Fated - [Bjorn Ironside]

~8~

"Are you sure you wish to fight?" Eldyn asked quietly, staring out the window. The sky was clear this day, yet a haze of fog brought with the cloudless sky a sense of suffocation. It was the same feeling that fell upon the hut days ago—when Ragnar challenged the earl to a duel.

The girl sat at Ragnar's bedside, but she did not face the damaged and bruised farmer-turned-fugitive. Her knees were brought to her chest, a prop for her head that continued to gaze into the sky. The monotony of nature could keep her staring forever. He was far too weak, and everyone knew that. All had condemned his order to Floki, cursing to the gods when the boat maker left for Kattegat to relay his call to arms against the earl. The only good coming from it was the absence of the man himself—for Floki made Eldyn continuously uncomfortable. She often found the eccentric Northman staring at her, but she found that it was a stare that was anything but curious. It was the same stare she saw him give to Athelstan.

She knew his answer before she asked the question. Days after Ragnar regained consciousness, much to the happiness of his family, they discovered that Rollo was being tortured for the whereabouts of his brother. Eldyn knew, at least from her few dealings with the bear-man, that nothing would pass his lips, a quality that would be his undoing. Ragnar knew it, too.

He could not let his brother die, regardless of their turbulent relationship. Kin was kin. Blood was blood. If it was not sacred, what was the point?

"What choice do I have?"

It was not the response that Eldyn was entirely expecting, but within the question that passed his lips like a heavy sigh lay the expectation and responsibility that Ragnar imposed on himself. The choice was his own, and the option of inaction was not a result that he delighted himself in, regardless of his own safety.

Plus, it would get him closer to Heraldson.

Tearing her eyes away from an empty, solemn sky, she glanced across the hut. Between panels, candles, skulls and furs, the weight of the home was crushing. She could feel the silence of his family, the worry that dictated their movements and brandished their words. Even Athelstan's visage seemed more quiet. Slumped shoulders. Silent lips. Hushed movements. It felt like, in many ways, it was a collective attempt to pay respects to who would fall this day and preparing for loss that may not come to pass.

It felt like a whirlwind. Coming to Kattegat from across a sea. Being welcomed into the Lothbrok home, for all intents and purposes. Knowing the family, having spats and reconciliations. Knowing that such things could come to an end felt like a weight upon Eldyn's chest. Nothing was normal to her, but knowing that this new life she was being forced to play a part of—one that she had slowly succumbed to—might end was something that she dreaded more than potentially being a servant for the rest of her life. What would happen to her if he failed? To Athelstan? To the Lothbrok family? Horrors that waited just beyond the swing of a blade or blow of an axe was too much to think about.

No wonder everyone was so quiet.

"If anything happens to me, you and Athelstan are free to run," he was quiet this time—his voice murmuring only to her. His words felt finite on Eldyn's skin, a vow made in a moment but long decided before it passed his lips.

She looked over her shoulder. Ragnar was playing with the fire of a candle at his bedside. No longer was he the coy, conniving man that she had come to know lay before her. In his place was someone who accepted his fate, but not with glory or admonishment, but with simplistic loyalty and understanding that his life may very well end in a few hours. A fatalistic trait that was commonplace amongst these people, one of the main differentiators between her extinct brethren and the people of Kattegat; fate was not the final say her people, rather they had the choice to defy and craft their own destiny.