja remained erect, bringing her hands clasped before her and bowing her head over them. The only words Rúna was able to catch from their whispered prayers were names: God, Allah, Rúna, Sigurd…

Guilt filled her at their prayers, especially Tanaruz's. that she would be named in prayer to the girl's god, when Rúna had not thought to offer her the comfort of her Allah as Blaeja had, made her stomach twist. Instead, she had been telling Tanaruz of her own gods without any regard for the one Tanaruz had been born under.

Duly humbled, Rúna pressed herself to the wall and out of the way. The stone was cool and solid at her back. Blaeja and Tanaruz's praying lasted for some time, long enough that Rúna was brought into their reverence. She felt just the same as she did when she watched sacrifices, as if a stilling spell had come over her. First Blaeja and then Tanaruz rose, dispelling the hold.

How very different the church felt now, when she was the minority. Rúna rung her hands following the two dark-haired girls from the building. "Ubbe has called for a sacrifice tonight," she blurted, feeling compelled to speak of her own gods. "To thank our Allfather for his good fortune and protection. Tanaruz has seen our sacrifices to the gods, but this will be your first, Blaeja."

"It is a day of worship, then," Blaeja said with a polite smile. Feeling decidedly off-put, Rúna left Blaeja and Tanaruz to the sewing they had planned with Morwen. Rather, she took her leave to find Ivar. He wasn't hard to find; the traveling had tired him more than he would admit, having spent the much of the past few days in his new bedroom.

She let herself in without knocking, softly pushing the door shut behind her. "Ivar!"

"If you truly love me, Rúna, you had best catch me." Rushing forward, she just managed to catch hold of him in time to break his fall. Laughing, they fell to the rug-cushioned floor together. Ivar rolled off her so they lay together, staring up at the ceiling, stained black from hearth fire smoke as they caught their breath.

"What did you think you were doing, Budlungr?" Rúna asked, head lolling to the side to face him. Were it not for the unfamiliar room, so unlike his homey cabin, she might have thought they were home in Kattegat.

"I lost my crutches and braces to the sea," he explained, "and I have not walked in months. But if I expect myself to be ready for the steel braces Frode is crafting for me, my legs must get stronger."

"So you thought to yourself, 'I should stand with no other support than a wooden table that does not care if I fall and break my legs'?" Her eyes shined with her teasing, making him laugh even as a light blush flooded his cheeks.

"Not in so many words, no," Ivar admitted. Rolling onto his side, he bridged the small distance between them and caressed her smiling cheek. "I haven't heard you truly laugh in weeks, Rúna. I missed it."

Her smile softened under his touch and gaze both. Rúna placed her hand over his own, holding it there as she nuzzled her cheek into his palm. "It still hurts," she confided, "but… not in the same way. I feel it is getting lighter, but also that the lightness is a betrayal to Floki and Helga."

"No," he whispered, shifting his hand to run his thumb over her lips as if he could seal away her worries. "It is not betrayal. I miss Father, and my heart aches at his very thought, but the weight no longer crushes me."

There was no need to ask about Aslaug; Rúna knew that answer. Instead, she pressed a kiss to his thumb before drawing nearer to him. "I went to the church with Blaeja today."

This made Ivar laugh anew. "Why would you do that?" He asked, before sobering, his features clearly reflecting the thought that caught hold in his head. "Rúna, you do not have to listen to Blaeja. She is not a princess of our own land… and it isn't as if you have ever paid much mind to what my brothers or I say."

Oddly, his teasing cushioned the chiding. Rúna shook her head, feeling the smooth stones against her skull even through the thick rugs. "No, it is not that I feel I must obey her. She invited Tanaruz and I. I... guess I was curious, is all. I wanted to see what it was like, in the presence of her God."

"And?" Ivar prompted. Rúna had dropped her gaze, one hand idly fiddling with the embroidery on his tunic.

"And I didn't feel anything," she admitted, meeting his eyes. "Though it was clear that Blaeja did. She cried some, while she prayed. I do not know if she hoped I might be moved, in some way, but I mostly thought about that priest and how he cried at his death rather than meeting his God with a smile on his face."

"Who is to say he met his God?" Ivar countered. "He was one of the Christian holy men, but did that mean he was without sin? Think of Athelstan. Prince Alfred is his son, born out of wedlock and in adultery. Are those not both sins to the Christians?"

Sighing, Rúna looked just past him, her brows drawing together as she thought. "I just do not see how they can so love a god that may send them to an eternity of pain and suffering."

Ivar rolled onto his back once more, staring up contemplatively. Somehow, Rúna knew it was not the ceiling he saw. She pushed herself up onto her elbow, watching his face as he spoke. "I have been thinking much, Rúna, since you revealed our fate to me. How to get there, what steps must be taken. How to honor Father and how to bring Kattegat beyond where Mother's ruling brought it. Despite what Lagertha might think, the people of Kattegat loved Mother. Perhaps not as much as Father, before he left, but can anyone say that Kattegat did not flourish under Mother's rule? No."

He turned back to her, away from the ghosts of his parents and his imaginings of the future. "Kattegat loved my parents, but they were also feared. I think you must have both, to lead and rule, but the love must outweigh the fear. Your father loves Odin with his entire being, does he not? So much so that he surrendered himself wholly to the Allfather's whim."

"But he still feared abandonment from the gods," Rúna whispered. "Floki still feared angering them."

"Never did that fear outweigh his love. Not even when sweet Helga was taken from him." He reached for her again, hand cupping the back of her head so he could kiss her. "I am not so sure I would have the same grace, but that is beside the point. The issue, the flaw, with the Christian God is that they fear him more than they love him. Perhaps that is what he wants. It leaves me empty, to think of what the Christians call 'faith'."

In one fluid motion, Ivar rolled away from her and sat up. No one can ever say he is graceful, in his own way, Rúna thought. "I did not set this afternoon aside for musing over the shortcomings of the Christians, though. Help me stand, Rúna. I would have my legs ready."

"As you command, Budlungr," she teased, pushing herself up to stand before him. Rúna hooked her arms around his chest, just beneath his arms. She waited for him to secure himself by wrapping his own arms around her shoulders before she rocked their weight back and brought him upright. "This was easier when we were younger."

Rúna was now pinned between Ivar and the table, both providing support for his unstable weight. "Should've kept up with me when we were growing, hmm, Rúna?"

He must have been at his practice for longer than she thought. Within seconds, he was shaking with the effort of keeping himself upright. Rúna wrapped her arms tightly about his waist, letting him sink into her hold. He braced himself with one arm, the limb going rigid at her side, while the other secured itself around her waist.

"Don't let me fall yet," he mumbled into her hair. Every line of him was taut with effort. Rúna braced her feet, ignoring the bite of the table's edge against her back and the throbbing protest of her bruised ribs alike. She would hold on until he was fully ready, focusing on the feel of his weight until Ivar lifted his face from the crook of her neck. "Now!"

And so the pair fell to the floor in a flurry of Rúna's skirts and their shared, breathy laughter once more. Though his cheeks gleamed with a layer of sweat, Ivar's eyes were nearly as wide and bright as his proud smile. "How long did Frode say it would take to make these braces?" Rúna asked between huffs as she tried to catch her breath.

"A… week."

Rúna pushed her mussed hair off her face, taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm her racing heart. "Gods give me strength."

Ivar laughed again, his chuckle barely carrying weigh as he, too, caught his breath. "It will… pay off, in the end… just wait, my Rúna."

A/N: A Christmas (or Yule!) gift from me to you: a new chapter! The scene with Ivar and the priest was taken from the Vikings episode The Departed, Part I. I will be using some key Ivar scenes from The Departed, Part II next chapter, but I will be veering away from the show soon to add more historical aspects from the research I've done on the true Ivar the Boneless!

I also needed to explore the shifting dynamics between the brothers without Sigurd's death being a catalyst. We will be seeing this next chapter as well! I'm sorry again for how long these updates are taking. I would rather put out longer chapters that I've worked hard on and am proud of than lots of shorter chapters. Life is just annoyingly busy, but I think we can all relate to that. Know I am writing whenever I can and I have not forgotten this story or the lovely readers!

Thank you to 345 for the review last chapter!