rebjorn;;

                   ‘ Do you really think Ragnar Lothbrok will help you out ?                     You will get naught but a WAR and blood on your hands. ’ 

             She does not mean to demolish his hopes, to make him believe that               there is no way for him to help his mother, but god she KNOWS              what her father is like —- how easily he spreads violaceous bruises              across a gentle skin and how joyously he inspires ғᴇᴀʀ in the heart              of those who strive for independence; Björn was not an ARMY but a              single man who wished for revenge, for his mother’s safety and no              matter how brave it was, this would lead only to a massacre. 

‘ I did not mean that, Hildr. It is not your fault—but I must stop him… do you not see? He insults her—and she left my father for less! ’ But this is not of Ragnar Lothbrok-- though whispers have cooed and kissed against his ear, he does not fight to prove himself in eyes of his father, but to soothe cracking skin that reaps in welts from his mother.

‘ Ragnar will help if I ask—if my mother asks. I am still his son. ’ If there was but one reason that could tug at each shoulder and ram both stubborn parents into one, it was him, and it is a hope he clutches at, with nails that crack and splinter beneath tensing fingers.

                 It is in hope that he speaks—that he grips at from between her teeth; she is as calculating as he is strong---- there is the heart of a WARRIOR beating and clenching in her chest, and he feels it when it pulses and works etchings against sturdy palms.

        a brow cocks, yet the inquiry is — perhaps, unusually — an         innocuous enough one ; sprung less from tacit challenging,         from the prowling snap of a wolf only just, finally, learning to         throw off its chains, and rather more from a far simpler lack         of comprehension. why would he hover by her, of all people         ( if you want to hit me, go on, hit me ), when he could be         partaking in the festivities, mead and women and bawdy         tales exchanged, alongside the others?

                today was one of the rare days where princess aslaug             dismissed erena and allowed her to spend her time the             way she wanted. who would have thought that she, herself             a princess, would be taking orders from someone else.             however, here the petite brunette saxon women stands -              with a stick in her hand that she’s sharpened with a slanted             rock. all she knows to do is what she’s witnessed some of              the northmen doing with their ax’s. it’s not very good, laughable              almost but why not try to make the best of her situation?             a sudden noise spooks the woman, sending her             sharpened weapon in the face of someone is certainly             shouldn’t have.

                     ‘ Be careful where you stick that--! ’ And there is a cuss that trickles in the gauge of blood dribbling from his nose, sanguine and ripe but nonetheless calloused-- the back of one deft palm is lifted, smudged with russet and lapping across his lower lip.

                                    Fingers slip from bowstring as murky eyes watch it                      hit it’s mark. A  proud  smirk upon  jawline of the huntress. Still  a slave                      bound by shackles. But, this time, it was by choice and to dear friends                      did she stick around. More freedoms  under  the  widow  of  her owner.                      It was what brought her to the yard  to let  loose arrows and just breath.

                    lungs dragged labored breath in desperately, && feet sought                     a firm stance after nearly leaving the earth.  it was true,  what                     they said. ’ no blade could touch him. ’  or so it seemed.  but                     her freedom had brought with it an heir PRIDE, perhaps more                     than was befitting of a young  w a r r i o r  such as she. but if                      anyone would I N D U L G E her, it was bjorn. 

                                                                besides,   she  would  not                                                                 ALLOW   him  to  see  her                                                                 s    t    r    u    g    g    l    e.

                               ❝  is that the best you can do? COME                                     AGAIN,  if you are willing to  r i s k  it.   ❞ 

                    ‘ Thorunn-- please. I do not want to hurt you, ’ yet axe is raised, with shield that butts and slams iron-plated wood against her own, and it is swung with vigour as his warrior’s heart will impose. He should know better than to treat the woman he cares for with such unwarranted fragility, yet there is muscle behind each strike, the thud of axe bite into shield that coughed and spluttered oak chips, and it was her wish--

                “I am acting like your father. My son would be years younger than you. Do you think I’d allow it?”

                       ( besides—what is it like to die? Will there be pain or celebration?                                                 He is curious. He’ll battle to know. )

    Perhaps it is CONCERN that lies, hidden, between serene clatters of syllabes     — but wouldn’t it be understood as a sign of love towards her father ? No, she     does not care about the embodiment of devastation he represents; yet, Lagertha     and Björn had been trappedin a battle that should have never been theirs,     for this she could feel the slighest of compassion — for this, she could bring     help to WITHDRAW callous hands so tightly bound around the shieldmaiden’s     heart and strength. But where would it lead them ?

                            ‘ Perhaps you should talk to your mother, Björn. ’

                       ‘ If she does not fight back, there must be a REASON                          she  has not  told  you. Or  perhaps she is preparing                                                           something. ’

       She hoped so, because there was a limit to the damages which could be        done to someone, no matter how strong, certain and prepared, a breaking         point still existed ——bones could not writhe without shattering, skin could        not encounter ceaseless blows without CRACKING.

                 ‘ Was he always like this? With—with your mother? Or does he punish my mother for marrying Ragnar Lothbrok? ’ Benign enough, the question sits behind insipid teeth—for he has paled and struck himself with this blight that crawled and grew into the shape of Sigvard—he was no father, not to Hildr, not to himself, and though Björn’s hate was borne from wretched treatment, hers should be innate.

The boy was charmingly ignorant.