Chapter Forty-One: Heyrmust

"This is war, Rúna," Ivar said for what she guessed was the thousandth time. He was stroking her hair, but she could feel the annoyance in his touch. "It isn't always valor and redemption. Sometimes it must be ugly, as a means to an end."

"Forgive me, I must have missed the part of our childhood where you became a seasoned warlord." She lay with her head in his lap, a pillow protecting her cheek from his braces. Rúna hadn't been able to stomach the victory feast after Dumbarton Rock fell, not after seeing the skeletal faces of all the Britons that starved so they might line their purses. Vigrid had been thorough in his seizure of gold, silver, and jewels, at least. That was one less thing to weigh on her mind.

Ivar chuckled at that, his hand stilling in her hair. "I simply paid better attention to the sagas. You should eat."

"I'm not hungry," Rúna protested, rolling so that she was looking up at him. It was late, the only light coming from the brazier a few feet from the bed. Already some nights were cold on the riverbank. The brazier threw just enough light that she could make out his features.

He was tired. She could see it in the unfocused haziness of his eyes, the droop of his lids. Reaching a hand up, she gently rested her fingertips on his cheekbone. Ivar's mouth curled into a half-hearted grin and her caught her hand, pressing a kiss to the center of her palm.

"Come to bed with me then, Rúna. You'll feel better for having slept." Would she? Perhaps Ivar was right. Perhaps her current fragile state had more to do with exhaustion, with prolonged camp life, with her desperate desire to take a proper bath. She sighed and pushed herself up, slipping off the bed to kneel before Ivar and help him off with his braces.

"Do my armor?" She asked, once Ivar's legs and feet were free of braces and boots. He sat her on his lap, tugging the straps loose and helping her pull the thick, leather plate over her head. Rúna hugged him, inhaling the scents of fire and mead on him before retreating and giving him a playful push onto the bed. Ivar caught her by the hips, taking her down with him. "I am thankful, though, to always have you at the end of these days."

Rúna slipped her hand beneath his tunic, letting it rest over his heart. She just caught his smile in the shadows before Ivar kissed her on the forehead and gathered her in his arms. He tucked her beneath his chin, close to his chest. Rúna fell asleep listening to the peaceful cadence of his breathing.

There was more inventory work and sums to be figured once the raiding of Alt Clut was finished. Rúna sat in the grass, under the sun, with Tanaruz close at hand, scribbling across a thick stack of paper. This paper alone would make us rich in Kattegat, she thought, watching the creamy pages soak up the ink. She made three separate ledgers with Ivar, Sigurd, and King Olaf's names as the headings. Even divided three ways, the totals for each man were handsome.

Ivar had been right, as he annoyingly so often was. Felling the Rock was an excellent—and easy—way to line the pockets of two kingdoms and a large city. She glared at the paper as she wrote, keeping her back resolutely to the river.

"Rúna." Tanaruz so rarely used her actual name that hearing caught her off guard. Her writing stuttered with her surprise, leaving her runor messy on one line. She looked up to find Tanaruz staring hard at the writing on the pages. "Would you teach me to do that?"

"To read and write the runor? Of course, if you like. It is easy. Ivar's mother taught me when I was a child." Beside her, Tanaruz nodded.

"I would like to. Most of your people do not learn, no? I think it would be good if I can."

"Then you will," Rúna promised her with a soft smile. "You can help me keep the ledgers in Kattegat. It has always been one of my tasks."

Tanaruz fell quiet, watching Rúna write. They were mostly alone, or as alone as they could be with the camp buzzing with activity all around them. Goods were being packed even as Rúna worked. King Olaf was anxious to get back to his kingdom now that summer was fading, and the Great Heathen Army still needed to voyage back to York before going on their way. All around people were rushing to and fro, side-stepping the two girls where they sat.

"When the Vikings came to my homeland, to Iberia, it was the same kind of terror. The fear you saw in the Britons' faces?" Tanaruz was speaking quickly but softly, in her native tongue. She laid a hand on her heart, her soft face uncharacteristically stony. "That is the fear I felt, when Björn and Harald came to my home."

Rúna paused in her writing, setting aside her ledger to meet her sister's dark gaze. "That is the fear I felt for a long time. Even after you, I felt it, until…" The girl stopped here, eyes dropping down to the ground with guilt. She shook her head and swallowed hard. Rúna ignored the sudden cut of grief that burned in her chest at thought of Helga. "I do not want to be the cause of that fear. I will fight for you, as you have taught me, and protect you as best I can, shaqiqa. But I do not want to raid again."

"You don't have to," Rúna promised immediately. "I didn't like it either. I will not force you and neither will Ivar."

At that, all the fight went out of the girl. Tanaruz sagged in relief beside her, shoulders slumping forward. "Thank you."

Rúna took Tanaruz's hand and gave it a small squeeze. She was as loyal of a sister as could be asked for, all things considered. "I'll teach you some of the runor now," she decided. "See here, this sheet? That is Ivar's name in the runor, at the top…"

"Did you fear I had run off at last? That perhaps your stunt with the Britons had been my breaking point?"

Ivar had no doubt that the clinking of his metal braces had alerted Heahmund of his approach. He had long since come to terms with the fact that he would never be capable of sneaking up on another person. When crawling, his legs could be heard dragging behind him. Walking brought with it the clink of metal, the scrape of his right foot, the thump of his crutch.

No matter. Ivar was not a man who hid his intentions.

He sat down heavily beside the bishop, only a little clumsily. The rigidity of the metal braces was still a learning experience for him. Heahmund sat beside one of the many pools of water they had come across in Alba. Olaf had called them spirit wells. The pool of water sat placid and calm reflecting back Ivar's face at him when he peered over the rocky edge.

"Did that bother you so much? I do not see why you would make that assumption otherwise," Ivar commented mildly, turning from his reflection to meet Heahmund's gaze. Across from him, the holy man sat as placid as the little lake. Ivar shrugged and dipped his fingertips into the pool, finding the water to be icy. "Olaf tells me these… spirit wells… have healing properties. Do you think I might be cured the curse of my legs if I sprinkle this water over them?"

"I don't think God performs miracles for heathens."

Ivar chuckled at that. "And my gods have already set me on my fated path by giving me these legs. I suppose I am stuck with them then, no?" He turned to look over his shoulder, back toward the River Clyde. "In truth I don't think you much minded what we did to the Britons."

"You would be correct," the bishop agreed readily. "Christians move against one another just as often as the heathen Northmen moved against us. Perhaps more so," he admitted with a sardonic little smile.

"Does your god still want you to follow along my path, Heahmund?"

"I have prayed on the matter daily. Unfortunately, my time with you heathens is not yet done."

"Good," Ivar's smile was genuine. "I was hoping so, myself. My brother and I think we ought to pay a little visit to Frankia before returning to Norway. We've an uncle there. Perhaps you will find him more… civilized, than the rest of us."

Leaving Alba was no great sadness for Rúna. They parted amicably with King Olaf, the jubilant king kissing both Rúna and Ivar and Hvitserk on the cheeks in farewell. "Go forth and conquer, my young friends. I look forward to hearing tales of your success at the trade docks."

She did not even mind the long ride in saddle, mostly because they were no longer on a time constraint. The going back to York was unhurried, with more breaks to rest and stretch legs. The weather still held fair enough that the traveling camp slept under the stars. Autumn was just starting to take hold when they rode into York once more.

York, of course, was not home. But with Sigurd and Blaeja welcoming them at the gates, it felt decidedly closer than Alba had been. Rúna finally relaxed in the saddle at sight of them, thrilled to be somewhere at the least familiar.

Ivar could feel the heat of her bath rolling off her in waves as she sat down beside him on the bed, pressing a cup of wine into his hand. Her hair was still damp, cheeks flushed, eyes already going heavy-lidded. The picture of contentment as she tucked her legs beneath her and looked down at the game board between them.

I will give this to you, he thought. I will give you this peace, once Kattegat is in hand.

She took the first move of the game, the wooden piece clicking on the board as she moved it. Rúna loved the sailing, but the fighting and traveling and sleeping rough was beginning to wear on her.

Him as well, though he was loathe to admit it. Their respite in York was sorely needed. Even with his padded seat on the chariot, his legs were stiff and aching from travel.

"Why Frankia?" She asked softly while waiting for Ivar to take his turn. "Hvitserk told me."

Ivar smirked at that. The two of them were growing closer. Each were displaced to some degree by the loss of Ubbe and Helga. That was good; even if Hvitserk did grow to be resentful of Ivar, as he feared, he knew his brother well enough to know he would be hesitant to move against Rúna.

Not to mention Tanaruz. Both Hvitserk and Rúna treated the Moorish girl as a little pet. She was a good one, he had to admit. Rather blindly loyal to Rúna, though Ivar considered that the least of what Tanaruz owed her for having killed Helga.

"Hvitserk didn't think to explain it himself?" Ivar mused, taking his turn. Across the board, Rúna smirked at him.

"No, he said you could do that, considering it was your idea. Or so Hvitserk said."

He smirked in turn at her teasing, watching her fingers move nimbly over the pieces. She touched several, considering, before making a decision. "It is my idea. We have money in excess, now that we've felled the Rock. But half our forces are want to stay here in York with Sigurd. I cannot blame them, either. You saw the bounty of the late crops they planted. The farming is as good as Father always said."

"So, you want men from Frankia? And you think your uncle will give them?"

"Not freely, I have no doubt. But I do think Rollo will give them, yes."

"And Rollo is more trustworthy than King Harald, surely, given that he's your blood and not dreaming nightly of ruling all Norway?"

"You always have been so smart, my love." Ivar leaned over the board, careful not to topple the pieces, and tapped a finger to her forehead. Rúna giggled and batted his hand away

"There's sense enough in it," she agreed. "And as you said, we have the money to compensate him for the men. But… something tells me there is another reason you wish to go to Frankia, Budlungr. One that has nothing to do with the army or even our taking Kattegat."

"Oh, no," Ivar reassured her. He took his next move, toppling one of her own pieces as he did so. "It does have to do with our taking Kattegat. Particularly the line of succession."

"I think that reset with Lagertha's usurping, no?" Rúna furrowed her brow, studying the board. "And will reset again, before the year is out."

"It will," Ivar agreed readily, studying her. "But I would like to avoid being challenged by a man who is not even a son of Ragnar."

Rúna's head shot up at that, the surprise darkening to suspicion as she narrowed her eyes at him. "Ivar…"

He raised his eyebrows at her, knowing she took his meaning. He could all but see the thoughts behind her eyes. "You don't mean…?"

"I do."

"But Gyda…"

"Was my true sister, I do believe. And may the gods keep her well in her afterlife." Mere months separated Björn and Gyda in age. They both knew that from the stories they had heard from Floki as they themselves were growing up. Not to mention the jealousies between Rollo and Ragnar, their competition for Lagertha's hand. It made sense, in Ivar's reasoning, that if Björn were not truly Ragnar's son, that Lagertha would want to quickly fall pregnant with his true child.

Rúna frowned as she continued thinking. "It was prophesied that Queen Aslaug, specifically, would give King Ragnar many sons," she conceded. "I guess it is not a farfetched idea that the prophecy also meant Lagertha would never give King Ragnar sons."

They played quietly for a few turns, the revelation settling over the room somberly. "Do you think Rollo would answer you honestly if he believed Björn to be his son?"

"With Father gone from this world, I don't see why not."

"And you don't think Rollo wouldn't like for his son to be a king?"

"If I left you spurned for another, Rúna, would you want to see me succeed? Not everyone in the world is as pathetically stupid as Lagertha, no?"

Rúna smirked again, taking a risky move that sacrificed one of her own valuable pieces while taking out his second strongest. "Ivar, I know you're too smart the think anyone else would put up with half of what I have from you."

"True." He looked over the board. Rúna's sacrifice had demolished his defense, leaving him completely open and without any pieces strong enough to counter what was left of hers. Sighing, he flicked his remaining pieces one by one. They fell with soft clinks to the board. "Should I be giving daily sacrifice to the gods in continual thanks?"

"It would be a start." Rúna moved the board and its pieces the floor. She leaned forward, angling her face up invitingly. He obliged her, quickly succumbing to the heady combination of the wine on her lips, the warmth of her, the scent of rose water that clung to her.

"Well, hello," she giggled but didn't make a move to stop him when he slid a hand up beneath her shift, running it up the soft warmth of her inner thigh.

"I think Heahmund would consider this a type of worship," he told her, nudging her legs open.

"You're not supposed to worship falls idols," she reminded him, tugging at the lacing on his tunic. "I'm hardly a god."

"Well, anyway, we can no longer offend him nor Blaeja with this." His other hand slipped the shift from her shoulders, and she let it fall unhindered to pool around her hips. She had managed his tunic by then and was working on his pants. He withdrew his hand, tugging the shift down and freeing her own legs before lifting her by the hips.

Rúna settled herself so that she straddled him, the warmth of her thighs bracketing his hips as she took him within herself. There was a half-smile playing at her lips, her gray eyes gone dark and a little hazy as she peered down at him for a moment before kissing him, hard. He wrapped her in his arms as she moved over him.

Apparently, he was very much forgiven for Dumbarton Rock. Rúna had still been upset on their journey back to York. Ivar made a quick mental note that a bath and wine went a long way in improving her temperament before he lost himself entirely in the feel of her.

They tarried in York for about two weeks, sorting business and resting.

"You could do this yourself, you know," Rúna pointed out to Sigurd. She sat with him in one of his rooms, taking catalog of the items Vigrid and White Hair had laid out on a large table and double-checking them with the ledger she had written in Alba.

"But you wrote the ledger, dear sister," he retorted, strumming absent-mindedly at his oud. "Hvitserk told me you and Ivar agreed to a Christian handfasting. The two of you always have been codependent on one another."

"What of you?" She shot back, flicking a coin his direction. It glanced off his shoulder. "Quite the lost man with Blaeja stuck in her bed, I hear."

Sigurd grimaced at her. The Lord of York—for that's what the Saxon residents of the township had taken to calling him—was indeed prone to wandering about now that the harvest was done, and his wife was bedbound. Blaeja was terribly sick as the child grew, hardly able to keep anything down and prone to dizzy spells and fainting if she left her bed. That is, when he was sitting at her bedside, telling her the stories of their gods, and playing his oud for her.

"I feel guilty," Sigurd admitted. "She wouldn't be so sick if…" he let the sentence trail off, shrugging.

"If you hadn't gotten a child on her?" Rúna asked, giggling. "What did you tell me once, Sigurd? If you're grown enough to do the deed, you ought to be grown enough to speak it?"

He glared at her but wasn't able to hold it. A wide smile spread across his lips. "When we went to Tamdrup, yes. You'll be there again soon, so I hear."

"Ivar and Hvitserk are set on calling in a favor from King Harald. He is the closest ally we have to Kattegat, now that Hedeby sits abandoned with Lagertha having moved her earldom to Kattegat."

"And neither of them have considered that Harald may not want to ally with someone who intends to sit himself on the throne of Kattegat? The man who wants to fashion himself King of all Norway?"

Rúna shrugged. "Ivar's rather cocky, we all know that. Sometimes it rubs off on Hvitserk."

"You don't seem concerned either, though," Sigurd accused, narrowing his eyes at her.

"I told you before that your mother prophesized that Lagertha wouldn't reign long in Kattegat. Is it so far-fetched to put faith in Ivar being the one to take her down?"

"Perhaps not," Sigurd conceded. "Though you've always put more of your faith in Ivar than any sane person should."

Pausing in her cataloging, Rúna smiled brightly at Sigurd. "And he's yet to fail me, dear brother."

Two weeks in York was enough time not only to rest but for Rúna and Tanaruz to begin arguing. Surprisingly, the arguments had nothing to do with religion or Tanaruz's culture's strict view on women or Rúna's parents, none of the unsavory things that lay between them and certainly could justify bickering.

They argued about Rúna's courses, or lack thereof.

"One course is nothing, Tanaruz," Rúna snapped, braiding her hair with practiced ease. The boys were still reminiscing when she and Tanaruz had decided to retire to bed, Rúna electing to sleep in her sister's chamber as it was closer to Blaeja's. "I've missed courses before."

"When you were regularly coupling with your lover?" Tanaruz didn't consider the handfasting a binding marriage any more than Rúna did. Still, Rúna glared at Tanaruz while stooping to blow out a row of candles.

"I take the herbs. Every day."

"And I heard you tell Blaeja yourself that they are not infallible." Tanaruz took the pillows from the bed, plumping them between her hands and setting them down before turning down the covers for them to get into bed. Crawling in beside her sister, Rúna pulled the covers up to her chin, as if that might hide her from Tanaruz's accusation.

"I have only sixteen summers," she said softly, her voice gone small. It mattered not that she knew plenty of girls in Kattegat who had been married soon after their first courses, between twelve and fourteen years of life themselves. Those girls had their children young.

And Björn had been but seventeen himself when Siggy was born. Ivar was just about seventeen. Beside her Tanaruz had fallen almost silent. She could just barely make out the sound of the girl's whispered counting.

"You would have just about seventeen by the time—" Rúna flopped dramatically to her side, rolling herself in the blankets and pulling them tight around her.

"I can't be," she insisted, unable to make herself say the actual words. "Ivar will be angry to have his plans of avenging his mother and taking Kattegat ruined."

"You don't think he would be happy?" Taking a deep breath, Rúna sighed. Tears pricked at her eyes and blurred her vision. She attempted to blink them back but only succeeded in making them crest over and roll down her cheeks.

"I think the idea makes him happy. We've spoken of it before. But the timing of it... is not ideal. And... and I worry what would happen should... a child... of Ivar's be born crippled as he is."

But she knew what was like to happen because she knew Ivar. He could not—would not—subject another to the pain and hardships he had endured in his life. Not every man was crippled, but not every cripple was Ivar, either. There was no guarantee his successes and strength could be emulated.

There was a very long silence from Tanaruz at that. Was she thinking again what savages the Viking are? Whatever her thoughts were, Tanaruz kept them to herself. She reached across the expanse of bed between them and took hold of Rúna's hand.

Rúna sat on Blaeja's bed with her the next day, each of them sewing while birdsong filtered in from the open windows. Blaeja was wan, certainly, and a little thin for Rúna's liking. Yet her eyes were bright and her hair shining. The smallest of rounding of her stomach could be seen when Blaeja smoothed her shift tight over her belly.

"Sigurd says you've been frightfully sick." Blaeja waved a hand. She was smiling despite the brittle look of her cheeks.

"My mother was the same way. She used to tease all three of us that her figure was never better than during the early days of carrying us, when she herself was 'frightfully sick'. It will pass." Her tone was so sure that Rúna didn't even think to question it. She simply watched Blaeja toss her loose hair over her shoulder and settle back into her pillows. "And until then, I am waited on hand and foot."

"I would like that myself," Rúna admitted with a giggle. "I'm so tired of travel. I cannot tell you how glad I'll be to be settled in Kattegat again."

"You could all stay here?" Blaeja's brows rose toward her hairline, making Rúna laugh more. They both knew that wasn't an option. Ivar's taste for blood was hardly sated, not to mention that Hvitserk was just as on board. Blaeja laughed, too, shaking her head. "Tell Frankia 'hello' for me. I went, once, as a girl, you know."

"Do you remember what it was like?"

"Warm, and it smelled of roses. So much so that it was in my hair and clothing even when we set sail for home."

Rúna took this information and rolled it around in her mind a bit. "We are going to Ivar's uncle's… dukedom. Rollo is his name. I don't know that a city will smell of roses."

York certainly didn't. The reek of death had long been scrubbed from its stones, but the human and animal inhabitants of York certainly made themselves known. Even now, Rúna caught a musty hint of goat on the breeze coming in through the window.

"You'll have good wine, at least. My favorite was always the aged casks Father bought from Frankia."

Good wine and the hope of forces, that's what Rúna had to look forward to. Perhaps some roses. Another sharp pang of homesickness struck through her chest.

"Do you ever miss Northumbria?" Rúna asked abruptly, interrupting Blaeja's continuation of her love of Frankish wine. The other girl fell silent at the interjection. Dark blue eyes studied Rúna's face. She blinked back a sudden surge of tears. "I miss Kattegat. Terribly. I want to go home, but… not to the Kattegat now. To the Kattegat before."

Blaeja took her hand and gave Rúna's arm a tug, guiding her into the circle of her arms. Rúna sighed, inhaling the scent of rosewater from Blaeja's black hair, and set her head on a warm shoulder. A gentle hand smoothed over the crown of her own hair. She cried on Blaeja's shoulder, murmuring apologies for her sodden shift even as she was shushed. She cried until she was spent, and Blaeja let her, ultimately slumping a little against the other girl.

"You'll be a good mother," Rúna told her, withdrawing and wiping at her face. The smile she was given was radiant, lighting up Blaeja's pale face. She called for Morwen, instructing her to bring Rúna something warm to drink and a spread for the two of them to share. A little embarrassed, Rúna took up her needle and began sewing again.

They ate together and sewed, chatting back and forth through the afternoon. Rúna knew in her heart that she would miss Blaeja dearly for her whole life.

Goodbyes were harder this time because they were real. Rúna disappeared for the better half of that last day. Ivar woke alone, but with the certain knowledge that he knew where she was. It wasn't only Sigurd and Blaeja that she would want to wish farewell.

Indeed, he was right. Rúna had slipped out of bed before the dawn and dressed in Ivar's black, hooded shirt. It had been too big on her so that she had to roll the sleeves several times. She could hear the soft patter of light rain, though, and drew the hood up around her face before stepping outside. Ivar's earthy scent still clung to the shirt; it comforted her as she walked across York and through its gates.

There was a large tree not unlike the one Helga had been buried under standing sentry on the road to York. Rúna sat there, back against the trunk and knees drawn up to her chest, saying her quiet goodbyes to her mother.

To leave England for good was to leave Helga behind. "I already told you I would be queen, Helga," she said softly to her knees. "I am starting to think the price of Kattegat's crown is higher than I had guessed."

She swallowed, hard, thinking again of Dumbarton Rock. Her stomach still turned to think of the gaunt, starved faces staring up at her. It didn't matter how often Ivar reminded her that they were Christians, or that it was a necessary step on their path to taking Kattegat. Those faces plagued her dreams in the early mornings when she began waking from sleep.

Rúna sat with Helga's ghost for a while, telling her about their plans to sail to Frankia and align with Rollo. Helga had never much been a fan of the man, Rúna knew. She smiled weakly as she apologized for that. But the one thing Rúna really wanted her mother's council on died on her lips time and time again. She couldn't admit the possibility that Tanaruz might be right to herself, let alone to Helga.

Sighing, Rúna pushed herself up and faced the tree. Perhaps she would always feel that Helga resided in trees now. Rúna pressed a kiss to her fingertips and laid them gently on the rough bark before turning to return to York.

While Rúna struggled through her goodbyes to Helga, Ivar was doing the same with Sigurd. It was odd, and infuriating, this lump in his throat. When had he grown so sentimental for the brother he had spent the most time quarreling with?

Perhaps it is because I couldn't tell Ubbe goodbye.

Whatever it was that had him in the clutches of emotional turmoil, Ivar set his teeth against it and leaned more heavily on his crutch. He and Sigurd were alone in the room, four blue eyes staring hard into the other. Now that he could stand on his own feet, Ivar was surprised to find that he and Sigurd were of a height with one another.

"You know, when you were a baby, I used to think about throwing you in the river."

Ivar barked a laugh at that, caught off guard by Sigurd's casual admission. "You were hardly more than a baby yourself and already contemplating my murder? And you say I am the crazy one."

Sigurd laughed as well, crossing his arms over his chest. "You're fucking insane, Ivar. I still cannot puzzle out what it is that Rúna sees in you. No one but a madman would sit in your circumstances and manage to take an army for yourself from four other brothers, go on a jaunt tormenting Christians for fun, split half your bounty with the brother you hate, go off to Frankia to align yourself with an uncle you've never met, and then return to Norway to sack Kattegat from the most famous shieldmaiden of our people."

"Rúna's sole complaint with any of this is that we'll be sailing out of season. She told me if a ship goes down in storm, she will let me go with it." Sigurd shook his head, laughing again. It was easier to laugh with him now that Mother was gone.

"We both know she would swim to the bottom of the ocean to get your crippled ass."

They fell quiet, regarding each other again. Neither made any move to embrace. Eventually, Sigurd's gaze dropped down to his boots. "Take care of her, alright? You and Hvitserk both."

"And Tanaruz. Sometimes I think she would be like to smother me in my sleep if she got it into her head Rúna would benefit from it."

"She is rather… attached. I am still amazed Rúna allowed her to live."

"You and I both, brother." Ivar raised his free arm, gesturing. "And you take care of this, Sigurd. I don't think the gods would much like it if you wasted all they've given you."

The smile on Sigurd's lips was tinged with sadness. "Perhaps my spoiled little brother has grown up a little if you can admit the gods might favor someone other than yourself."

Ivar smiled in return. They still didn't embrace, but they met somewhere in the middle of the room and clasped hands for a moment. The squeeze they gave the other's hand was the closest they had ever come to affection for the other.

Rúna sat balanced on the edge of the ship, in the free space between a row of shields and the dragon's tail. Her own shield was among that line. It boasted the same runes as her armor, runes for protection in battle. The runes Helga had insisted she wore.

Now she was leaving Helga alone in the Saxon lands. Rúna thought she had made peace with her mother's death, but watching the shoreline shrink away from her ripped the wound in her chest open once more. The salty sea wind stung both that hole above her heart and her watering eyes.

She felt as if she sat a final vigil for Helga in watching York diminish in size. The renewed grief was so substantial that she had no room to spare for the less permanent loss of Sigurd and Blaeja. At least she may see them again, should she step foot on these Christian lands once more. But not Helga. Never Helga.

So consumed was she with her thoughts and efforts not to cry, not here in front of all these men she was meant to be commanding on this ship, that Rúna didn't hear Ivar come up behind her. By all means she should have. Walking was a massive achievement for Ivar, but he would never add stealth to that list. Not between his crutch and the dull clank of his metal braces.

Unless, it seemed, his target was as preoccupied as Rúna. She was unaware of his presence until he wrapped his free arm about her waist, pulling her slightly back to rest her back on his chest. "She would be proud of you," he said softly in her ear.

She nodded against his shoulder. Helga would be, she knew. Proud of her for filling Floki's space as shipmaster. For taking care of Tanaruz. For not losing herself in the grief and loss. Inhaling deeply, she pressed her hand over Ivar's where it rested on her stomach. Did he feel anything different? Surely not.

Though she hated to give thought to Tanaruz's accusations, she had counted backwards in her head. No; surely not. Her last course had been in the camp on the River Clyde. This was very new… if it was real at all. Only time would tell about that.

For now, she only leaned back against Ivar, taking comfort in his warmth as York disappeared on the horizon

A/N: 'Heyrmust' means 'I'll be seeing you' in Old Norse.