Chapter Forty-Four: Bloodshed
Despite the confidence shown to Tanaruz, Rúna called in a favor from Frode the blacksmith and had him craft for her an extra plate of armor to wear beneath her boiled leather chest plate. This secondary plate was made of the mail Frode had studied while in the Christian land. Thin but tightly woven, Rúna felt confident that the added protection would see her and the child through the battle.
If Frode had any concerns about her request for the mail, he did not voice it to her. Likewise, Rúna felt no need to bring the blacksmith into the fold of her secret. She could only hope he didn't feel the need to make comment to Ivar, either.
Burning the fishermen had brought the desired effect. Both King Harald and his people were duly incensed by the event. All in all, things were looking promising for Rúna and Ivar procuring the thrones of Kattegat.
"Heahmund." On the eve of the battle, it seemed necessary to Ivar to discuss what would be done with the Christian once the throne to Kattegat was secured. The bishop in question was easy to find. Not pleased with the fishy smell that pervaded Tamdrup, Heahmund had spent much of his time on the hills toward the north of the town. Upwind.
"Ivar." The brusque greeting left him smirking as he lowered himself beside the bishop. Heahmund continued to read the bible in his lap while Ivar caught his breath. For all the freedom his metal braces had afforded him, he was sadly still not without limitation.
"Tomorrow, we win back Kattegat." Ivar stabbed the point of his crutch into the ground. Tamdrup was largely a rocky place, but Heahmund's hill was as soft as the land had to offer. Once settled, he pulled his knife from his belt and weighed the handle in his palm. It was well balanced, one of Father's blades. Ivar tossed it, letting it flip through the air and catching it by the handle once more.
"So you say," Heahmund replied mildly. He closed his book gently and carefully set it aside. Ivar bit back a jab about the weakness of the other man's god as he watched.
"Does your god require that you stay with us longer than the battle?" At this question, Heahmund studied the horizon. Above them, the sky hung heavy with gray-white clouds, warning that the first snow of the season was nigh at hand.
"I do not think so. I have been pleased with Éire and Frankia; I suppose I should thank you for bringing me on your escapades there. These heathen lands, however… they do not sit well with my soul. Your gluttonous feasting is offensive, not to mention your barbaric customs, which I have borne witness to in the other lands, it is true, yet here it is more irksome."
"My gods are close here," Ivar told him, smirking once more. "Yours is not. I think it is safe to assume you would like to return to England?"
"The day cannot come soon enough that I am once more in my God's blessed land."
"Yes, well… if your god can see you through the battle tomorrow, Rúna has insisted—demanded, really, she is not one for begging—that you be given a ship with which to sail home immediately."
It was Heahmund's turn to smirk at that. "Your wife is quite the interesting woman." The bishop was one of few who considered Ivar and Rúna's handfasting to be legitimate; the other being Tanaruz.
"You have served us well and deserve to return to your people," Ivar told him. "Or so the interesting woman says."
When Ivar caught his knife this time, he turned it on the bishop. Never one to balk at a challenge, Heahmund studied Ivar with cool, blue eyes as the younger man set the blade under his chin, the point pressing precisely over the pulse in his throat. Ivar quirked an eyebrow and pressed infinitesimally harder, nicking Heahmund's skin, but the bishop continued to stare back blankly. Smiling, Ivar withdrew the blade and tucked it back into his belt. "If you do not fear me, you have little else to worry about on the battlefield. But should you see a hulking blonde-headed Viking? That is my brother Björn, and he is best avoided."
Heahmund chuckled, thumbing open his bible once more. "You are not a man of god, Ivar the Boneless, but I think you may still prove honorable despite a lack of faith."
"I lack nothing in faith," Ivar was quick to correct. "But I do put mine in beings more worthy than your god."
Rúna had long been asleep when Ivar finally gave up on his own dreams. He took one last look at her flushed cheeks—she had been hot at night, despite the turning season; he hoped desperately she wasn't going to be ill again—and carefully extricated himself from their bed. Crawling to the chair beside the hearth, he pulled his tunic on. His wrist braces rested in the chair with his shirt, but his old leather leg braces had to be retrieved from his trunk. It felt odd to put them on after so many weeks without them.
Once dressed, Ivar made his way out of the cabin he shared with Rúna and toward Hvitserk's own. When he reached the door, he sat up and swung his legs around by the braces. The old habit, like the braces, felt odd to do. Hvitserk opened the door at his knocking, bare chested and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"Thought it was you," he mumbled, voice thick. "What're you doing out of bed, Little Ivar?"
Despite having obviously woken for him, Hvitserk bent at the waist and hooked his arms around his little brother's chest. Ivar let himself be hauled up and inside the warmth of Hvitserk's cabin. He was deposited in a chair at the table.
"I could not sleep," he told his brother simply. It was dark in Hvitserk's cabin. Unlike Ivar, he had no need of sleeping with candles burning. Hvitserk stoked up the fire, providing them with both light and more warmth. "I wanted to talk to you about tomorrow."
"What of it?" Hvitserk's shoulders had tightened at Ivar's words. It was with slow, cautious movements that he took the seat across from his brother, raising his gaze to meet Ivar's square on.
"Lagertha must fall." Ivar knew Hvitserk expected him to speak of Ubbe, and they would, but this was the highest priority. "I would like the honor myself, but if I'm unable, I want it to be at your hand, brother."
"I do not disagree." Those rigid shoulders dropped a miniscule amount. "She waited twenty-some years to kill Mother. Neither of us-nor Rúna and Tanaruz-would be safe so long as she lives."
"Yes, exactly. I am glad we are in agreement. As for our brothers... I care not whether Björn survives tomorrow. Actually, I think I may prefer he would not. But Ubbe... I do not want to face him in battle myself. I don't intend to seek him out. I would not blame you if you choose the same."
In the firelight, Ivar watched Hvitserk frown, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. His eyes shined with restrained tears. Of the four brothers, Hvitserk had always been the most passionate. Ivar knew well that his brother threw himself fully into everything he did: swordplay, raiding, feasting, women.
Loving his brothers was no different. "I pray the gods do not always keep us at odds the way Father and Uncle Rollo were," Hvitserk confessed. "But I have also made my choice, Ivar. I've stood with you across four lands now. I will stand with you come the morning."
Reaching across the table, the brothers grasped forearms. Ivar hoped the relief didn't show too much on his face. That Hvitserk would change his mind had been one of his biggest fears of late. He was smart enough to know that all his careful planning meant nothing if he did not have Hvitserk and Rúna, the only two he could fully trust, on his side.
Ivar had to swallow the lump in his own throat before he could give any answer. "May the gods smile on you tomorrow, Hvitserk. I will ask them for your protection during the sacrifice in the morning."
"And I'll do the same for you, little brother. You had best get back to your bed before Rúna realizes you're gone."
"I doubt it," Ivar told him ruefully, though he pushed himself from the table all the same. "She's been sleeping like the dead as of late."
Indeed, Rúna was still very much slumbering when Ivar hoisted himself back into bed beside her. She rolled toward him, one hand reaching out from the furs. He let her pull him to her, fitting herself to his back.
".. were you?" Rúna mumbled into his shoulder, words slurred with sleep.
"With Hvitserk," he told her honestly, smiling as her hand round around his chest to rest over his heart.
"Mmm. Love you."
"I love you too, Rúna." He took her hand and pressed a kiss to it before tucking it back against his chest. He might have told her to go back to sleep, but there was no need. Rúna had already slipped entirely back into her dreams.
Come the morning of the battle, Rúna had no stomach for breaking her fast. She shook her head at skyr, at bread and butter, at hardboiled eggs and baked ham. Even the spiced wine and honey mead that was passed around the table held little appeal to her.
"Nervous?" Hvitserk teased her, working through his own hefty plate. Rúna merely wrinkled his nose at his enthusiasm. On her other side, Tanaruz tugged at her arm so that she would lean close.
"You need to eat, shaqiqa," the girl whispered quickly in her native tongue. "If not for yourself then for the baby."
Only then did Rúna manage to choke down a hunk of plain bread and a cup of mead. Before that morning she had been confident—cocky, even—about the outcome of the day. But one conversation with Astrid had quickly sent a chilly arrow of fear straight through Rúna's heart.
"It will be easy to slip the child in battle," Astrid had told her. The older woman had braided Rúna's hair for her at dawn, a simple plait down the back of her head that was looped back on itself. A ceremonial style; Viking women typically only wore their hair so for important blots and rituals. "And Harald can hardly blame me. He has already given me his blessing to fight."
It was Astrid's own confidence that frightened Rúna. While the Queen of Tamdrup meant to rid herself of her baby, Rúna was desperate to keep hers safe in her belly. She had layered her clothing that morning. A tunic, Frode's mail shirt he had made for her, another tunic, her boiled leather armor. Tucked beneath the first layer, close to her heart, was the sprig of mistletoe.
Cling to the gods and they will cling to you, she reminded herself. It became a mantra in her head after breakfast, when King Harald held a battle sacrifice of his strongest livestock. Cling to the gods and they will cling to you. Ivar dipped two fingers into the thick, dark blood and used it to draw a line from Rúna's hairline, over her left eye, and down her cheek to her chin.
"You will be safe," he reminded her, pressing a kiss to the side of her forehead not marked in sacrificial blood. "The gods are smiling on you, min dróttning."
Cling to the gods and they will cling to you. Breakfast had largely evaded her, but Rúna happily took her pull of the blood. Ivar's words were heartening to an extent, but fear still gripped her chest when Rúna readied herself with sword and shield. The forces were mounting up to ride to Kattegat, but it was Ivar's chariot that Rúna headed for.
"You do not want to ride?" Ivar questioned. I cannot sit a house that will gallop, Rúna thought to herself.
"I want to be with you," she said instead, earning herself a smile from Ivar. Fitting herself beside him, there was a moment when Rúna very nearly told him. The words began to form in her mouth but she clenched her teeth to keep them inside and swallowed hard against them.
"I cannot lose this child," she had told Tanaruz that morning, just after Astrid had revealed her intentions to lose her own. "Ivar will forgive me keeping it secret so long as there still is a child. But should I lose it? He will be beyond furious with me, Tanaruz."
"We shall seize our fame and fortune and fight such a battle that the world will tremble, and the winner shall inherit the earth." Ivar flicked the reins, sending his horse trotting. Rúna's stomach lurched at the sudden movement, and she swallowed hard once more. She didn't need to lose the bread she had choked down, either.
It was a promise as much as it was a threat, though Lagertha was absent from hearing it.
It was an open field, as promised, the warring forces facing off beneath a brittle, icy blue morning sky. Banners waved in the breeze, Lagertha's blue flags and Ivar's red and black spiral motif. Beside Ivar's spirals flew Rollo's quartered black and green field, embroidered with roses and bears on alternating squares. And in the middle waved a white flag of peace over the individuals gathered to treat before the battle.
Separated by only a few yards, Rúna looked into the faces of Lagertha, Björn, Ubbe, Halfdan, and Torvi in turn. If Harald was put out by his brother's betrayal, he hid it behind his tattoos and stony expression. On their side stood Ivar, Hvitserk, Harald, Rúna, Tanaruz, and Astrid.
"Good morning," Lagertha greeted them. Her voice had always had a musical quality to it; just then it reminded Rúna of a war drum. No one returned Lagertha's salutations. The shieldmaiden changed tactics, addressing Rúna directly. "Floki was here just three weeks past."
"Floki came to Kattegat?" Rúna asked before she could help herself. She flushed at the mere thought, her many layers of clothing and armor suddenly suffocating. Trying to be covert about it, she pulled at the neckline of her breast plate, letting in the barest breeze of autumn air. "Why?"
"To gather willing settlers for a new land he has found. He called it the land of the gods," Lagertha explained.
"My mother feared that Floki was in Kattegat at your bidding, to draw away her warriors before your attempt to steal her kingdom. But I reminded Mother that Floki would think what you are attempting to be idiocy, Rúna."
She flushed again, though this time with anger. Regarding Björn through narrowed eyes, she spat, "Do not tell me what my father would think, Björn Ironside. I would never be so bold as to do the same for you." Here, Rúna flicked her gaze up to the bear and roses sigil flapping above her head. "After all, I've only known him for such a short time."
The insult was slow to dawn on Björn though Ivar and Lagertha took the meaning immediately. Ivar laughed, loud and mocking, while color drained from Lagertha's face. As realization settled over Björn, his mouth twisted in that way that had always amused Rúna for it left him looking strikingly like a disgruntled bear.
"Ivar," he snapped. "You had better give a care to teaching your woman her place before she causes problems for herself and you."
"I know my place," Rúna told him before Ivar could get a word in. "Your mother's in it."
King Harald and Hvitserk joined in laughing at that quip, the three of them unabashed in their mirth. The older man was the first to sober, turning to face Halfdan.
"I don't want to fight you, Halfdan. But it's clear you have chosen to stand with Ironside."
"Björn saved my life," Halfdan told them. "I owe it to him to stand beside him through this madness."
"Astrid," Lagertha tried next, "it breaks my heart to think us enemies. We should set this aside, strike an accord, and join our forces. Sail for new lands as Floki has done."
"I am married to King Harald now," Astrid responded, her dark head held high with a haughty tilt to her chin. In that moment, she looked every bit a queen. "My place is beside him, wherever he should choose to stand."
"We shouldn't be fighting." Ubbe threw in. "This is not what our father, Ragnar Lothbrok, would have wanted." He put considerable emphasis on 'our father', sweeping his eyes over each of his brothers.
"Our father wanted what was best for the future of our people," Ivar argued. "And it's not a usurping coward who shoots true queens in the back."
"Rúna," Ubbe tried next. "You know our fathers would not want us fighting one another. I do not want to kill my little brothers in battle."
"Then don't," Rúna responded simply. "You are smart enough to know you're on the wrong side."
"I've sworn an oath to Lagertha."
"And you swore an oath to Father before that, Ubbe, or have you forgotten?"
"We have already avenged Father, Ivar," Björn snapped. "This is pride and folly you're after."
"The only pride and folly here is thinking you know better than the gods. We are not Christians; we do not fight our battles with words. This will be settled in blood."
With that, Ivar extended his hand to Rúna. He hadn't deigned it necessary to dismount his chariot for this war meeting. With a little jerk, he helped Rúna into the chariot while the others mounted their horses. She spared their adversaries a final look over her shoulder as they retreated back to their territory, her stomach churning at the raw rage on Lagertha's face.
"It's not too late," Tanaruz whispered, but Rúns shook her head. The opposing forces had drawn close on the field, the distance diminishing from a great rift to hardly more than a stone's throw.
"It is," Rúna countered. "Fate is upon us, Tanaruz."
She had her four layers of clothing and armor, her sword, her shield, the thin leather boots Floki had made for her so long ago that allowed her to be light and quick on her feet. She had Tanaruz on one side, Hvitserk on the other, Ivar in his chariot and Bishop Heahmund on his war horse. It was enough.
It had to be enough. King Harald was blowing his war horn.
Rúna gave herself to the instinct of battle. Sidestep that stroke, lift the shield to block this blow. Cut down the person in front of you without pausing to look at their face. That was the easiest way. Most of the people she moved against were strangers. Former Hedeby residents and a few men dressed in heavier clothing than she was used to seeing, with unfamiliar embroidery. The Sami people from farther North, a distant part of her brain noted.
But try as she might to detach herself from this battle, Rúna couldn't avoid the faces she knew. Guthrum fell at Hvitserk's blade; Torvi and Astrid faced off in a vicious one-on-one; someone unseated Bishop Heahmund from his horse. There were more people here than when they battled the Christians, and these opponents were versed in Viking combat.
She lost sight of Tanaruz somewhere in the fray.
"Rúna!"
The last person she expected—or wanted—to face that day was Lagertha. Yet the blonde shieldmaiden was a mere yard from her, swinging her sword in punctuation of Rúna's name. Rúna lifted her own sword to block the blow, metal clanging against metal, the power of the assault reverberating in her arms and shoulders. "You shouldn't be here!"
"If you bring up my father again, so help me gods…" Rúna hadn't the time to finish that thought, the need to move out of Lagertha's striking range more pressing. As she did so, her foot slid in the blood-soaked mud beneath them. She dug her heel in to keep her balance just in time to get her shield in place to block Lagertha's next attempt.
"Because you're with child," the shieldmaiden hissed instead. "You've fooled Ivar, but I can see it in your face."
"You fought," Rúna bit out between the clangs of their colliding swords, "in the… same… condition!"
"And I lost my child for it!" The last time she had sparred with Lagertha, she had been younger, having never experienced true fighting. That had changed in Rúna's time overseas. They were well-matched, now, in size, strength, and ability. Neither were able to land the blows being parried back and forth, each one blocked and returned in a flurry of swordplay. "As has Astrid!"
"You hurt her?!" The shock was more jolting than blocked sword strokes. Rúna had known of Astrid's plans for the day, yet she hadn't guessed her newfound ally would take it this far.
"She asked that I free her of her fate," Lagertha hedged. Another wave of shock washed over Rúna, anger roiling fast on its heels.
"You killed her!" It was hardly an accusation; if Rúna's pregnancy was clear on her face, the guilt was blinding on Lagertha's. Suddenly it was clear: Lagertha meant her no harm. That was why none of her blows had landed on Rúna's body. No; the older woman was here to coax Rúna into dealing her damage.
She refused.
Swinging her sword low, she knocked Lagertha off her feet with the broadside of the blade. There was fighting all around them, of course, but the cacophony of it barely registered to Rúna over the blood roaring in her ears. "I will not be the one to send you to Valhalla. I hope you never go. It's not Astrid you're thinking of. It never is. I hope you never see King Ragnar again."
Turning her back, Rúna quickly understood Lagertha's eagerness to be done with Midgard. The fighting was petering out around them, and it was obvious the battle was settling in Ivar's favor. Between this fact, and the fact that Rúna felt no pain in her middle, no slick blood between her legs, it was easy to forget the prowess of the shieldmaiden at her back.
It was surely the combined forces of her layered clothing and armor that blunted the savage blow of Lagertha's sword and kept Rúna from being cleaved through. The pain was still immense enough to rip a startled cry from her lips and send her crumpling to her knees. She felt the skin between her shoulder blades rip and open, that hot blood she had so feared on this day running in tiny rivers down her back.
Everything happened very quickly after that. A strong hand—Hvitserk's—hooked under her arm and brought her back to her feet just in time to move her out of the way of Ivar's chariot. In his tunnel-visioned rage, Ivar didn't give a care to the people in his way. The dead and dying were trampled by Ivar's horse and wheels alike, the sound of crunching bones and rattling, dying breaths immediately burning themselves into Rúna's mind.
Lagertha certainly could have moved, had she wanted to. Despite his strength and the mobility his metal braces gave him, Ivar still had his limitations. Even with all but launching himself from the chariot, it still took Ivar a few moments to shuffle to Lagertha, to mercilessly pin her in place by piercing the shieldmaiden through the arm with the spiked end of his crutch.
"Stop!" Rúna shouted even as Tanaruz appeared next to her, small hands fluttering around her and trying to take stock of Rúna's injuries. "Ivar, don't kill her!"
There was a black fury in Ivar's voice when he shouted back, "She dared strike you! Do not be so foolish to think this usurping bitch didn't mean you death, Rúna."
Despite the burning, throbbing pain in her back, Rúna pushed away from Hvitserk and Tanaruz. With arms wrapped around her middle, as if holding her front could fix her back, she forced herself forward so she could whisper to Ivar.
"She wants Valhalla," Rúna hissed into his ear. "Do not give it to her. Kill her if you want, but not here."
Ivar turned to her with eyes bright and filled with anger and hate. A shiver racked through her, making her grit her teeth against the new jolt of pain from her back. It was a look she knew well, one that he had directed at taunting children and pitying adults alike all through their childhood. Though his face was contorted in fury, Ivar pulled the spike from Lagertha's arm with a sick, wet sound. Rúna held her breath, certain that spike was about to go through Lagertha's throat next.
She was mistaken.
"If you wish to die so badly, do it yourself. White Hair," Rúna had not realized the húskarl had also been drawn in by the scene, "take the usurper hostage. Perhaps her cowardly son will come back for her."
White Hair's hulking frame bent to retrieve Lagertha from the ground. She didn't pose a fight. Truly, it seemed it had all gone out of her. The shieldmaiden was limp in the húskarl's arms. Breathing, but hardly alive. Rúna straightened as much as her back would allow, looking out over the dead and dying littering the field.
There was Astrid, her blue painted face turned skyward. Lagertha had pierced her lover through the stomach; a wide, dark stain of blood was obvious even across the field. Bishop Heahmund lay face down, recognizable only by his hair, his back littered with arrows. Several feet behind them lay Guthrum, crumpled around the death blow that Hvitserk had dealt him.
"Where is Vigrid?" Rúna asked, shivering again. The morning had been cold even without the loss of blood from the wound Lagertha had left her with. "Astrid should be collected for King Harald. And Bishop Heahmund, we will bury him in the Christian way. Up the mountain, beside the priest Athelstan."
"It will be done," Ivar promised her. "We are going home, min dróttning."
There would be feasting that night, but Rúna had no stomach for it. Already, she could hear the joyous shouts and many toasts being made in the dining area of the great hall. Hvitserk's voice drifted to her where she sat in the grand bedroom that had once belonged to King Ragnar and Queen Aslaug.
"… all Ivar's planning and imagination, finally putting that head of his to use…"
Stradling a chair backward, Rúna rested her head along the back while Ivar began tending to the wound Lagertha had dealt her. Taking a page out of Blaeja's healing knowledge, Rúna had insisted it be rinsed with boiled wine before a paste of healing herbs be applied.
She had also insisted that Ivar be the sole provider of this care, turning away the healers who came forward to aid the young woman who was to be crowned the new Queen of Kattegat.
"I was like to never get all your clothing off," Ivar teased her, gently pouring the cooled wine down her back. Rúna sucked in her breath at the way the cut burned anew. It was a long rake of a cut, though not nearly so deep as either she or Ivar feared. "Where did you get that mail shirt you were wearing?"
"Asked Frode for it," she managed through her gritted teeth. Though weakened by the day, there still had been no pain nor cramping in her middle, no blood seeping between her legs. She sat shirtless before Ivar while he worked but though Lagertha's experienced eye had seen through her hiding of her condition, Ivar still had not. "Thought I might need it."
"I am glad for it." His fingers were gentle in their probing, poking at the cut with one hand while another brought a lit candle closer. "Didn't trust fate as much as you said, no?"
Rúna laughed at that, her humor short-lived as it sent another jolt of pain down her spine. "I trusted my fate just fine," she retorted. "It was the fate of another I was seeing to."
The hand at her back stilled just as the air in the room seemed to do the same. "Rúna…" Ivar's voice had gone thick. She knew that if she gave him the barest clue, he would work it out for himself. Rúna smirked to herself, peeking at him over her shoulder.
"I am not the only one who survived the day, Budlungr." She watched his face draw tight, eyebrows nearly colliding together. His eyes had gone dark and his throat bobbed as he swallowed, mouth opening and shutting several times with no new words making it forth.
Then he took her by the arm, rotating her in her seat, and tugging her forward before kissing her roughly on the mouth. The passion of the kiss soon morphed into something edging toward reverence, his mouth lighting on her cheeks and forehead as Rúna giggled. "Rúna, you are an idiot."
"You haven't called me that since we were children, Budlungr," Rúna managed between her laughter. Ever careful of the wound between her shoulders, Ivar gently took her into his arms.
"So stupid," he told her again, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Why would you do that? Why did you fight today, knowing?"
"The Seer told me to cling to the gods, remember? I knew we had their protection. All of us, all three."
"When?" Ivar asked, pulling back just enough to take her face between his hands.
"Late spring, early summer. It is hard to know these things for certain, but that is the time that Tanaruz and I figured."
"That little sneak you call sister knew before me?" There was no ire in his words. Instead, he was laughing, overcome with the combined success of the day and the news of impending fatherhood.
"She knew before I knew!"
When Ivar could stand the thought of releasing her, he finished tending to her wound and bandaged it tightly. Rúna managed to dress in one of her silk dresses with Ivar's help. They entered the feast together to raucous shouts from their warriors and the gathered people of Kattegat alike. Each of them were smiling widely as Ivar led Rúna forward, settling her into the throne that had once been his mother's.
"Tonight, we feast!" Ivar yelled into the crowd, shouts of agreement meeting his words. Hvitserk and Tanaruz were easy to spot in the crowd, sitting just to the side of the dais. The former slammed his ale horn down repeatedly on the table, face bright as he looked up at his little brother. "Tomorrow, I intend to be a married man. Rúna Flokisdottir will be your new queen."
He continued on once the crowd quieted, smiling all the while. "We will pay homage to the gods and reward King Harald and my uncle Rollo for their aid. We hold the usurper hostage! And, as I have just been informed, Kattegat will have a new heir by the summer!"
The smile on Rúna's face threatened to split her cheeks. Her chest was aglow with pride and happiness, amusement and relief. She was so happy that she could almost forget that there was still Lagertha to contend with.
Almost.
I combined Season 5, Episode 8 "The Joke" and Season 5, Episode 10 "Moments of Vision" for this new version of The Battle of Kattegat. If I'm honest, I'm not much interested in the familial conflict that dominated the later half of Vikings. Not to spoil my own plans, but I always thought that the potential in the relationship between Ivar and Alfred was wasted in the show. Don't worry; I'll still be dealing with Lagertha, Björn, and Ubbe. It just won't be the main focus as it was in the show.
And, of course, I've said before that I want to incorporate more of the real Ivar the Boneless' saga into this story.
I took the symbolism of Rúna's battle hair from Silvousplaits on YouTube. I use a lot of her videos for reference when describing hair!