Hall of Flames | 𝐕𝐈𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒

12

[ 4 x 13 ]

Two Journeys

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Tyra walked alongside her father who carried Ivar over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Situations were running through her head, no matter what it didn't end well. They were in enemy territory with nothing but the clothes on their backs and anything they carried. The morning had been such a rush that she hadn't even thought to grab anything, she wanted to kick herself now.

She was the only one armed and not in the best shape currently considered half her body was black and blue from the ship wreck.

"How do we know that we're going in the right direction, Father?" Ivar asked upside down. When their father had first picked him up as it was faster, Tyra went into a fit of laughter simply from the look on her little brothers face.

"All roads lead to the throne."

Ivar laughed, "Sounds good, but it's probably wrong."

They walked for a little longer and Ragnar panted out of breath. Tyra cocked an eyebrow, "If he's getting heavy I can carry him for you, Father."

Ragnar barely glanced at her, "I'm fine."

"Okay, just offering. Some people say that they tire more easily as they get older, but no, not my father." Sarcasm dripped from her tone as she spun her sword in her hand, focusing on something other than the dull throb of pain.

A sound caught her attention and Tyra didn't waste a moment before tackling her father into the bushes, taking Ivar down with them. They both grunted at the unexpected impact and moved to sit up but the blonde covered their mouths with her hands and gave them a stern look to be quiet.

Saxon soldiers rode past on the rode fully armed. The horsed neighed at they continued to trot and the girl stayed impossibly still, fearful that one movement would alert them to their presence.

Relieved sighs fell from their mouths and Tyra fell down from her crouched position to lay on the dirt facing the sky. All this stress wasn't good for her, surely one day her heart would beat so hard it just burst from her chest. In this moment, she wondered what her brothers and mother might be doing. Was her mother sat around the fire with her servants? Had Hvitserk and Björn reached the Mediterranean yet? Were Sigurd and Ubbe fighting over the slave girl? In her small moment of rest the traumatic past days caught up with her and a frown covered her face, this had not been what she was expecting when she came with her father to England.

It was a glorified death mission for her father to go on, only the Gods knew why he wanted his children with him. Painfully Tyra realised that she might never go home again, after all they had no ship, food or much of anything, their survival chances were slim.