Chapter Thirty-Five: Hvitserk
"Lice," Rúna spat, pulling her fine-toothed comb through another dense swathe of Tanaruz's hair. Blaeja was not afflicted with the vermin herself, but Morwen and many of the Saxon slaves were plagued with it. Morwen herself was so very blonde that the pale creatures had gone unnoticed for some time, until Blaeja had caught one of the fat bugs on her own clothing. "Thank the gods for your veils, Tanaruz, or I would like to never get lice out of this thick, curly hair of yours."
Tanaruz sat on the floor, between Rúna's knees, head demurely bowed as she was inspected. Strong afternoon sunlight streamed in from the open window. Frode's hammer could be heard ringing out from the smithery; only Rúna and Ivar knew what he worked so fervently on. Norse and Saxon tongues streamed in as well. York was bustling with various projects as the Vikings cemented their claim to the township.
Rúna's fingers and comb continued their gentle exploration of Tanaruz's hair. Each tug on the strands was echoed in Rúna's chest, until her heart could no longer take it. She had thought of the day in the chapel often since seeing Tanaruz pray. "Tanaruz, I worry that I've neglected you. Your Allah, is there anything you need to worship him properly?"
The younger girl did not immediately answer, so that Rúna went rambling on. "I mean, as Blaeja has her cross about her neck and her candles and prayers and I myself have my runes and offerings, Tanaruz. Is there not something you must have for your Allah?"
Still, Tanaruz was quiet. Rúna opened her mouth once more but was silenced before she spoke when her sister turned to face her. Kneeling, Tanaruz tipped her head back to meet Rúna's gaze. "No, shaqiqa, I keep Allah here now." She laid her hands on her heart. "I prayed much when I first came to Kattegat and Allah assured me I was doing as I should and would be forgiven the customs I can no longer hold."
"Do you always pray to him such as you did in Blaeja's church?" Rúna called to mind Tanaruz's bent posture, forehead resting on the bloodstained stone floor.
"Yes, of course." The same stone flooring was used throughout the hall that they occupied. Rúna could not imagine that it was much comfortable.
"Then I shall make for you a mat to kneel on, Tanaruz, so that you might give your full attention to your Allah when you pray."
The girl's answering smile pierced through Rúna's chest. It was as much a betrayal to please Tanaruz so as it had been for the girl deal Helga that deathblow. No, she told herself. Helga wanted this. She would be happy for Tanaruz to be happy.
She repeated that thought to herself that night at her new loom. Blaeja had had no problem sending Morwen to find one and have it brought to Rúna's room. The servant girl's pale hair was tightly braided and hidden beneath a headscarf, but what was visible of it was slightly wine stained. Blaeja must have been nearly drowning the poor girl to get rid of the lice. Her arms were laden with yarn and behind her, a posse of slave men hauled the loom. She thanked Morwen profusely for securing the loom for her and the girl dipped her head in practiced deference.
Though not yet married, her public relationship with Ivar seemed to have raised her station. No longer were her mornings taken up by chores, or her evenings with cooking. She was given deferential treatment by the slaves and Morwen alike, all asking after her wants and needs. Though they served her meals and lugged in the water for her baths, Rúna insisted on maintaining her own quarters and tending her own laundry. She did the same for Tanaruz, keeping on top of her sister's living arrangements so as not to burden the slaves with the work.
Rúna hardly knew how to fill her time. She sewed with Tanaruz, trained with the boys, collected herbs and learned their uses from Blaeja. They all ate together in the evenings, playing games and listening to Sigurd's music. And at night, she listened to Ivar's concerns about his brothers.
"For once, Sigurd is the least of my worries." Blaeja had given her a small jar of muddled herbs once she learned Ivar had been tattooed. The markings were a foreign practice to the Saxon, but still, Blaeja's knowledge of healing was vast enough that she was able to craft the concoction to ward of infection as the tattoos healed. Kneeling behind Ivar on his bed, Rúna spread the herbs across his bare back just as Blaeja had instructed her. "Ubbe is too focused on this farming notion, he cannot see the needs right in front of his face. What good is a farming settlement if it is not protected? If he loses it immediately because he leaves his arse exposed, hmm?"
Blaeja had warned that the concoction would sting, but if Ivar felt any pain as she touched his raw skin, he did not react to it. The tattoos mimicked the dragon carving and embroidery Floki had crafted for his chariot. A sweet homage to the man who had raised them both, she thought. Finished with his back, Rúna moved to sit in front of Ivar and tend to his shoulders and chest.
"Blaeja says it is a matter of time before Aethelwulf is at our door. She's told Sigurd as much, no? Surely Sigurd would tell Ubbe?" Her heart gave a squeeze as she examined the tattooist's work. It was getting easier to think of Helga; she knew in her heart that her mother was safe, with Angrboda once more. But to think of Floki, off in the world alone, still sent a pang of pain ricocheting through her chest.
"It does not matter," Ivar lamented, leaning back on his elbows and giving her more space to remedy his chest. "Ubbe is the leader, because he is the oldest, and I am in the wrong for looking farther than the late harvest he hopes to have."
"He'll get the barest of crops, planting this late in the season." Finished with her ministrations, Rúna rinsed her hands and returned to sitting before him. "I have told him as much. You would think it was Ubbe's ears you nearly took off, with how well he listens as of late."
"It was only one of Sigurd's ears, Rúna." He pouted in response to her teasing.
"Yes, Budlungr, I know. I was there, after all." One was enough, she thought, though she didn't say it aloud. Whether it had been Ivar's intention or not, he had handicapped his brother. Under Blaeja's care, his wound had healed well, but even her expertise could not restore his hearing in that ear. Sigurd had quickly developed a habit of turning his good ear toward conversation to compensate. "How far has Frode advanced with your steel braces?"
Ivar's features had soured at mention of Sigurd's injuries; it wasn't hard to guess that his thoughts had wandered in the same direction hers had. He was in a poor enough mood over Ubbe's scolding and Rúna had no desire to let it darken further. Shifting the conversation to the blacksmith did the trick.
"Just two days more." He smiled wide, sitting still for her so she could wrap linen bandages in place over Blaeja's medicine. "Then Ubbe must always look me in the face when he wants to doubt me."
At that, Rúna blew her breath. Her bandaging finished, she paused to kiss Ivar before retiring to her own room. He caught her there, drawing her back onto the bed to kiss her long and slow. "You do not doubt me either, Rúna," he whispered, running his thumb along her bottom lip. It sent a delicious shiver down her spine.
"As if I ever have," she murmured against his skin, causing Ivar to smirk. His eyes had darkened a shade.
"Do not doubt yourself, either, my love. You will be queen over Ubbe, and that day is fast approaching. I can feel it. Circumstances in the camp are shifting."
A shiver wracked down her spine once more, though this one chilled her. Had Hvitserk not said the very same thing? Rúna caught his hand where it still rested on her cheek, pressing a farewell kiss to his palm before taking her leave of him. That night she dreamed of the Seer and his vision, of the speed of the chariot and wind in her hair, of wolves shot through with arrows.
In two days' time, Rúna's new summer dress was finished. She had made it out of the dark blue-gray silk that Blaeja had chosen for her from the spoils of looting. It was cut in the Saxon fashion—high necked, long-sleeved, and skimming over the body—but embroidered by her own hand with Nordic symbols. True to Blaeja's word, the loose silk did not cling to her skin the way her woolen dresses did under the strong summer sun in York.
She was standing near what Blaeja had called the 'Roman' walls of the township, watching the slaves carry out the fortifications Ivar had designed. Turning, Blaeja drew her attention to the back wall.
"He is leaving that wall—the oldest—unfortified. Why?"
"His favorite strategy, in both our hnefatafl and your chess, is leaving a false weakness as bait," Rúna explained with a giggle. "Do you think it will work on your sister's husband? We've received word he means to try to take York back."
Blaeja giggled herself, nodding. "I have played with Aethelwulf, when his marriage with Judith was arranged. I beat him as a child and he a man grown. I thought, perhaps, he had let me win, but then he played my father and lost that game as well."
"And he would not let Aelle win, his having been a king?"
"No," Blaeja said confidently. "Aethelwulf thinks very highly of himself. A shame he married Judith—she has never thought highly of him, even only in betrothal."
"Perhaps one day I will meet this sister of yours," Rúna mused. "She seems interesting."
That earned her a pensive look cast down on her, though Rúna smiled. Blaeja never made efforts to mask the strained relationship she held with her sister. And though Rúna very much liked Blaeja, she was genuinely interested in this Queen Judith and her penchant for bucking Saxon expectations of women.
Rúna was going to further jest about the difference in the sisters' love lives, but the words died on her lips as she turned at the sound of her name being called. She had made the assumption that she would go to Frode with Ivar, once his braces were finished. Instead, she was greeted by the sight of Ivar wearing them—and walking toward her.
"Dear God," Blaeja murmured beside her, forming the sign of her cross over herself. While Blaeja had taken the sight as a miracle of her God—like that ridiculous story of virgin conception she had told Rúna—the latter knew this for what it was: a culmination of many years of work between her and Ivar.
He was smiling at her, brighter than the afternoon sunlight. Rúna returned that smile and nearly ran to him. In fact, she had taken a handful of steps before she was stilled by his upheld hand. She stopped immediately in her tracks, instead taking in the details of him. These new braces looked heavy to her, at least the left side. That brace was full steel, stretching from his thigh to his ankle, and fitted over his boot. In his genius, Frode had left the knee of the left brace disjointed, she hypothesized to still allow Ivar range of motion to sit.
Ivar used a single crutch on the left side, that leg shuffling as it always had. The right side was not nearly so constricted. Its brace was made from a combination of steel and leather straps, allowing that leg to take the fuller steps it was able to manage. Still, he was new to these braces, and the going was slow as she waited. Rúna found herself wringing her hands and pushing her heels into the dirt, trying to do away with some of her pent-up excitement, lest she run and close the gap between them.
The mixture of pride and joy became clearer on his face the closer he drew. Rúna thought her smile might split her cheeks cleanly in two. To think that she had considered herself proud just a season ago, when he left Kattegat's shores with King Ragnar. He had walked then, too, but to leave her. Now he was walking to her.
In the end, Rúna's excitement got the best of her. With mere feet left between them, she could take it no longer and propelled herself forward into his arms.
"Rúna!" This time when he said her name, his tone held a note of goodhearted teasing. There was just enough restraint in her embrace that she refrained from knocking them both to the ground. He caught her one-armed about the waist, rocking back on his heels and bracing the rest of his weight on his crutch.
"This is everything," she whispered, clinging to him. Her back was shaking under his hand, but even Rúna could not say what she was restraining: laughter or tears. "Our whole lives…"
"I know," he murmured, squeezing her tight to him. The remnants of her bruised ribs throbbed in protest, but she didn't mind. "I know."
When at last she picked her head up from his shoulder, there were tears streaking down her face. They blurred her vision so that she had to blink them away to see the forms of his brothers clearly. Some yards away stood Ubbe, Hvitserk, and Sigurd. One face was carefully blank, the next alight with appreciation and amusement alike. The third was comically surprised, mouth agape.
There was little time to muse the differences in the brothers' gazes. Ivar was kissing her in the next moment, the first time he had done so on his own two feet. Rúna didn't mind how the steel bit into her thighs, nor how long the kiss dragged out so publicly. When, after what felt like many hours under the Saxon summer sun, Ivar pulled away, he still stayed close and tipped his forehead to hers. "Don't cry, my Rúna," he chuckled, barely contained mirth washing over her wet cheeks.
"I cannot help it," she told him, laughing despite herself. Floki should be here. He should see this. Her pride and the realization of what her father was missing brought on the tears. She raised a hand, caressing his cheek as she looked up at him. Up, because he's taller than me, much taller than me. It was easy to forget, with Ivar so often prone on the ground. Rúna swallowed back more tears, her thought turning from Floki to Aslaug. She would want my head for sure if she could see Ivar like this.
That thought had her giggling with the self-satisfaction of a child being naughty but not yet caught in the act. She kissed him again, bouncing onto her toes to do so. The happiness was bright on his lips, still curled into a smile beneath her own.
The truth was clear, now, the one Hvitserk and Ivar had both tried to tell her. Just as surely as the ocean, the tides of power between the brothers were shifting, and Ivar's walking was the catalyst. When they finally, fully separated from one another, Hvitserk was not the only one watching the youngest Ragnarsson with unrestrained appreciation.
The day's ending had little dampening on the excitement that bubbled inside Rúna and Ivar. Giggles still slipped past their lips, even in the candlelit dimness of Ivar's bedroom. Taking another sip of her wine, Rúna ran a finger over the carefully discarded steel braces. They still wore the echoes of Ivar's body heat, warm under her touch. Just skimming them with her fingertip made her smile widen again. "I hope you paid Frode handsomely for these."
She turned from them, laid out so painstakingly on the table by the poor Saxon slave that most often served Ivar. Rúna was almost certain the sniveling man equated Ivar's leg deformities to the mysterious Christian figure of Satan. Blaeja blanched to speak of the entity, but Rúna had gathered enough to surmise this Satan had to do with sin and the Christian Hell. To put it simply, the Saxon feared Ivar in a similar way, if his bloodless face was any clue when Ivar addressed him, and made no qualms about trying to hide his terror.
Not that it bothered Ivar any to strike fear in the heart of a Christian.
"I haven't been swindling Hvitserk in cards each night for nothing," Ivar assured her, sliding a hand up the hem of her slip when she sat beside him on his bed. He ran his thumb over the ball of her ankle, pressing into the joint. "Ubbe has put me to task choosing a slave for sacrifice. I suppose he is not so confident as his neglect toward our defenses would suggest."
Rúna felt her breath hitch. The rumors from their scouts were not exaggerated, then. A shame. She had been reveling in the calmer routine their lives had lulled into after capturing York. "The new king is on his way, then, a massive army at his back?"
"Aethelwulf is eager to make his name," Ivar agreed. "And Ubbe is eager to waste my time." His thumb was still working lazy circles around the knob of her ankle. The movement seemed meditative to him, a faraway look in his eye. Combined with the headiness of the wine, which Rúna absently drained from her cup, it was enough to make her own head swim.
"You do love a good sacrifice, though, Budlungr," she reminded him, licking the last drops of wine from her lips. "Surely it will not be a complete waste of time."
"Perhaps not," Ivar murmured, seeming to come out of the fog that held his thoughts. Here in the privacy of his bedroom, he wore neither his tunic nor any coverings over his still-raw tattoos. The skin around the ink was tinged red and slightly swollen, but if this gave him any pain, he did not show it. Rather, in one smooth motion, he relieved her of her empty wine glass and grabbed her, giggling, about the waist to roll her over him to the other side of the bed. "You saw Sigurd's face, yes?"
"Yes, of course, it was my favorite in the crowd," she said through her laughter, peeking up at him. Now tucked against the strength of his chest, she couldn't help teasing, "Are you overjoyed to not have killed him, so that he lived to see this day?"
His own smile reminded her of when they were children, when that self-satisfaction and pride would flood his face after besting one of his older brothers. Rúna, interestingly, had considered Sigurd and Ivar's relationship much improved after the latter nearly severed the former's ear, but the afternoon's public display of Ivar's strength was still a balm to old wounds between the two.
They stayed up late, bolstered by their shared triumph. Even so, Rúna had already risen and gone for the day when Ivar roused himself from sleep. Still displeased with the menial task Ubbe had given him for the day, Ivar dressed himself in plain, dark clothing after eating the bread and cheese his Christian slave had left him. He did not call for the man, slipping on the soft, worn leather of his old bindings before crawling to the hall where they ate and entertained.
Sighing, he pulled himself up the dais steps and into the chair, arranging his legs comfortably for a long sit. The new braces were wonderful for walking, and though Frode had padded the side that laid against his skin, they were still uncomfortable to sit in. If he must sit most of the day here, he would do it in ease. The first few slaves brought to him were unremarkable, sent away with a shake of his head and a flick of his braced wrist.
He could smell the fear on them, leaving his nose wrinkling in disgust. Sending a coward to Odin and Tyr was of no interest to him, and he was of a mind that the gods would thank him for his critical eye. No, it was not until the fourth slave was brought in that his attention was grabbed.
This girl was miniscule, compared to the hulking mass of her master walking beside her. She walked with her head downcast, in the demure and submissive nature of slaves, but kept her eyes raised. Her gaze met his squarely on, steady. That was a first for the morning, making Ivar abandon the idle game he had been playing spinning his dagger between his fingers and pushing himself to sit straighter in his chair.
"Go," he waved on the girl's master. "I would speak with her a moment."
"Of course." The man's nod did not quite hide his pleased smile. To have his slave chosen would give him a place of honor at the sacrificial feast that night. Ivar watched the man's expansive back retreat until he was alone in the room with the girl. Turning his attention to her again, he found her waiting quietly, her pretty face calm.
"Do you know who I am?"
"You are Ivar," she answered in a melodious voice, not bothering to mince her words.
"Only Ivar?"
Here, she cocked her head jauntily as she amended, "Ivar the Boneless."
Nodding, Ivar laid his dagger flat on his thigh and bent forward. "We mean to make a sacrifice to our gods, slave, to ask them for help and protection in our next fight against the Christians. Would you offer yourself as sacrifice?"
Smiling, the slave girl came forward unbidden. She stopped just beside him, and when she reached out her arm, the loose neck of her low-cut gown slid down to expose a milky-white shoulder. Ivar felt his breath hitch despite himself at the sight; the slave girl was close enough to have noticed. His involuntary slip bolstered her. She laid a hand on his shoulder, letting it drift down his chest.
His tunic caught on the rough skin of healing tattoos beneath, causing him to shiver. Whether his body's reaction was meant as encouragement or not, the slave girl clearly took it as such. With a smirk—gods, she was practiced at this, she must be—she let her hand go ever lower. "I would do anything you commanded me to, Ivar the Boneless."
Ivar remembered himself just as her hand touched his belt. He caught her wrist there, hard enough to feel the delicate bones grind together beneath her skin. "I thought you said you know who I am?"
He kept his voice soft, removing her offensive hand but not releasing it. Tipping his head back, he saw the first inkling of fear when her eyes betrayed her, darting to the dagger in his lap before returning to his face. When she didn't speak, he squeezed her wrist tighter.
"I do," she managed. "Everyone knows you are Ivar the Boneless. You are special."
"If you know me," he continued, ignoring her attempt at placation, "then surely you know the red-haired shieldmaiden who is my… companion?" He nearly said the words wife and queen; the words, as yet, that were reserved for Rúna alone. "Hmm? Tell me her name."
"Rúna," the slave girl answered. With his free hand, Ivar yanked up the shoulder of her gown to cover her once more.
"Yes, my Rúna. You are bold to think I would dishonor her this way. Perhaps it is only pleasure you are seeking, before you meet the gods? Or are your attempts at seduction to prolong your life in Midgard? To escape the fate the gods have given you?"
"No," she argued, squirming, trying to pull her wrist free of his hold. He squeezed again, knowing the metal clasps of his braces must be biting painfully into her soft, white skin. "I would not defy the fate of the gods. Of course not."
"Then I will see you at the alter tonight, slave, and if I do not, then know you will not shirk your destiny for long. I will make sure of it." He yanked on her wrist, bringing the girl's lovely, scared face within mere inches of his. "Thank the Allfather for me, would you? For my Rúna, and the fate that she has already revealed to me. My only regret in choosing you as sacrifice is that you will not see the crown on my Rúna's head after this feeble attempt to undermine her today."
With a solid shove that had the girl stumbling down the dais, Ivar sent her away with a final glare. "Go find your master and tell him you are to make ready for tonight."
The girl had the gumption, at least, not to clutch at her wrist though it was clear from her pinched features that he had hurt her.
Sigurd played a fittingly jaunty tune at the sacrifice, a rallying song that left all the revelers in high spirits after the bloody business was done. Beside him, Rúna had watched the proceedings with a calmly reverent look upon her face. She was solemn through the slave girl's death, raising her hands in honor of her sacrifice. That roll of the wrist was a gesture he had seen from Floki countless times. Now, it made his stomach turn to see Rúna honor the conniving slave.
But she was unaware of the disrespect that had been dealt her at the dead girl's hand. It was not until Ubbe had come by and splattered Rúna's cheeks with the sacrificed life's blood that she turned to him and slipped her arm through his own. He had worn his new braces for this, so that for the first time, he might stand beside Rúna in the crowd rather than sit before her.
"What was her name?"
The firelight was warm on her face, bringing out the flames in her own hair and her summer tan. "Freydis."
He had thought to ask the girl's master, before the sacrifice was made. Ivar had wanted to know exactly who he was sending to death.
"Freydis," Rúna repeated with a little snort. Her mouth twisted into an ironic grin. "Fitting, no?"
"Very." Settling his weight onto his crutch, Ivar carefully bent to press a kiss to her forehead. He could taste the salt of Freydis' sacrifice on Rúna's skin.
You would protect her, wouldn't you?
The question had sealed both Rúna and Blaeja's fates. One of the only times Ivar and Sigurd had managed to agree so easily on something as well, she was sure.
On the morning of King Aethelwulf's raid on York, Rúna found herself shrouded away in the early mist alongside the princess and her sister. Secreted above the town in one of the watch towers, Rúna bade Blaeja to keep to the shadows as the Saxon troops approached.
"They are quiet, I will give them that." The Christians were spilling over the Roman wall—intentionally left undefended by Ivar—like so many ants rushing toward opportune food. They all but stumbled over one another in their haste. "Mind your bow, Tanaruz."
Rúna notched an arrow for herself, watching to make sure her sister did the same. They stood at opposite windows, Blaeja safely between them. "It is hard to see," the princess murmured, rubbing a thumbnail along her lower lip. Between the misty dawn and the damp-wood fires—left burning overnight to leave the town choked with smoke—the Christians were effectively swallowed into the ether.
"That is the point," Rúna murmured, straining her own eyes as she swept her gaze all around. They were all dressed in dark clothing, her own ruddy hair braided tightly back and concealed under her hood. If Sigurd and Ivar got their wish, they would escape notice in this tower that was meant to be Blaeja's safe haven but was feeling to Rúna like imprisonment. She rocked her weight from foot to foot, muscles tight with anticipation.
Taking her aim into the haze as best she could, Rúna sent first one and then another arrow sailing. She couldn't guess if any of them hit a mark, but if this was the one small part she was to play in the morning, she would give it her all.
Something was happening on the ground, if the screams were any indication. Holding up a hand, she signaled for Tanaruz to stay her arrows. If the Saxons were playing their part in this farce, they should be falling victim to the various traps that had been carefully laid under cover of night. The alleys had been filled with spikes, which she was sure were not being wasted.
Movement stirred and dispelled the smoke some, revealing a stream of fleeing Christians. "Now, Tanaruz."
Rúna did what work she could from her vantage point, felling men with her careful aim. They need not have worried so much over Blaeja; if the Saxons carried bows, none stopped to use them in retaliation. Still, when her quiver ran empty, Rúna drew her sword lest any of the men below get it in their mind to move upward.
"Do you think they are safe?" Blaeja asked, one bright blue eye peeking out from her hood. Who? Rúna nearly asked. The boys? Your sister's husband? Your nephews?
"The gods have always favored the sons of Ragnar," Rúna replied instead.
"They are strong." Tanaruz's voice caught Rúna off-guard. She turned to see the girl's jaw tight, her chin thrust forward as if to challenge the gods Rúna had just praised. "And they have many gods watching over them this morning."
"Allah among that number?" Rúna did not know nearly as much about Tanaruz's god as she did Blaeja's. The younger girl simply smiled and nodded in answer.
A morning rain did away with the last of the fires and smoke alike, leaving a clear view of the chariot as it came blazing down the street. Ire and fear flared in Rúna's chest; that wasn't supposed to happen.
"Ivar!" Ubbe had bade Ivar to remain out of the fighting himself, having woken with his eyes preternaturally blue. Were it not for Tanaruz's hand catching her by the elbow, Rúna would have launched herself from their tower.
"No, shaqiqa, please!"
"He is going to get his crippled ass killed!" She was not usually so blunt about his handicap, but her anger had no care for sympathies at the moment. Tanaruz held firm; she was stronger than she looked. Of course, she had to have been, to kill Helga. That thought, wild and sudden, nearly had Rúna pushing the girl away from her until she saw the blanched fear plain on Tanaruz's face.
Of course, she could not leave them unattended. Tanaruz was not enough to hold off many grown men on her own and Blaeja was both unarmed and unskilled besides. A quick glance over her shoulder proved any efforts to leave fruitless, anyway. Ivar was gone from sight and the streets were too muddled to begin to know where to find him.
Resignation was cold and heavy as stone. Though she felt like she might vomit, Rúna stepped down from the ledge to rejoin Blaeja and Tanaruz. The princess's hand was cold in her own, fingers squeezing tight in silent empathy.
The fighting had moved away from their side street, as Rúna knew it would. All those traps were to orchestrate a funneling to the center of York, where there was space enough to take the Christians in open battle. All that filtered to them now was the sound of the fray. Rúna forced herself to listen beyond the roar of adrenaline in her own ears, beyond the rain, beyond the song of swordplay.
Underneath it all, if she focused hard enough, she could just hear a very familiar voice yelling in her native Norse.
Don't you know who I am? You can't kill me! Don't you know who I am? I am Ivar the Boneless!
She could only pray to the gods that Ivar was right, that the Seer's vision would hold, and he would live to see the day to its end.
"An arrow to the leg is not 'nothing'!"
Once, when she was very small and had just come to live with Helga and Floki, the couple had argued. It was not something that Rúna had seen often in her time with them, but the first time it had been about her. Frightened, she had peeked out from her blankets into the flickering firelight.
Floki had been cautioning Helga not to grow so attached to 'the girl', that being Rúna herself. She did not know, then, about Angrboda. Helga had argued loudly in turn about Rúna's need for a mother. There was no telling how long that argument might had lasted, had it not been for her own whimper cutting through the heated words.
Helga had drawn her from the blankets and settled her on her lap, smoothing back her sleep-mussed hair and explaining to her that, sometimes, shouting was loving. Sometimes, the love was loud and sharp.
"Am I in my funeral boat?" Ivar shot back, holding his hands out. Though his eyes blazed, he could not keep the smile from his face. "No! I am breathing!"
Rúna whirled on him, narrowing her eyes into a glare. "Breathing for now, but perhaps not later, if you do not watch that mouth."
"What shall you do?" Ivar asked, chuckling in the face of her threat. An answering smile almost quirked its way onto her lips. Rúna grit her teeth against it. "Smother me in my sleep?"
"And if I do? It is not as if you can kick me off."
That was enough, and an argument that had started with Rúna claiming Ivar was both a cripple and an idiot for what he had done that day ended with the two of them laughing in the other's face. And good thing, too, considering their argument had taken place in the middle of the victorious feast following King Aethelwulf's retreat from York. Laughter filled the hall after a beat. A lover's tiff well-resolved was far too light to put a damper on the mood of the night.
Ivar offered Rúna his mead cup and all was mended.
What was not mended was the tension between the four Ragnarssons in York, though Rúna was unsure if anyone outside this new family of theirs was taking noticed. It seemed glaring to her. Ubbe's face was tight with annoyance, she thought, as she settled into the crook of Ivar's arm. Hvitserk seemed on edge himself, hazel eyes cutting between his oldest and youngest brothers.
By all accounts, Ivar and Sigurd seemed the calmest. The former was warm beside her, the latter using his gift of song and story to fill Blaeja and Tanaruz in on what they had missed in the fighting. To Rúna's immense relief, Sigurd was none the worse for wear. There was a healthy ruddiness in his cheeks, even if one of his eyes had been bruised. He had healed well, then, and the deafness she suspected in his injured ear did not seem to hamper him much.
"We did well today, brothers." Ubbe gave the compliment more so to his cup than his brethren, but he raised it in toast all the same.
"We?" Ivar asked, letting his own cup dangle near his lips. He raised his brows, expectant. Rúna tensed beneath his arm, which had tightened about her shoulders.
"Yes, we." Ubbe reiterated. "I saved your life."
"It was all my strategy!"
His petulance drew a glare from Sigurd, displeased in being interrupted. "We all did very well, why do we argue? We should be celebrating," Hvitserk threw in before Sigurd could get a barb in. He didn't need to. Blaeja's hand on Sigurd's arm tempered him in an instant. The younger brother inclined his head, agreeing.
"The Saxons retreated. That is all that matters."
"Thank you, Sigurd. With the Saxons gone, it is time for us to look forward, to make peace and make good on our claim to land here."
"Haven't we already?" Rúna couldn't help asking. This conversation had turned tired to her. She waved a hand toward Blaeja. "We hold York. Strongly. What more claim do we need, after today?"
"You know I have no interest in farming," Ivar added, before Ubbe could begin to answer Rúna. "Nor do I have any interest in peace with the Christians. Peace is a dirty word."
"We need trade as well, Ubbe," Sigurd was pointing out, tactfully ignoring Ivar's continued grumbling. "It is late in the season for planting here, yes, Blaeja? Björn took the bulk of the fleet with him. We have no choice but to trade within the Saxon lands, at least this year."
"Farming, trading. But not raiding, no, or fighting. My brothers are weak."
During all the back and forth, Hvitserk watched quietly, taking long pulls of his mead. He wore that mask again, the one that made him look so like Aslaug. When Rúna managed to catch his eye, he gave her the smallest of smiles.
"Skol," he mouthed to her with a jaunty cant of the head. Rúna found herself grinning back despite herself. Even with Hvitserk's attempt at good humor, the night did not sit right with her. Rúna paced her bedchamber, thinking hard over the past few days.
The brothers were splitting, that much was obvious. Knowing Ivar's path was small consolation for her as she walked the floors, worrying at the small chip in her tooth with her thumbnail. And Ubbe is set on his course, on the one he is determined Ragnar meant for him. The one Björn has no care for. She rolled her eyes at the oldest of Ragnar's sons, hoping against hope he felt it in his far-off Mediterranean.
She thought she had an idea of where Sigurd's shifting loyalties would lie, and that would be with what would most benefit Blaeja. Keeping York. But how? In Ubbe's peaceful way? Or secured in blood, as was Ivar's way? Then there was Hvitserk, so damned hard to read now. Hiding away his thoughts behind his mother's face.
Tanaruz had retired with her after the feast. Her small figure was draped in blankets on the bed, dark curls loose and spilling over her pillow. Rúna paused, studying her, remembering that look of blind trust Tanaruz had worn throughout the morning. Some of the tension drained from her shoulders, her heart giving a tight squeeze and then softening. She knew Tanaruz's path, too, of course. For better or worse, Helga had fused their fates together.
That was only two of the six people she cared about, though. Four were still up in the air and that was far too many. Rúna tidied one of the blankets, smoothing it over her sister's shoulder, and began carefully extinguishing candles around the room. The hearth fire was already banked, providing a cozy glow of embers as she blew out the candles. Rúna was still too agitated for bed. She drifted to the window, opening it a crack to feel the cool night breeze on her cheeks. Snippets of revelry came in with the wind. Celebration indeed, Hvitserk.
Leaning her head against the stone wall, Rúna sighed, mind still whirring. Her thoughts turned to Sigurd and Blaeja, to their obvious tender affection for the other. Who would have ever thought, a son of Ragnar Lothbrok and a Saxon princess…
"Oh!" Rúna exclaimed to herself, loudly enough that she turned on her heel to make sure she hadn't woken Tanaruz. Seeing her sister still sleeping, Rúna ran a hand down her face. "Oh, we are all so stupid."
She left Tanaruz to her bed, slipping quietly out the bedroom door. Ivar would be for his bed at that hour, she was sure. Her hunch was right; she found him already sprawled face-down on his bed, sleeping soundly. "Ivar," she whispered to him once she drew near, laying a hand on his shoulder and shaking him gently. He was slow to wake, but she was too excited to wait for him to be fully conscious.
"Ivar, listen. Sigurd can marry Blaeja, and we can get rid of Ubbe's peace talks. Who is going to oppose her claim? She is a princess of the blood in this land. She can hold York! Or, she should be able to if she did not live in this stupid land that hates women. But if Sigurd marries her, she's a husband, which is important in this part of the world, no? And having her marry Sigurd, of course, strengthens Ubbe and Hvitserk's right to this land! Sigurd and Blaeja can give them the plots!"
Her rambling explanation could have gone on longer, but Ivar had woken enough now to smile softly up at her and gently squeeze her thigh. "Rúna."
"What?" She asked, reading the slight sadness in his eyes. "What is it? What's happened?"
"It is a pretty plan," he complimented, "but Ubbe has already ruined it before you can bring it to Sigurd and Blaeja, my love. You see, Ubbe and Hvitserk are gone."
A cold snake of dread slithered down Rúna's back. "What do you mean, they are gone?"
"They slipped from the feast, off to make Ubbe's peace with King Aethelwulf while his camp is still near." Ivar rolled to his back, gazing up at her. He knew they would do this or had guessed at it. That much was obvious in the cocky slant of his smirk.
"Why didn't you try to stop them?" She asked. "They could be killed in the Saxon camp!"
"And who's fault will that be?" Ivar shot back. "Not mine! Not yours! We are not there making fools of ourselves in front of our enemies!"
Slumping, Rúna blinked back tears of frustration. "Where is Sigurd?"
"In his own bed. He retired before I did."
Rúna pushed herself up from Ivar's bed, drawing away from the warmth of his touch. "I will take this to him now, then, before you pigheaded boys can make any more idiotic decisions tonight."
Ivar caught her by the hand as she retreated, drawing it to his mouth to give her fingers a parting kiss. "I know you want to keep them all safe, Rúna."
I just want to go home. Rúna swallowed those words and pushed away thoughts of Floki's cabin in Kattegat. Instead, she gave Ivar's hand a squeeze and went on her way to try to secure Sigurd's safety, at least.
In the end, it didn't matter how tightly she held the remaining pieces of the Ragnarssons' brotherhood. It split messily the next morning. Rúna's bet had proven right, where Sigurd was concerned; he was eager to agree to the plan of marrying Blaeja and taking York by both conquer and birthright. There was some yelling and arguing in the early morning, before Hvitserk and Ubbe returned bloodied to York, but eventually Ivar and Sigurd reached a contemptuous agreement to yield the Heathen Army to Ivar fully.
The fact that Ubbe had not taken Sigurd with them when he and Hvitserk stole away to Aethelwulf's camp went a long way in swaying him toward Ivar and Rúna's side. He had long been an overlooked figure and this did little to enamor him toward his brothers' attempted peace talks.
Besides, York and a princess bride was a bigger win than a third son typically had hope for. Neither his pride nor the snake in his eye was enough to blind Sigurd to that truth. York would be his, the Heathen Army would be Ivar's, and the fates of Hvitserk and Ubbe would be what they may.
It all fell apart following a public humiliation in the great hall, Sigurd and Rúna standing by with heads hung as Ivar berated their older brothers. They both grit their teeth through it, neither of them comfortable yet neither of them daring to interrupt. It has to be done, Sigurd's gaze seemed to say. Still, she reached for his hand when it dawned on Ubbe that all had truly been lost and Ivar held the power. The pain in Ubbe's vibrant eyes was almost too much, but the disgust and contempt he cast on his younger brothers was enough to keep Rúna from feeling truly sympathetic toward his plight.
By the next morning, she felt no qualms at all as she took her place beside Ivar on the riverbank. She held herself tall, resting a hand on Ivar's shoulder where he sat on a well-placed stump, and watched as Hvitserk, Ubbe, and the pitifully small group of men still loyal to them made preparations to return to Kattegat.
"It did not take much to weaken his resolve from 'kill Lagertha' to 'beg at her feet', no?" Rúna spat. The cowardice in the decision to go crawling back to the stolen kingdom made her stomach roil. Sigurd, at least, had made no attempts at hiding his disinterest in retaking their kingdom or avenging their mother. Ubbe had boasted both before this weak change of heart.
Sigurd was absent from the morning shaming, but she thought he might be. He had called yesterday a 'necessary evil'. A means to an end, Rúna had named it. This had to happen, and she knew that, but that didn't dampen the anger she felt at the way the fates were revealing themselves.
"I had always thought better of them."
"Do not worry your head over it, Rúna," Ivar admonished her, laying his hand over hers where it rested on his shoulder. "We are all making our own ways now. I can no more control Ubbe's fall than he can control my rise. His fate is his own making, and we have our own to achieve, min dróttning."
He smiled up at her before turning his attention to his departing brothers.
"Look at you!" He called out to them. "Trying to sneak away to avoid your shame! Surely you must be embarrassed that nobody else is with you! Now, why is that? I can't understand it, can you?"
Ten men, that was all that Ubbe had managed to rile to his side—and that included Hvitserk. Nine, really. The oldest son of King Ragnar and Queen Aslaug, the heir apparent prince and by birth right the leader of the Heathen Army, and all he had was nine men and one brother. Perhaps if Rúna were not so mad she might have felt pity for the man before her.
"Ubbe!" Ivar roared, when his taunting went unacknowledged. "Nobody is with you! Everyone is with me!" A cheer went up around them at this proclamation.
Ivar did try to tell them, Rúna mused. After so many years of peace, the bloodlust has been woken in the Vikings of Kattegat. They are no more done with raiding and fighting than Ivar is. She looked around at the weapons raised and the excitement on the faces around her, trying to hearten herself. This had to happen. It was ugly, but it had to happen.
Ivar's hold tightened on her fingers, calling her attention from the others. "Look," he breathed, and so she did.
It was Hvitserk. He had jumped ship, she realized, her heart skipping a beat. He jumped Ubbe's ship. Truly. The morning sun shone on his sandy head, his face hard and impassive, as he squared his shoulders and walked to Ivar.
"Hvitserk," Ivar greeted, a smug smile settling onto his lips as his brother settled into place beside him. Rúna tried to catch his eye over the top of Ivar's head. There was an attempt on Hvitserk's part to ignore her, but she held her gaze boring into his cheek until he cut her a sidelong glance.
"Skol," he mouthed to her, just as she had the night of the feast. This time, he did not smile.
Skol, Hvitserk.
A/N: Okay, I admit this was a big re-write of the episode Homeland, so that the story events from the show can fit in with the divergence we're about to take from canon. Well... a bigger divergence, considering everything I've already changed to craft this story!
I just need Heahmund (because he's fun, and he's going to be necessary) and then it's time for some history, y'all! I'm adding in some of the exploits the real Ivar the Boneless embarked on that I think the show really could have used to show Ivar's prowess, but alas.
Thank you to the two Guests who left reviews on Chapter 34! I hope y'all liked this chapter, and I really hope you'll like the historical stuff I'll be adding in.
Oh, and of course, I hope you all like how swiftly Freydis was done away with. After a lot of back and forth, I decided she only deserved a footnote in the grand scheme of things.
I will see you all soon! Also, if there is anything that is glaringly wrong with this chapter, please let me know so I can edit it. I have read and re-read this chapter, but I am also recovering from covid currently and that brain fog is so strong.