He never makes it to the old training ground. The crutches get him to the forest, but he's forgotten about the roots. They curl and dip in every available spot. He trips several times before landing face first in the dirt. The ground is chilled and hard. It reminds him of ice, even if the frost hasn't come yet. Pain radiates in Ivar's lower body. If it were a terrible day a bone would snap or crack from the impact. Instead the wind is knocked out of him, and he feels bruises blooming on his flesh. Any sane man would have gathered himself and turned around. It was a fool's wish to pursue a vision in a dream. After all it was just a girl with a bow.

Except he is Ivar the Boneless, and he does not give into the temptation to turn around. Instead he drags himself on the forest floor, his legs screaming with every inch forward. His breathing grows heavy, and sweat pools at his brow as the distance grows.

He's always crawled, since he was just a babe and had no other means to move. But the training ground is far from Kattegat. As boys and even young men, his brothers would each carry him on a platform. It provided a reprieve for the youngest and shortened the amount of time it would take to get there.

It was then that Ivar missed the platform. He wasn't even sure if he was going in the right direction anymore. The wood had long overgrown and the trails he knew as a boy were gone. He only remembers that it is uphill, and it is one of the only places where there is a clearing of few trees. The rest of the forest is covered in a blanket of green, and there's little room for much else with all the roots and stumps.

The vision of her returns to him and he can't shake the look in her eyes. The raw desire when her arrow pierces flesh. The carnal reaction to violence and death. He knows it well enough. His men unleashed wild cries of war when they once tore through battlefields and won back Kattegat.

But the anger in her eyes reminds Ivar of himself. The way it's carefully buried beneath years of resentment and anguish. Like a pot over the fire it simmers over time until it overflows onto the floor. If such a woman really exists, she is more than just another shield maiden with a bow. She is war in a stare, and he can't recall ever witnessing it in his best soldiers.

It is only when the sun peaks highest in the sky that he hears another. But it is not the feral snarls of the woman from his dream. He is too far from the training ground to hear her yet. Hooves pound through the forest, and what sounds like wheels. They creak and howl as they're jostled over the roots. Rage pools within him, already aware of who came looking. The one vice of his crown is that he's never left alone. They all assume he's dead or on the brink of it when he wanders off. It was easier in the days when they all looked at him with upturned noses and strange looks.

It's Hvitserk who finds him. The familiar sight of Ivar's chariot as it barrels through the forest is a dead giveaway. The horse at the helm stumbles over upturned roots, but it didn't succumb the way Ivar did. Hvitserk steers the beast with clumsy uncertainty and his gaze is filled with determination. Ivar desires nothing more than to slap it right off his brother's face.

The elder Ragnarsson is out of breath when he catches sight of Ivar. His eyes are saucers when they get a good look at Ivar. Hands buried in the dirt, blood on his lower lip from splitting it during the fall. Mud cakes his forehead and his cheeks are crimson from the cold.

He knows Hvitserk desires to scold him but knows better. Instead he fumbles over excuses as to why he barrelled through the forest on Ivar's chariot like a bat out of Hel.

"Brother." Ivar croons.

Hvitserk is physically winded. "One of the guards said he saw you go into the forest and I-I."

"I-I-I" Ivar mimics, his voice nothing but pure venom.

A sigh of defeat leaves Hvitserk. "I was only worried, brother. We have collected many an enemy over the years."

"None foolish enough to attack me in the forest like some kind of bear."

Hvitserk longs to argue over the state he's discovered his baby brother in. Ivar welcomes it, as well as the victory he'll claim when Hvitserk continues to fall down a hole of stuttering excuses.

"Why are you even here?" His brother presses.

Ivar's answer isn't exactly a lie. "I was looking for something."

Hvitserk shakes his head of blonde braids, and the mare snorts with impatience for added dramatics. He has always been good to her, his Alva. And now his brother as trudged her through the thick wood like a hunting hound. He will have to make up for it with apples and sugar later. The only woman Ivar answers to outside of his late mother is his mare. And she will likely buck and bite until he makes up for Hvitserk's heavy hand with the reigns.

"How far are we from the range where we used to practice?" Ivar inquires.

Hvitserk's mind is already trying to grapple as to what his brother would be scouring the forest for when the other speaks. It only leaves him more puzzled, and Ivar enjoys watching the small cogs in his brother's brain struggle to turn.

"Not far, I would think." Hvitserk scratches at his scalp with dirt riddled fingers. "It's been years since I've ventured there."

Since before the war.

"Do you suppose we could go there?" Ivar's voice has a touch of innocence in the tone. Alarming in itself as suspicion fills Hvitserk's gaze.

"Why?"

"For old times sake. I may even find what I've been searching for on the way."

Then he can gloat to Hvitserk about his discovery. Even if he wasn't sure what he planned to do with her just yet.

"There is already rumors of your absence, Ivar. We should really be getting back."

He desires to continue on without his brother. But Hvitserk will follow him with the chariot until darkness falls and they eventually reach the destination. Except Hvitserk will nag him the entire way and Ivar will lash out just as he always does.

There is also the possibility that the woman isn't real. Merely a trick of smoke and mirrors concocted by his mind. Odin must have had greater tasks at hand than showing Ivar the Boneless a woman.

Unless he didn't.

So after much contemplation and a pang of regret Ivar mounts the chariot. He rips the reins from Hvitserk's grasp and shoves him nearly over the edge. All while images of the woman played in his head.

If Odin sent him another dream tonight he would return. But this time he would have to be more careful about it.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

When they return Ivar spends most of the early evening in the stables repaying Alva's hard work in the with sweet apple slices and a good grooming. Hvitserk found his crutches on the way home, and Ivar leans more heavily on them now.

His feet drag as he brings the brush against Alva's cream pelt. He silence's the pain by focusing on the sound of her teeth against the apple slices, and humming a melodic tune on his lips. The stable boy insists he can do it, but one glare from Ivar and he's disappeared into one of the dirty stalls that need mucking. The king doesn't mind such a mundane task, for it allows him to focus on anything except the minute issues from his citizens.

When he hears the soft patter of footsteps he expects it to be a thrall notifying him that supper is prepared. But rather it is Hvitserk's wife. A woman of few words and uneasy stares, Ivar never bothered to get to know her. They are little more than strangers, their only bond that she is married to Hvitserk and the mother of his young nephews. Ivar's blue gaze falls past her expecting to see the youngest tugging at her skirts, but she is alone.

Eira is her name, the daughter of an Earl that pledged himself to Ivar and in return Ivar married her off to Hvitserk. The Earl was displeased to learn his daughter wasn't good enough for Ivar, but eventually dismissed the issue when he threatened to annul the marriage and alliance.

She leans in the doorway, inky tresses flying in the wind. She's far from hideous, and Ivar would go as far to say she's prettier than most of the women in Kattegat. But motherhood has aged her, leaving dark circles beneath her eyes and a softer middle. He can't imagine it's easy being the wife of Hvitserk either. Like a dog in heat he often wanders to the nearest thrall or sheild maiden that opens her legs for him. Eira shows little discomfort toward it besides a scowl at dinner or red rimmed eyes after consuming too much ale. But Ivar can't help but wonder what grievances brew beneath that carefully tailored smile.

Her voice reminds him of a shy child when it breaks the silence. "I told him not to go looking for you."

The king snorts. "Little good that did."

Eira flinches as if he's slapped her.

His honesty is a knife cutting away at raw flesh. Few know how to tolerate it, let alone throw it back with just as much rage. Eira is not of that kin. There was a point in his life when he would have welcomed a gentle creature such as her, but life has hardened Ivar since then. No longer did he crave a warm body to lie against at night. Only the blood of enemies flowing between his open palms as they announced defeat.

Miraculously the woman finds her voice. "He loves you, so he worries. He paces like a fool whenever you run off."

Is that before or after he'd buries himself in my slaves?

There was nothing to fear. Only a fool would try and take what was rightfully his. Some had, shortly after the war. His elder brothers amongst them. But with time the rebellions settled and the people grew used to the shift of power. They enjoyed the trade that opened up with his rule, the increased raids that provided settlement opportunities elsewhere. Ivar learned to quit fearing death long ago when his mother decided not to throw him to the wolves.

"Why are you here?" His tone no less poisonous than before.

If he wished to speak of Hvitserk and his issues with detachment from the past, he would. But Alva needed to be brushed and he would clean himself after before going to sleep He has a god to deal with once the night settles.

Her eyes that remind him of blades of grass fall to the floor. Shaking hands rest against her chest and Ivar sighs realizing he's become subject to more than a simple visit. It's times such as these where he wishes Hvitserk instilled more confidence in the woman. She was viking, not a waif.

His tongue clicks with impatience. "Eira."

It seems as if time stood still before she speaks up. "A messenger came from my home today with traders." She pauses, expecting Ivar to interrupt but he doesn't. Instead he leans his crutch against Alva's rump and gazes at Eira with a curious eye.

"Unfortunately," She continues. "My father is dying."

Ivar knows the request before she asks permission. "And you wish to see him?"

She takes a step back and Ivar holds back a snicker. Such a lithe, little thing.

"I do. I miss him so much that my heart aches, Ivar. And I worry about my little brother, he can be so defiant. It would be best to make sure everything transitions properly."

Of course it did . "Mm. I see."

"But Hvitserk said we--I would need permission from you since you approve any expeditions."

The king raises a dark brow. "Hvitserk plans to go with you?"

"Well," Her voice slightly falters. "He is my husband. A wife shouldn't travel alone."

His mother did when she sought out his father. Her belly filled with his child, she embarked to Kattegat to claim what she had won. But Aslaug and Eira were very different breeds, and Eira would never set foot anywhere without his brother.

But it could bring about opportunity. Lands to steal further north, a bargaining chip for Harald when he inevitably desired Kattegat once more. If Eira's brother is smart he'll surrender willingly, and Ivar's kingdom will expand. And if he doesn't, well Eira would have to prepare two funerals.

"I'll consider it." Once he's confirmed with Hvitserk that they will take the land for their own. It would do good to have his brother out of his hair for a few months.

It shocks him when her small frame falls into him. He stumbled into Alva and she grows uneasy from the sudden contact against her rear. Eira's scent reminds him of roses as she continues to embrace him. Such a simple request returned with intense gratitude.

It was a shame he was only using it for personal gain.

"Thank you, Ivar. Thank you."

He pushes her from his grasp with a nod. "Of course."

She bites down on her lower lip nervously. He thinks she might stand there all night if he lets her. But once he's finished with Alva he dismisses the woman back to his brother and their children. His mind already focused on the upcoming evening.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

He ate feverently. Barely sparing a glance to Hvitserk or the squalling children at the table. Eira remained quiet as she picked away at the stew that was prepared for them. Ivar thought she would bring up their conversation, but she doesn't. The woman is smart in that regard. She knows when to speak and when to shut up. If only his brother was the same.

As expected Hvitserk tages advantage of the silence. Ivar then reaches for his filthy crutches and pulls away from the table. He just barely caught the cusp of a question leaving his brother's lips as he stormed from the hall.

"Why did you really go--"

He bathes quickly as well. Not taking enough care to scrub feverishly at the dirt and blood caked on his flesh. Normally Ivar remains in the basin of water until it grows cold. The thralls were careful to heat it over the fire until steam rose. But tonight their hard work was put second to his rest.

When he finally falls onto the expansive bed of furs, sleep refuses to welcome the king. He stares at the ceiling above with malice. His legs ache and throb more so then normal. Like a doll in the hands of a negligent child, he imagines he's been throttled by the roots and branches that cover the forest floor.

Healers often bring tonics for him to try. Ones that claim to numb the pain or rid him of it all together. But the king isn't a fool, he knows they won't work before he even tastes them. Most of the time he doesn't bother to try them at all. False hope was wasted time in his opinion.

The pain would momentarily subside once sleep overcame him. It took it's time though. Slowly it tugs at Ivar's eyelids until they grow heavy. It numbs the pain below his torso enough to briefly forget it was there at all. It leaves him warm in the tanglement of thick furs.

His mind floods with images of the girl. If she's real, is she laying in bed right now? Is her mind littered with dead stags and broken arrows? He wonders where she is if she is real. Perhaps she's right under his nose, in one of the small homes cluttered around the port. Or she's in his service and he passes her every morning while heading for breakfast.

But no slave or servant could hold that gaze. Whoever she is, wherever she is, it is far away. Far from his large and lonely kingdom that has spent the past ten years thriving more on trade than war. Did she lay in bed at that moment cursing the monotony of her life the way he does his?

He sees her in the forest, her wild braid flying behind her head like a tail. He hears her footsteps as they pound against the forest floor. He can feel the symbols carved into her bow. He can taste the sweat on her brow, and feel the rough fabric of her breeches that are too short for her tall frame. He thinks if he waits long enough she'll run right to him.

The image of her fades to blackness, his thoughts rip away like parchment. Ivar's legs are forgotten things and his body is floating somewhere else. He's becoming someone else.

The the king is fast asleep.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

This dream is different.

When Ivar flies he it isn't through the thick wood any longer. But rather his wings are an expansive shadow over endless open land. In the distance he can spot Kattegat. It appears harmless, the sight of flowing bodies and a consistent traffic of trade ships too far away. It's deceivingly peaceful from this height. The ravens must think one could hear a pin could drop in his kingdom from this height.

The grass is brighter here. As if a painter took a brush and stroked the blades of grass until they were a blinding green. Flecks of white litter the ground as well--snow? It is so early. He loathes the sight of snow and frost. It's a commodity though. Grass has never looked so alive when the rest of the world is bare. The trees have lost their leaves, and winter is waiting with bated breath.

He isn't flying long before he's pulled to the ground. His talons wrap around a dead tree branch, and it only takes seconds before he notices Odin appear beside him. Except the old thing is focused on something other than Ivar. His singular eye staring ahead.

Ivar curses the god once again for withholding the right to speak. Only a squawk leaves the raven's mouth in complaint. Why are you showing me this? Where is the girl? Where is the forest? I don't play games, even with you.

He catches the smirk that tugs at the side of Odin's lips. A sickening humor that he'd expect from Loki or Tyr. He enjoys tormenting the young king with what he doesn't understand. Ivar can see it from the glint in his singular eye. How he'd love to sink his talons into that one eye until it's paste beneath him. Good luck being the king of gods without any sight over your subjects.

The god's tone is mocking. "So impatient, Ivar the Boneless."

The young king cannot say a thing in return. He only stares down at the man with narrowed black eyes of the raven.

"You should have been less careless in the forest today. You would have stumbled right into her as she was leaving."

Ivar's heart races. How did he know?

"I kept an eye on both of you, though it can be difficult to do so with only one." The god lets out an earthly chuckle but Ivar remains still. "She killed one of my ravens. A woman of the gods sent an arrow through my messenger without a second glance."

How he longs to witness that image. The snarl in her teeth and the gleam of victory in her eyes. How did it feel to kill a creature of the gods? Did it bring more power than killing a simple man?

Odin continues. "But as she left your brother arrived. It is a good thing you decided to turn back, or she would have been long gone by the time you reached the training ground."

Ivar picks through his brain, trying to remember the sight of a raven flying above. But his thoughts were consumed by honey and girls shooting arrows at ghosts. He didn't look down much less up. The forest was filled with birds, a raven wouldn't have stuck out the way it should have.

"I'm always watching, Ivar." Odin's tone sends chills down his spine.

So he was. He watched as Ivar crawled and pulled over upturned roots and mud just to witness a woman. He must have looked pathetic then in the grand scope of things. A king struck by something so stupid and simple.

Except Odin wants him to find her. Or he wouldn't have let him remember the dream.

"I will show you something else, Ivar. If you're lucky enough to recall your dream again it will assist you in what you're looking for. But you must pay close attention. For what can help you isn't always the obvious."

If he's lucky enough. If a raven could scoff Ivar would have.

Just as Ivar's processing the words of the god, three figures appear on the horizon. Well, three and one that belongs to an animal. As they draw closer Ivar can make out the details of their silhouettes. The first is quite small, a little older than a child. A mop of sandy hair is atop his head, and excitement fills his gaze. His cheeks are stained with dry mud, and his shirt sleeves are far too short. They stop at his elbows, the ends frayed. The other towers over him. His russet tresses fall past his chin, and he's constantly tucking them behind his ear every time a gust of wind hits. Just like the first his eyes are a pale blue, only they are filled with fear and uncertainty. With large fingers he tugs nervously at his shirtsleeve. Although this one is the proper length, it's too tight for his growing frame. His biceps threaten to tear away at the fabric with every move he makes. He leads what Ivar has realized is a great sow with a rope. Feverish whispers leave his lips that are too far for Ivar to hear. But to him it almost looks like an apology.

The third figure is even taller than the second, though not by much. He's too focused on the weapon in their grasp to fully realize just who it is yet. The hammer itself is large and littered with splotches of red. It rests over the carrier's shoulder with ease. Though Ivar can tell from the size of it, that the weapon is dense in weight.

Ivar's breath hitches as he takes in the figure. It's tall, beautiful and impossibly her . Odin chuckles at his side but the king ignores it. She looks just as she did in the first dream. Her hair pulled back into a braid, her clothes littered with sweat and dirt. The dark breeches on her legs end just inches above her boots, leaving a sliver of pale flesh exposed to the cold. Her gaze is clouded, as if she's calculating every next move to make. The others share her high cheekbones and button nose. The tufts of hair on the smallest boy are the exact same shade as her endless braid.

They are too old to be her children . He thinks. But they all looked so impossibly alike. Siblings .

"You will find that all siblings act quite the same. These three aren't all that different from you and your brothers." Odin's voice flows in one ear and out the other. For Ivar's focus is still on the woman ahead, and his brothers are no more than ghosts.

They walk until the quartet settle at the tree next to his. Ivar stares at the ropes tied around a thick branch, and he already knows what three of them have to do. The pig is blissfully unaware of her role in all of it. She snorts and sniffs at the elder boy. He strokes her large ears and continues whispering sweet things to her. The other two ignore it. The younger boy tugs on the ropes to see if they will stay when they are needed, and the woman settles the hammer onto the ground.

The sun begins to set behind them, casting an orange glow. It's a lovely image. Their bodies bathed in golden light, as the kingdom below them continues to rage on. It's so quiet up here that Ivar can hear the thumping of his heartbeat.

But the silence doesn't last as the eldest lifts the hammer once more. To Ivar's disappointment she doesn't swing it. Instead she holds it out to the older boy who is too focused on the animal to notice.

"Hlodvir." Her voice reminds him of honey. It's impossibly smooth and thick as it fills his ears. "Mother demands that you try."

Where the sister is a warrior, the elder brother is not. He's more of a child with an innocent gaze. Dread fills his face at the woman's words. He wraps two thick arms around the sow, and Ivar thinks he might cry.

You've got to be kidding me.

Fat tears flood the boys eyes, and his face grows red as his hair. The sister lets him blubber into the ignorant pig for a few moments. It surprises Ivar to see the compassion in her gaze. If it were him he'd kick his brother and demand the idiot wise up. A pig was a pig, nothing more.

But the youngest steals the words right from Ivar's thoughts. "It's just a pig, brother. Not your first wife."

The elder boy stiffens. Ivar can smell the rage brewing within him, but not nearly strong enough to withstand the others.

"Bardi." Their sister's warns.

But the elder boy is already offended. "I spend everyday with them, Bardi. I take care of them while you play with yourself and pretend to spread grain for the cows."

"He won't do it, sister. Mother's just attempting the impossible." The younger boy snarls.

But then Hlodvir rises so quickly Ivar almost misses it. He shoves the younger boy--Bardi, to the ground in a blink. As if he weighs no more than a leaf. Bardi falls with an oomf , and glares daggers at his elder brother.

The eldest appears amused. As if she's witness to this everyday, and it's just become a way of life. The way the sun rises everyday and sets every night.

Hlodvir holds out a large hand. "Give me the hammer."

She doesn't protest, even if Ivar can see the hesitation in her gaze. She lifts the hammer with ease, and her brother pulls it into his grasp. The sow remains in her place, chewing at the grass with blissful ignorance. Her soft snorts are the only noise that fills the air outside of Bardi's heavy breathing.

The hammer shakes in his grasp. His breathing is shallow, and Ivar thinks the boy may faint. The tears come again. Fat, wet, things that pool down the apples of his cheeks. For such a giant, the boy is painstakingly gentle. He expects the sister to press him, as Ivar would if Hvitserk or Sigurd once did the same. But she remains silent, watching closely as her brother comes undone.

"She's testing him."

Ivar was so focused on the scene before him, he forgot the god was still beside him.

Odin nudges his chin toward Hlodvir. "It should be him that's cutting down doe in the woods, and slaughtering sows with hammers. But everytime a weapon is in his hand the boy breaks down like an infant."

What a waste .

"Her patience is running thin." The god calculates. "Do you notice how she's tapping her foot, and chewing her lower lip? She wants to get it over with."

So why doesn't she?

Ivar thinks back to her only statement. Mother demands that you try. Not, mother asks that you try, or mother wishes you would try.

A woman frightening enough to even make her eldest yield.

Hlodvir shakes his head, and strands of red fly in the wind. His thick arms tremble, and large thighs threaten to give. His sobs grow louder until even the youngest, with his defiant gaze and harsh words, is silent. Bardi's gaze on anything but his pathetic sibling.

Before Hlodvir can say a word it happens. His mouth opens with a planned protest and the hammer is torn from his grasp. Like a punished child, he stares at his empty hands in surprise.

His sister lifts the hammer and strikes the sow upside the head. A blood curdling squeal fills the air, and blood sprays onto her face. Like a second skin, it covers her cheeks and lips. She drops the hammer as the sow falls to the ground, and pulls a knife from her pocket. It's long and the sharp edge shines under the falling sun. She slices the pig's thick throat with grace, and more liquid pools into the grass. The rust tinge of blood as bright as the green blades or white flakes of snow.

Ivar doesn't notice Bardi as he whoops and cheers from his spot on the ground. He doesn't notice how Hlodvir's face turns to the very shade of the grass and he clutches his middle. He doesn't hear when that same boy wretches into the ground and leaves his supper everywhere.

He only notices her. The wild fury in her eyes as the hammer hits the sow. The lust and pleasure that leaves her lips in a quiet moan as the blood covers her face. Her blade cut through the pig's neck like butter, and he watches as her fingers linger against the gaping wound. When they withdraw they're coated in the brightest shade of crimson, leaving Ivar's mouth watering.

She whacks Hlodvir's spine with a clenched fist and he howls in pain. "Dagny I--"

Her voice is ice. "Help me with the body, you fool."

Dagny

A name. Not just the woman, or the girl. But Dagny. Dagny with her long legs and stormy eyes. Dagny with the blood smeared across her face and droplets of it in her teeth.

It didn't appear to fit. But not a singular word could fit someone like her. A nickname like his would have been more suitable. Whereas he was The Boneless, she was--well he wasn't sure yet. She was more than just a name. But for now it would do.

Bardi rises from his place in the grass. They each grab a leg and pull the sow toward the tree. Dagny and Hlodvir tie the back hooves with the rope and pull upward with pained expressions. The pig rises until it's inches from the ground. She pulls out the knife once more and begins slicing down the animal's middle.

The flesh peels away and blood flows down its torso. Bardi is out of breath and leans against the tree trunk with a red face. Hlodvir continues to shake and look anywhere but at his elder sister. The trio sit in silence for what feels to Ivar like hours.

He assumes Odin will pull him away, but the god watches them as intently as the king is.

"You should take the ears to the market tomorrow. The children can purchase them as treats." Her voice is surprisingly softer. No longer does it hold the malice Ivar relished in before.

It may be that she's focused now, slicing away cuts of meat and tossing them to Bardi who wraps them in a cloth. She reminds Ivar of an artist, the blade slicing through like brush strokes and changing the canvas. The rage has subsided for now.

"What about the hooves?" The youngest suggests. "Last time men were fighting over them."

She ponders the decision before nodding. "That will help too. Mother would just toss them away if we kept them."

Hlodvir somehow finds his voice. "And the fat. The woman like to use it."

The other two gaze at him the way Ivar used to look at Sigurd whenever he managed to say the right thing. Incredulous.

Bardi acts as if it hasn't phased him. "That with the fish from the river should do plenty. We may have to bring the cart instead of riding the horses with baskets."

Hlodvir nods in agreement. "The walk will be slower, but we may have no choice."

Odin looks up at him with his empty eye. The socket appears endless and dead, surrounded by veins the shade of a plum. "This is where we take our leave, Ivar."

No . They hadn't seen anything. Just the slaughter of a pig and the bickering of siblings. His talons dug into the bark of the branch. A silent protest against the god beside him.

A soft sigh escapes Odin's lips. "You have witnessed all you need to know. Do what you will with what I have given you. One can only hope you remember once more."

How many times hadn't he remembered? Were those dreams better? Did they show everything he needed to know? If so, then why did he only remember the one from last night?

Ivar still watches her despite Odin's push. His gaze doesn't leave the sight of her bloodied hands as they continue to slice and pull away at the pig meat. For something so mundane he's fascinated by it. But then again he's never watched a person take care in a simple task. Most were in a hurry to complete the task and hacked away in every which direction.

Odin appears to have come to the realization that Ivar is beyond his reach. With a the shake of his head he says the command that leaves rage in the king's belly.

"Leave me, Ivar the Boneless."

* * * * * * * * * * *

Ivar rises with a gasp. No longer is he surrounded by lush greenery with a wingspan that rivals his own. Instead he is sprawled across the bed in his chambers. Darkness still covers the room in a soft enough light that he knows the sun has yet to rise. Such a short dream.

It wasn't enough .

Ivar's head falls back into the furs as he recalls the events of the dream. There's a sheer hestiance as he fears that he's already forgotten it. Except he can still smell the copper scent of the sow's blood. He can hear the soft moan leave a woman's lips as she takes away the life.

Dagny.

It comes back in a flood. Her brothers standing beside her in the field. How the eldest boy trembled like a child when presented with the murder weapon. The youngest reminded of Hvitserk when they were boys. Pushing and teasing at the elder brother, but desiring the sight of gore all the same.

But he didn't have the slightest idea of where they were. It could have been a two hour or two day ride from Kattegat. The hills that surrounded the kingdom were deceiving in that way. It was far enough that silence engulfed the area, and he envied the trio for never being subjected to the kingdoms never ending chatter.

Odin's statement lingers. You have witnessed all you need to know.

But what flew over his head that was so important? He dug through the dream. Processing the sow being slaughtered, the eldest brother showing his cowardice. But perhaps what he needed to know was beyond the act itself.

He thought of the siblings. The largest named Hlodvir, the smallest named Bardi. Then Dagny. How would he find her again? It could have been on any hill and she doesn't have been any woman. Many women possessed that name. He couldn't simply should the name Dagny through the market until a woman turned her head. It wasn't as if she would be there anyways. Not when she could be shooting arrows in the forest.

Except they need to go to the market to sell their meat.

The conversation plays in his head on repeat.

You should take the ears to the market tomorrow. The children can purchase them as treats.

You should take the ears to the market.

You.

He rises instantaneously as it comes to him. Eyes bright from recognition and not brittle bones. It was painstakingly obvious. Bread crumbs that Odin left right before his eyes. The old fool was right.

If they were real they would need to go to the market to sell their slaughter. The boys would be there.

The boys would lead Ivar to her.