#lagertha

It’s been three whole moons away from England. Away from the cruelty you knew, but that cruelty was yours. It was home.

Kattegat wasn’t too dissimilar to England but it wasn’t the same.

You trudged through the thick mud of the central market. People didn’t stare at you and you reveled in the anonymity. The thin cotton you always wore around your eyes shielding your oddities was nothing to the people of Kattegat and you had grown to love it during the few days you’d spent here.

Lagethera had brought you along wanting to show you the ways of her culture. After being sold to her she declared you free yet you refused,you would not settle to a life here. You wished to serve her in hopes you could make enough money to flee home.

Slave to handmaiden.

Handmaiden to home.

You refused to learn to fight, to speak her tongue comfortably, to like the viking life. The foolish hope of home held strong within you. And yet you knew you’d never return to England you’d seen what they’d done to the village of those who’d ostracised and belittled you. Luckily your family was away selling the spoils of their labour at market.

They would’ve come back to an empty village stinking of death. The thought makes your heart clench and your steps falter.

Lagertha had playfully commanded you go out and see Kattegat, to see her ex-husbands lands. And to bring her seawater, its purpose left you clueless but you obeyed.

The heathens were strange people after all.

And yet your own had forced you to learn to squint through your blindfold to see shapes and sounds.

To live life veiled.

———

Lagertha was repulsed by the idea. The Christian rigidity that had left you believing in the need to hide your eyes.

She watched you from afar, leant against the entrance of the great hall. You were a sweet girl yet you could be so much more.

And she would see to it.

Ragnar follows her gaze, “what is so special about this slave anyways?”

Lagertha’s head whips towards him, “she is no slave Ragnar, she is blessed by the Gods”

Ragnar’s laugh almost shakes the great hall itself, he walks off still chuckling.

———

Later as the moon begins its race to the crest of the sky you braid Lagertha’s hair. The bucket of seawater stuck out in the corner.

“Why did you ask for the seawater?” You break the gentle silence and she turns smiling at you softly.

“Bring it here” she gestures towards it a sly smirk emerging upon her face.

Standing in front of her seawater at hand she starts to command you.

“Smell it”

“Taste it”

“Feel it”

You end up giggling at the foolish tasks until she asks.

“What is the difference between this seawater and England’s?”

The smile drops from your face and you set the bucket down and return to your tasks bring her dress to ready her for the great feast.

“My sweet girl this is your fate do not run from it, you will come to love Kattegat as much as England as there isn’t much difference”.

“To you, there isn’t much difference to you, my lady” the words bite bitterly at her.

She sighs and you step back from her outstretched arms. You didn’t understand her fondness of you.

“We must go to the hall” you turn on your heel and march into the frosty air, she follows carefully.

———

You pause outside, the noise reminding you of the nights spent around a fire at home.

Perfumed with smoke and stories of old.

You shake the thought away and wait for Lagertha. She come to you a hand on your shoulder and squeezes gently.

“You ready?”, you nod and clench you fists at your sides as she pushes the door open.

Truth is you’d never be ready for a feasting hall full of vikings.

“Mother!” A thundering voice cuts through the rowdy masses.

Bjorn comes thumping over sweeping Lagertha into a crushing hug. Once their greetings are finished he turns to you inquisitively

“And who is this little birdy mother” you manage to grasp from your basic understanding of their tounge.

He reaches to peek under your eye covering and instinctively you slap his hand away. Your breath catches as you wait to be struck to the ground.

Instead a sharp laugh cuts at your action you turn to see someone with eyes almost as striking as yours. He regards you a cruel smile and glaringly sharp beauty confronts you. You hold back a gasp and turn from his gaze. Bjorn is also bellowing out a laugh.

“I am sorry bird, ignore Ivar” he plants a kiss on his mother’s cheek and is gone into the crowd of hedonism.

It was going to be a long night.

———

Refusing to sit by Lagertha’s side you stood ignoring the curious looks from Aslaug.

You couldn’t stop thinking about Ivar. It was so strange, he didn’t seem to mock you.

“Hello birdy” a gruff tease voice floats out behind you.

You whip round to see a man that looks exactly like an older Bjorn, Ragnar you conclude.

“Why do you stand here all alone, hmm? Lagertha tells me you are a free woman, here free woman can do as they please you should try it!” He chuckles and it takes you aback, he doesn’t know you yet he treats you like he has for years.

You don’t speak and turn to watch the crowds further, eyes searching for Ivar.

He’s looking right back at you, with a gasp you turn away.

“You know, I had a friend like you once” Ragnar whispers, voice taught with emotion. The pain in his voice pulls you from thoughts of Ivar.

At that you turn and take him in. Towering next to you he looks deep in grief. Eyes watery and gone to distant memories, you recognise it all too well.

“I’m sorry for your loss” you murmur, their language is crude and harsh on your tounge.

Your voice pulls him back, he grabs your shoulder and thanks you with a smile.

And once again you’re alone amongst heathens.

———

“Girl! Come serve me wine” a voice throws its self against you cutting through the bustle of the hall.

Ivar.

“Ivar do not command her like that!” Lagertha bites at him.

You frown at her remark and make your way over.

Aslaug is watching you as though you are a mirage, you ignore her stares and focus on the task at hand.

“She is no servant, please sit down” Lagertha implores you and you ignore her, Ragnar watches on curiously.

Fingers clasping over the mead jug you come closer towards Ivar ignoring the way he drinks you in.

“Surely she’s just a servant” a pretty blonde remarks from a group of boys, the rest of Ragnar’s sons you presume.

“You will watch your tongue upon my mother’s friend Margrethe” Bjorn booms at her, seemingly tired of her presence.

Lagertha frown and you lean to pour Ivar more mead.

“Thank you” he grins up at you, ignoring him you turn to be met by Margrethe.

“Why do you wear that silly cloth on your face?” She giggles and takes you in.

Everyone watches with bated breath.

Someone cuts out her name as another warning.

Attempting to step past her you don’t make it far.

“Here let me help you slave”

Her nails scrape against your skin, harsh in its endeavour.

The room brightens and grows in life as you see it more clearly.

An outraged roar emerges as Margrethe is chastised greatly. Everyone turns to look and the same whispers you’ve heard your whole life break out.

“Blessed Freya” sounded in a wave of murmurs.

The seer shuffles over parting the crowd and you retreat slowly. His interest peaked at such an odd display.

“My child you are kissed by the Gods, you shall see to their vision” his words curl through the fog of fear.

Embarrassed you flee the hall into the icy night and collapse in a heap by the fjord.

Finally you have peace.

They hadn’t cast curses or spat at your feet. They were almost reverent in their discovery of you. Perhaps they truly believe you were someone sent or blessed by their heathen Gods.

A repetitive click and shuffle sounds behind you and you whip around to see Ivar approaching. Embarrassed you turn back to look at the still waters, struggling to think upon his intentions. He groans as he lowers himself aside you.

“You know you didn’t have to run off so quick birdy” he chuckles cruelly

“You would do well not to mock me” you bite back and he simply laughs in your face.

“Maybe you really are sent by the Gods, no other woman in the whole of Kattegat would speak to me this way” he seems to grow serious and take you in.

Fixated on your eyes he stares into them, “They really are beautiful you should not cover them anymore, I command it so”.

“You command it so!” You can’t help exclaim incredulous. Dragged from home and commanded by the bratty son of a king.

“Yes I command it so!” He giggles and watches your perplexed face. You resort back to silence and the pair of you just sit there until he coaxes you to talk of England.

So you do.

You tell him of its fields and wildflowers. How the moon feels different and the sun is sweeter. How the grass will always be greener to you and the songs louder.

And for once he just listens and he knows you were meant for him. Every laugh and lilt makes his heart climb. Without telling you he makes a prayer to the Gods commanding you be by his side every day till death do you part. That you may tell him what you please and speak how no woman ever had to him.

And for the first time you’d found something wholly dissimilar to England and you wouldn’t compare it for all the homesickness in your heart. You could not have found Ivar in England. You would never have found the appreciation of your beauty there.

With the intermission of his laugh at your tales, you thank his Gods and yours for kissing your eyes.

———

Rollo

A loud protester

He insists he can take care of it himself, flinching away when you lift his shirt and gasp at the wound, telling him off

You leave him be, not wanting to push him, but only wander over when he's muttering and hesitating when putting the disinfectant on

"Just let me... please, Rollo. I can help."

He huffs and hands you the pouch

His hands fly to your waist to grip you when you tend to a gash on his shoulder, his head tucked to your chest as he hisses in pain

He eventually relaxes in your touch, feeling his eyes droop in exhaustion until you tap his head to get his attention

He mutters a thanks as he parts from you, but you notice he does not wander far from you that night

Floki

He is all for letting you tend to him

He actually thinks it's worth getting hurt to get the attention from you

Every sting comes with dramatics: a heavy groan or a small curse to the gods

You soothe him with a soft hand in his hair or a comforting whisper, telling him you're nearly done

His hand rests on yours while you're working, squeezing slightly when it begins to hurt, but immediately apologising each time

He trusts you completely, and knows that he can always come to you when injured and knows that he will get treated right

Once you're done, he curls up to your side, smothering you in affection for the rest of the night as a way of saying 'thank you'

Smitten he is

Lagertha

Her pride is quite high, and so she is hard to convince to let you tend to her

She swats your hand away at first, insisting that she will be okay and knows how to handle it herself

But when the bruises begin to throb too much, she crawls back to you sheepishly, asking if you'd check on them for her

She lets you press poultice to her wounds and massage her sore shoulders, never exactly saying thank you but leaning into your touch and not turning away

She does enjoy having your attention in the bath, though, and having you run your hands through her blonde hair to remove the blood seeping through

Later, she does not flinch when you return to check on her wounds, but only gives a half smile and a gentle rub on your arm to assure you that she's okay

Athelstan

He is quiet and cooperative during it

He lets you tend to every scratch and scrape, always trusting you to know what you're doing

And he simply does not have the skill to take care of them himself, so he appreciates the help

He winces from your touches but never complains

His hand finds your wrist at times when it hurts particularly bad, but you kiss his forehead and apologise as he nods in acknowledgement

When finished, he leans back and thanks you greatly

But his blush remains, especially when you pull him to bed to get him to rest beside you

Bjorn

You sit beside him, cleaning along the cuts on his forearms, which hold a heavy stench of metallic blood

You try your best to be careful over the worst wounds, but he does not flinch as you wipe over them

He gives you attitude at times, especially when you lecture him about returning so battered

"I fought, didn't I? If I had come back unhurt, then it wouldn't have been worth it."

He likes to be difficult sometimes, telling you it doesn't hurt at all, even though he's biting his lip as you pour disinfectant on

But you only smirk and pretend not to notice, worried that if you call it out, he would not let you tend to him like this

Ubbe

His ribs are bruised and ache from a heavy blow

You have to remind him to keep still as you hold a cloth to the wound; he likes to flinch away

He tries to distract himself from the pain by teasing you, but that facade quickly fades when you only press harder, shutting him up

You ask him to lie down and insist he rests his head in your lap while you apply treatments to the scratch

He stares up at you with a stupid grin on his face, making you smack him slightly on the head

"Ubbe, I'm trying to concentrate." "Please... don't mind me."

His hands find you mid-task, running along your neck and face, fingers twirling your hair

Once he's all cleaned, he remains in your lap, laughing at how reliant he becomes around you

Hvitserk

Bro cannot sit still at ALL

He is still twitching from adrenaline, muttering to himself, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in his leg

You have to physically grab him and force him to sit and relax as you roll up his trouser leg to see his bloody wound

You whisper nonsense to him as you work, trying to distract his mind and calm him

He flinches occasionally, but eventually lies back, allowing you to finish your work without much complaint

When you stand, having been finished, he pulls you on top of him quickly

And you protest, telling him to be careful of his leg, but he only ignores you and presses his face into your neck, muttering thank yous

Sigurd

Stubborn as ever

He hides his worst injuries from you at first, insisting that he is fine and did not get injured too badly

But once he undresses later and you see the carnage, you only sigh, trying not to make a big scene and instead walk over slowly with some treatments

He mutters under his breath as you start, but does not pull away, accepting that he does need the help after all

He gradually closes his eyes and relaxes into your touch, letting sleep take him over slightly from your soft touches

When you're done, you find that he's been lulled to sleep, leaning against you

Ivar

Of course, he insists he's fine

But each flinch as you press the cloth to the cuts on his arms only proves him wrong

You ignore his grumbling and avoid his glaring gaze when you press particularly hard on a scratch

"I'm doing this to help you, Ivar. Quit being a brat."

You swore you could hear a hint of gratitude in his heavy sighs, but even that might have been a stretch

When you press a cold, wet towel to his forehead, you catch him leaning into the touch

An acknowledgement of trust that he'll never voice

Afterwards, he sits silently, but each time you move, he glances over, asking where you are going