A/N: Just a quick note here. I apologize in advance for the giant chapter. But there's a lot of important information I didn't want to leave out moving forward with the plot. Now everything is starting to set in motion. Enjoy! 

 The tale is engrained in her skin, the deep ink of a tattoo she can't cover up. It starts when she's young. Too young to understand the world takes more than it gives.

The world takes the serpent's legs before he gasps a first breath. He was supposed to be a dragon. A great beast that burns kingdoms who dare to challenge him. He was supposed to tower above even the greatest warriors. He was supposed to crush the skulls of his brother's beneath his great feet. But instead he comes out only a shell of what was meant to be. Only one son of Ragnar will bear the beast of a dragon, while the other slithers by his toes with a venomous smirk.

His father trudges to the woods, determined to rid the world of the stain it's spilled. But the cries of his mother are swords in battle. The blade cuts through his father's chest until he's bleeding out on the floor. So he gives in, and the serpent survives. A cruel little reptile that thirsts for more than the milk in his mother's breast. He nips until she bleeds beneath him, and he licks the blood clean. Her little snake is hers alone. Her heart swells, ignoring the pain at her chest. For her boy lives, and his greatness will spread a shadow over his father. Until the man is forgotten and they all boast the babe's name.

But his life starts as just that--slithering in the grass. Sometimes he's pulled in a cart where the wheels often bump and crack. Many avert their eyes to the sky in his presence, either disgusted or embarrassed at the sight of him. More of a worm, wriggling through the dirt at his mother's skirts. He learns quickly the cruelty that children possess. Their words are venom as they point and prod at the failed appendages. His father is absent more than present. He only stares at his serpent with a gaze of regret. Regret that he wasn't filled in the belly of wolves. It's the king's greatest weakness, listening to his wife. The decision will haunt him long after he leaves this world.

He takes his first blood before he understands what he's done. Children are cruel, but the serpent is crueler. At night he whispers the name of every child who wrongs him. Dreams are filled with blood spilt and flesh torn. When the serpent wakes his hands shake and his mouth is dry. Only violence can sate such an abomination. Only the music of a child's wail can stir his belly with satisfaction as the knife plunges deeper. He's a prince, so when the child crumples to the ground there's no retribution. No death sentence is announced, and the child's father never demands retribution. It's wasted on the queen who tucks her little monster against her breast. She coos in his ear, and doesn't wipe the blood from his cheeks. For it's his prize for bravery. For ruining the thing that tried to ruin his pride.

His brother's grow and grow until they dwarf their mother. Each one leaves women breathless and men envious. For each is more handsome than the last. But he only grows horizontal. While they become taller he grows longer. He drinks blood the way the rest of them sip from the springs. He's a demon of wild eyes that resemble a turbulent sea. The serpent's torso grows thick with muscle, his arms two steel weights trudging through the mud. But his legs remain two twisted plant roots below the waist. They refuse to do much else outside of breaking and bending to the point where he no longer comprehends any emotion outside of rage and pain.

And that's when it begins. Bodies go missing, maidens leave the hall crying. Their tears a mixture of salt and blood as his fingers imprint their flesh. They think he's dead for awhile, when his father's ship leaves the shore a final time and doesn't return. There's a reprieve, a stolen breath taken after years of being held. The world goes on. A changing of the guard occurs. One queen exchanged for another. Bodies collect in droves, and the dragon and the wolf bow to a usurper who tore their future away in her firm grasp.

But then he returns, and the world splits in two. War occurs. A war so terrible the smell of rotting flesh fills the hills for months. The river bears a red tinge, and crows feast on bodies littered for miles. The bodies continue to add up. People whisper of a god in their mist. The serpent a violent and bloodthirsty god. War incarnate, he leaves nothing but death in his wake. No human is capable of such terror. No human is so volatile.

Dagny's father perished in that very war. With a grimace on his lips, and head held high he marches to his death. They can't even find him when it's done. His feet never cross the threshold again, her mother weeps when they believe she's asleep. All that's left is that bow. It's returned by his friend who fled from the serpent's French armada.

So their mother establishes fear. She warns of the creature below, and all the terror he brings with every blink of those terrible eyes. Her children grow weary of that place. They never venture alone to their kingdom, even in the desperation of winter when the cold has reduced them to flesh and bone. They fear for the serpent that will strike and their ankles and feast on their bones. Even when her eldest decides to venture into the forest everyday, it isn't the same. He never took notice of the land his legs couldn't carry him to. Until he does.

Their house is colder since the serpent slithered away. Such a crowded space has never succumbed to deafening silence the way it does now. The last noise uttered is the snap of wood and the howl of a defeated wolf. She lays beside the battered thing like a broken child. Only does she rise when Yir whispers that it's time for supper, or when Hlodvir wakes her for chores. Their mother seethes by her loom from sunrise to sunset. It's a surprise her fingers haven't cracked from all the weaving. Perhaps she'll make a great blanket sewn from the rage over her eldest. Dagny would never take it off.

But that void of silence is broken with the shove of an arm. She's staring at the bow again, convincing herself that her mother wasn't wrong in her decision. That she didn't ruin the only object that held any meaning out of spite. But rather for punishment. Every foolish decision came with a punishment.

But what did I do wrong?

The woman's gaze is ice. An identical expression stares back as the temperature in the room drops.

I exist. My very being is what shames you.

Hasn't it always?

"You need to find your brother." The woman's voice is abrasive, pressing against her bruised ego.

Blonde brows furrow. "Which one?"

"Which one do you think?"

Bardi.

"Is he not tending to the rotting cattle pen outside?" It's an honest thought. For she hasn't thought much about either brother. Their eyes only bring her shame. She's failed them as a sister, and as a protector. Their bruises fade but the scars remain.

Her mother shakes her head. "No, he hasn't been around all day. In fact he's been sneaking off for weeks. You haven't noticed?"

The guilt is a knife twisting in her stomach once again. It slowly guts Dagny as she's forced to come to her realization. If Bardi has wandered off it is her fault. For he's either angry with everyone or doing what he sister has not--exploring the forest for an answer. The accusatory tone of her mother suggests the latter.

"He does not know how to hunt."

"And you expect me to believe that's all you ever did out there?"

She will bleed out, she's sure of it. Out there the beast within was fed. A wolf rumbling for blood that couldn't be found within these four walls. It lingers even now but wounded. It refuses to show its face until the wounds have come together again.

Does her mother really comprehend what plagues Dagny every night when her eyes close? Does she know that her daughter often trembles with rage that can't be traced back to any definitive source? The woman has grown old, her hair the same shade as dirty snow. But her wit is not lost, nor her memory. She must remember the nights when only three occupied this dwelling. When Dagny woke in a sweat filled haze, screaming and clawing away. On more than one occurrence her mother was the victim to sharp nails swiping at the body pinning her down. Other times it would be so terrible her father would have to pour water on the girl, until she was a sopping mess of screams and visions of war.

I remember what I did to you. And I do everything not to let it happen again.

"He didn't go into the woods."

Both heads spin. Yir is once more the savior she's never deserved. From her place at the table she peels potatoes without directly gazing at either woman.

Dagny is aware of her disappointment. It wafts through the dwelling to the point of suffocation. Yir has never understood the thirst for violence, or craved a dying body beneath her grip. But she understands that her sister shares a body with a monster that does. Ulfhéðnar often falls under her breath. But just as their mother has never discussed it, the two sisters never discuss it. But she knows not to dwell on punishment, and it was not her lip split by the serpent. She only had to endure the compliments of the dog.

Their mother's voice is softer with Yir. "How are you aware of this?"

"I watched him leave after he delivered Hlodvir's knife to peel the potatoes."

"Then where else would he go?" The elder woman questions aloud.

There is only one other place, and the mere conception of it leaves Dagny shaking in her boots. "Kattegat." She whispers.

Yir only nods in response.

"Kattegat?" Their mother spats. "Why in Hel would he ever go there alone? Did he not learn his lesson? Stupid little boy."

Dagny bristles. That's your stupid little boy. She thinks. And you will only be a shadow in his growing bravery.

"I do not know mother." Yir's sigh fills the air. "I only watched as he took one of the horses in the direction of the port. You told us it's better not to question what we don't understand."

It's a backhanded comment but Yir will remain unscathed from it. Their mother only stiffens in posture, her shoulders sagging slightly. If it were Dagny her cheek would sting as a palm whacked against it. That is the difference with Yir. She is gentle, she is not a threat to their existence.

"Knowing that boy he's still mad at the thing that slithers through that city like a disease. None of this will end well for us."

The end of their mother's sentence is filled with enough venom to rival Ivar the Boneless himself. His poison is nothing compared to the woman's wrath. The words are weaved and stitched to hide the true meaning. Your brother is hellbent on harming himself because you couldn't keep your nose out of trouble.

"Mother is right, sister. You need to find him." Yir's voice lacks any semblance of sympathy.

Fear brews in her belly, and Dagny despises herself for it. She shouldn't fear a man who couldn't chase her. Or his empty threats that ceased the moment a blade was pressed to his throat. But she can't forget the rage in his eyes. The sheer lust for blood as he lunged at her in a matter of seconds. How even if he can't run, he would likely drag himself through every terrign to return the threat she spewed. And while the king spared her of his wrath, Bardi was ruined the first time. A second meeting is fatal, and she may already be too late.

If her brother is beyond her help, dishonor will shroud her. Her face will no longer be shown in their home, for her failure would outshine even the largest of game brought to her mother's feet. The loss of a child outweighs the loss of anything else.

She rises from her place on the floor, shoving the battered wood beneath the bed of straw. Her trust is thin. It's painful to leave it alone with the woman who shattered it with the clenching of a fist. But her hands are tied, and only bringing Bardi home unscathed will remedy that.

"I will find him." She announces, though neither woman acknowledges it outside of meeting her gaze.

It's expected of you.

Her feet guide a path to the entryway. On the hook hangs the furs that are too short for her tall frame. But the winter is unforgiving, and they have little to spare. The sleeves awkwardly rest above her wrists, the bottom just grazing where her torso ends and hips begin. If one could even call them hips. She doesn't deserve a new coat. Yir desires one, and her need for it is greater. She does everything without a blink of protest. It's difficult to recall a time when their mother did scold her outside of asking for marriage. But Dagny could not blame her for that. Why provide for her mother and three siblings, when she could only provide for a single man that didn't need everything split into fourths?

"Dagny." Her mother's voice cuts across the room before she can step out.

Are you going to reprimand me? Remind me that I am better off not returning at all if our brother isn't with me?

She whirls toward her elder image. "Yes, mother?"

The woman purses her lips. "Do not let the serpent go for your throat."

* * * * * * * * * * *

Her mother's statement is a haunting melody playing back the entire ride to Kattegat. She's careless in her riding. The reins often slip and her mount takes advantage of her lack of grip by tugging his head in every which direction. But the dread pooled in her belly is enough to keep her from gaining control. It's a led weight sinking deeper and deeper. Will she find Bardi cut open at the king's feet? His innards covered with dirt and his bones picked between the serpent's teeth?

She feels the eyes first.That sickening gaze that delves past every layer of cloth and skin. They're expecting her arrival. She wonders if the soldiers carrying shields of black and red have wasted hours away in the cold. Did the cold slowly bite away at their skin until she arrived? At the command of their king they graze through every pathway her horse jogs. Until there is no separation from when one body ends and another begins does she end up on foot. And the matching footfalls that gather behind her only leave bile in Dagny's throat.

Will I have to cut them all down to get to you?

If only she possessed a sword.

Two of the soldiers cut ahead of her. Their shields are Dagny's only greeting. The symbol of the serpent's sun stares back, a collection of blood, gold, and death. A small voice in her head teases to touch it. Let the pad of her thumb graze the symbol that's haunted the city for years. But she resists the temptation at the sight of two others on her opposite sides. It's only a twist of the knife to the back when Dagny's gaze falls behind her to reveal two more men at her flank.

Surrounded on all sides.

The panic surges but she buries it deep. Distress will only encourage them. It's a tactic, and a clever one concocted by the serpent himself. Suffocate her with his men, and in the process they lead her right to the trap laid out. She tests their strength in attempt to veer slightly to the right. It's responded with a rough grunt and shove of a shoulder. The man to her right refuses to break his wall. So Dagny's footfalls cease, and a torso slams into her spine with a jolt.

A shove thrusts her forward with enough momentum that her face nearly tastes the dirt. "Move." One of the brutes command.

They refuse to loosen their hold, and she has no choice but to obey. Her curiosity lingers. Do all the citizens of Kattegat suffer such scrutiny? Do they duck their heads hoping the serpent doesn't take notice of them? There is a realization then, almost appreciation for her mother. The woman understood the nature of the king. How he ruined everything he touched with a single stroke of a finger. She imagines of a different life. One where they are living in an overcrowded home clustered with plenty of other overcrowded homes. The pens of their animals spilling into the pens of other animals. And the woman gossiping together over a communal fire while their husbands raid on foreign soil. In this life they risk becoming one of the bloated bodies hung from the center of the city with one wrong look. It was the life of nightmares, a suffocating fever dream that only ended when the serpent grew bored and moved onto his next victim.

Now it's her turn to crash into a mass of flesh. The guards ahead cease abruptly, and she's once more set off balance. Though this time she gains her composure quickly, and only the man whose suffered takes note with a snarl on his tongue.

She's passed this building hundreds of times. Oftentimes it's when she's scouring the market with Hlodvir, trying to trade their bounty of fish or meat for furs and spices. It's existed as long as she has. A looming thing that stares down at all who pass. Dagny's never taken note of the inside, nor has she ever been invited to witness it. Only now standing before the great hall of Kattegat does she realize its significance. There's an aura to it--a fortress amongst the crowd. An impenetrable structure that withstood the rise and fall of every monarch that dwelled within it. Lavish feasts sometimes fill the hall. The bodies crowd until they're flushed and scented with ale. Dagny only discovered this after noticing some of the party guests stumble through Kattegat days later drunk on a night of blood sacrifices and bounties of the gods.

In this moment it no longer carried the semblance of celebrations. But rather a tomb to hold Bardi's cold body until she came to collect. Her knees knock at the steps, hesitation brewing within. Another harsh shove is the only means to propel her forward. Though it wasn't met without gritted teeth and a sharp hiss. The guard only chuckles in response. As if he was wrangling a kitten instead of a wild wolf. The heat only rises, coating her cheeks in bright crimson.

I am not a skittish little girl.

The light is dim when the group steps within. Seconds pass before her blue gaze adjusts to the darkness. The lack of light is to preserve heat. Hardly any dwellings contain openings to the outdoors, out of fear that the winter winds should consume the occupants inside. Though she expects a grander fire. One that threatens to consume the main room they reside in. Several torches adorn the space between tables that occupy several bodies, only they remain void of any flame. It's larger than five of her homes combined. The ideal setting for a monster indeed.

Several bodies circle the front of the room. Between them she can just make out the footfalls of another. Grunts escape their lips like a young sow. The shoulders only falling far below those that circle them. Above them is the seat of the king. His gaze burns into her like a violent flame. But she refuses to look up to meet it. The smile is evident on his lips without needing to look, a satisfied smirk that has haunted her for weeks. When she pushes forward toward the circle the men who shielded her disperse. Their task completed. With every step her heart races, a violent beat within her chest it threatens to crash through thick rib bone.

The body in the center of the circle crashes to the floor with a whine. It's only when she's closer that she notices two bodies stand where she only noticed one previously. Her gaze catches a cluster of thin braids as they fall down the neck of the bigger body. A hitch in her breath is the only indication of the familiarity of him. The one from her home whose gaze feasted on her sister like a starving dog. Heat rises in her chest, fists clenched at her side. The temptation to walk away is great. Watching the man she desired to harm wrestling on the floor is a pastime unworthy of her. But then there's a tuft of blonde just below the chest where the braided man grips onto two smaller arms.

"Bardi!"

Her shriek has startled the group. Their focus is on the match before them, and not the woman who snuck in only moments before. Dagny shoves the nearest body in attempt to open the circle. It's met with a shove back and snarl from a woman twice her girth. In any other instance she may have submitted. This isn't her home, these aren't her people no matter how close their farm resided. They were strangers. Cruel strangers hellbent on tormenting her baby brother for their own satisfaction.

She shoves through the woman again. This time breaking through, but not without the woman hissing "bitch" in response. Her insult is too far away to acknowledge. She bursts into the center, a blinding light. Long fingers wrap around braids that adorn the man on top of her brother.

With brute force she tugs at them. "Get off of him!"

A cry leaves the man's lips. "What the f-"

He whirls, ready to pounce on the fool that dares challenge him. His eyes differ from the serpents. Instead of mischief and cold calculation Dagny is met with wild hunger. It's raw intensity is enough temptation that she almost looks away from the severity of it. Instead she latches onto his arm like a wild animal, nails digging into the thick material that covers his upper body. With a violent tug he's thrown off balance, and the body below becomes visible.

The bruises from weeks before have almost gone. No longer does Bardi wander around the farm painted in purple and blue. Instead only a yellow sheen plagues the flesh of his face. But now she notices the bright red that stands out so significantly. His lip split clean down the middle and pooling at the clean tunic Yir washed days before.

The wolf is awakened. Only deep crimson consumes her vision as she pounces on the man with braids. The sheer force of the attack slamming to the ground beside Bardi with a painful grunt. Gasps fill the air, those from the circle dispersing in an unorganized fashion. His head slams into the wood of the floor as the grip on his shoulders tightens. She raises a fist but it's caught by a hand. The braided man snarls and lunges forward. Their positions shift, now she's beneath him. A manic laugh escapes his laps as he presses the weight of him to her chest. Her breaths are shallow, sinking. Panic flutters in her breast.

Relax.

She can't. With a wild shriek she thrashes against him, but he doesn't shift. His laughter only grows.

Relax.

The sharp talons of her nails find his cheek. They dig until he shoves them away. Little pools of crimson well up where they pressed. He ignores it, a death grip on her arm pinning it to the ground. She's never felt so pathetic.

"That's enough, Hvitserk."

The serpent's command sends the room into silence. The man--Hvitserk stills above her. His grip grows loose as his gaze falls to the left. She doesn't want to look. From the moment she entered the hall his gaze was on her. Exposing the flesh beneath her furs, she'd never felt more insecure. Hvitserk pulls himself off her, offering a hand as he rises to full height. He's taller than her, one of the few. The temptation to tug him back to the ground his great. So she ignores his hand and rises on her own accord.

Behind her stands Bardi. His lip still spills fresh blood, and his gaze reminds her of a frightened child. What does she say to him? Where does one even begin?

The serpent decides neither of them will speak first. "I wondered how long it would take you to figure out. I must say, I thought you were more clever."

The insult stings when it shouldn't. His opinion means nothing.

"Leave us." The command booms through the hall.

Several bodies pool out the entrance in which she came. Others shuffle to a hallway beyond this room. It baffles her. There's more to this place? How could one live in a dwelling so expansive? She wonders if anyone ever becomes lost. Dagny surely would. She's knows nothing outside of four walls and a mass of bodies on cots too small for one let alone two.

Only one guard remains, posted at the entrance. Likely there to prevent her escape. The man with the braids shifts from beside her closer to the throne that looms ahead. Bardi remains beside Dagny. His gaze falls every which way except toward her.

Dagny will have none of it. "What were you doing here?"

Bardi shifts uneasily.

Dagny pushes forward, her grip finds his chin and her gaze bores into him. "Mother knows you've been sneaking off. I wanted to prove her wrong and just say you were in the woods, but then Yir said you've been coming here. Are you that foolish?"

Her tone is harsh. The flinch of his body is enough to know she's cut through his ego. It only brings pain without satisfaction. No part of Dagny ever wants to scold her baby brother. For he's the only sibling that's like her. The only one who understands the pain of residing in a body that felt more like a cage than anything else.

"I did it for you." Bardi's voice falters.

It was easy to forget the king and his dog shared the room with them. For her only focus in that moment was Bardi. I did it for you. Did what? Made a fool of himself in front of the monsters that lurked below? She didn't want to ponder the idea of what their mother would do when she took sight of her little brother's disheveled appearance. The only thing Bardi does is complicate an already twisted set of events.

"He is right, Dagny." The serpent speaks.

She whirls, violent blues trained on the creature that brings chaos with every breath he takes. Bardi coming here did not do anything to benefit her. It only hinders an already fractured relationship with the woman who carried her into the world.

"You fought well against my brother." He decides to change the subject and anger simmers in her belly. "Few could pull him to the ground the way you did."

The dog bristles and Ivar only chuckles.

"But he defeated you regardless. You'll need more work than I thought."

Her gaze widens. "Excuse me?"

"When you train."

"I've already refused you, Ivar the Boneless. My decision has not changed."

Hvitserk gives his brother a knowing look, she imagines it's his way of saying I told you so. But the serpent ignores him. Their tension is awkward. It's an uncomfortable cage that settles between the two. Like fire and ice, living in fear of touching one another.

"It hasn't?" His voice boasts mock disappointment. "Then your brother has suffered for nothing."

"I have not--"

A hiss from the serpent cuts Bardi off. "He has come here every day to learn. Every day a different guard pins him to the ground, and I force him to throw knives until his arm refuses to rise. Every day he travels on a saddle too small for him."

It's a guilt trip. She's never asked this of her brother, they're all aware of it. Yet the weight of regret and grief tugs at her ribcage once again. She doesn't want the image of brutes harming Bardi engrained in her mind. They are rough, unforgiving. Now that her mind wanders she thinks of how slow he's moved in these few weeks. How in the morning he stumbles doing his chores, and flinches when the cows try to press his body closer to the pen. His bruises must have been beneath clothing, where they could remain hidden from the scrutiny of their mother.

She tugs at the tunic her brother dons, and shoves him closer when he tries to tug away. Only an inch is pulled away before she witnesses the plume of bruises. It's a painful canvas where blue bleeds into violet and violet bleeds into black. Yellow puffs the outer edges, and shallow scars are imprinted in his flesh like a tattoo. This is just the surface. Bile rises in her throat.

Her gaze pleads. "Why, Bardi?"

"I told you sister," He sighs. "I did it for you. When mother snapped father's bow I saw what it did to you. I knew this was the only way to get it back."

She shakes her head, floored by his statement. "You can't get it back Bardi, it's broken."

"King Ivar offered to fashion another one for you, and he didn't harm me when he offered it. In exchange for the bow I've also had to come here everyday and learn from him. It's helped tremendously, even if I look battered and bruised. I can fight now sister, I feel like I can breathe for the first time." Bardi's eyes shine with a glow she's never witnessed. It leaves her chest tight, for she understands the suffocation of being trapped in your own thirst for blood. It haunts her everyday, whispering in her ear to give in.

Regardless, there's still rage at the thought of the serpent using her brother. Everything held a price. Bardi's was his innocence with combat. Dagny knows at some point he will approach her to teach him. But she's only ever known the bow.

"He's hardly come against his own will." The king interjects dryly. It's followed with a snicker from the dog.

But would he come if he didn't have to pay a price? At the very least it was a beneficial one.

"Our mother carries hate in her heart, sister." Bardi adds. "It was once grief but it's been shrouded into something far more cruel. Ivar the Boneless is no different from her in some ways. But he agreed to help me when mother said he would feast the meat off our bones."

Dagny places a hand on her brother's shoulder. "Hush now." She says gently. He's made his point. Charmed by the snake himself instead of the other way around.

But when her gaze meets the body on a throne of stone and bone it's difficult to see anything beyond the monster in her mother's tales. She can't forget the face of her brother's that night she returned home. How they were reduced to shells of wounded pride and torment.

Ivar only stares back. It's an expression she can't quite read, which only causes more frustration. It's as if he's waiting, curious as to what her next move will be. Her gaze falls first, submitting to the ocean tides that bore into her skin.

She looks to his brother. "Take my brother outside. I will get him when I'm finished here."

Hvitserk scoffs, as if she is so bold to request something from a prince. Perhaps she is.

"You heard her." Ivar scolds. "Go."

The dog throws daggers with his gaze. The tension between brothers thick as a stone wall. It's a silent challenge. One dominating while the other submits. Just like with her, the serpent's gaze is the last to fall. So Hvitserk motions for Bardi to follow him out the hall. The boy looks to his sister with a wounded expression. His guilt will drown him. She thinks. But once this is over she'll assure him on the ride home that he is a brother worth bearing pride for. Even if he's made a deal with the devil himself. She nods for him to follow, and so he does. With his head tipped down, Bardi shuffles behind the elder Ragnarsson until only Dagny and Ivar remain.

The only other semblance of life is the guard who stands stoically at the entrance with his hand against a sheathed sword.

She's the first to speak. "Does your cruelty know no bounds?"

"I'm not sure I understand?"

"He's just a boy." Dagny presses. "He is gullible and easily swayed. Was humiliating him once not enough?"

His lips form a line. "No."

It's a slap to the face. The blunt honesty of a man who cares for little outside his own ambition. Would a lie have been any better? Perhaps it would have stung less, to be cushioned by a false promise. But from her little exposure to him, Dagny knows he isn't one to soften a blow.

Her gaze refuses to find his. "Why not?"

"You refused me. I needed to get creative." It's as if he's speaking about something as simple as the weather.

"And you think using my brother once more will convince me to join you? I am no shield maiden. I use a bow and that is it. I hunt game for my family and practice on the heads of my kill. Nothing more. Whatever that voice in your head told you, it was mistaken."

Their eyes lock then. His a turbulent storm at sea. The waves crashing from light blue to deep, almost black. His fingers grip the side of his seat, nails scraping against stone. She's testing him, and he easily loses whatever semblance of control is set. Until his face is once more neutral, the beast pushed away.

"It isn't a voice in my head. It was Odin." The confidence exudes off of him.

Odin has a horrific sense of humor. To torment her with a man such as this. How many lies did the wicked old god force down the king's throat? How many suffered because of his cruel tricks?

She shakes her head. "Are you sure it was not Loki?"

"I know when I am in the presence of the allfather."

"And what does he want from me?"

"Not from you." His tone even. "From me. He wanted me to find you, and get you on my side."

Her patience begins to thin. She's never been a player of games. "For what reason?"

"I don't know. He's only made it clear that I will suffer if I don't succeed. And I refuse to lose all that I have gained in the past decade."

She desires to slap him, if a farmer could do such a thing to a king. She's green with war, a child in many aspects to the nature of it. But one woman didn't make an army. And the ones that suffered were often the lesser men marching into shield walls, not the monarch who warmed his throne.

"Perhaps he's mistaken. As I said before I am no shieldmaiden."

"You're not yet." Ivar presses. "But you long to be. I saw it in your eyes when you killed a raven in one of my dreams."

Crimson floods her cheeks "It was just a dream."

"Was it?"

They both know the answer. As long as she's existed the gods have never presented her with anything outside of a storm when the summer grew dry. But nevertheless she prays to them. In the late hours with a shaking hand clutched to the hammer of Thor, she begs for a soundless sleep. Other times she asks Odin for some sign of a purpose every time her hammer ricochets off the skull of an animal. If this is his answer, the god's humor is as cruel as the tales spun.

Ivar the Boneless is a man of sense. One with enough of it to know when his argument is futile. This much she knows, as he begins to try a new tactic. It doesn't miss her how his gaze grows soft, or when he reaches behind the throne for an object well hidden. There's a grim side of her that almost wonders if it's a set of knives he plans to slice across her throat. One doesn't have to obey the gods when he destroys what they desire from him.

Instead it's something worse. Enough to lodge Dagny's racing heart into her throat. It's a trick of the light--it must be. Her father had a keen eye for detail. He swore he could count every star in the sky, and was twice as accurate when consumed with a bit of ale. His bow was no less intricate. Every rune served a purpose. From the type of wood, to the curve of the arch. His arrows were even embellished with runes. Something their mother found useless when they'd only be, "embedded in a man's back". But in front of her is an identical replica of the broken wood beneath her bed. It's glorious in all its new glory. The shine of the wood has returned, the runes more defined than the worn ones on its counterpart. It's beautiful. Enough to strangle a near sob out of her chapped lips.

A mischievous smirk fills the lips of the serpent, and she idly wonders if he's capable of a genuine smile. "Do you like it?"

Do I like it?

Adoration fills her gaze. It's potent enough that she cannot hide it beneath layers of careful conditioning. For her father's bow has risen from the dead, and it's so close. Her nose takes in the scent of stain against the wood.

The serpent holds it out in front of his torso. "Would you like to touch it?"

Her hesitation is obvious, as her hand rises and falls within seconds. But he only pushes her with a nod of encouragement.

It feels as if hours have passed before she takes a hesitant step forward. Like a doe she carefully places each foot in front of the other, as if walking on fresh ice. Ivar continues to hold it out as an open invitation. A feather light touch run the length of the weapon. It's smooth as fresh butter when it makes contact with the pads of her finger tips.

"Take it." He urges.

There's no hesitation this time. Her grasp is tight as she tugs the bow from his grasp. The serpent is more than willing, his grip falling as her's catches it. She suddenly forgets he's there at all, observing every movement with those eyes of the sea. It feels natural in her grasp. An old friend back from a journey away. She raises it eye level, testing the string. Her stance hasn't faltered in the weeks lacking her usual training. If anything it's only a matter of muscle memory. Her body contorts to the position that feels most natural. Her finger plucks against the string, ears absorbing the soft sound omitting from it. When her eyes close she's returned to the forest, a fresh stag head staring back.

Until it's gone, and only serpent king is watching her aim the bow right in his direction with a satisfied smirk. The reality sinks in. Her father's words are a blessing and a curse. For they often keep her out of trouble, but remind her of the life she'll never possess. The bow falls to her side with a heavy sigh.

"I can't accept this." She laments.

Ivar's expression doesn't falter. "And why is that?"

"Everything bears a price, and I know yours."

"It's already being paid. You will bear nothing as a result of this." The king's tone that of a father lecturing his child.

Bardi.

"You tricked my little brother." Her voice a snarl.

The serpent chuckles. "I did not. I told him I would fashion you a bow if he hit my guard with three knives, and he did. Then I informed him that he would need to come here everyday and learn to fight properly while I worked on the bow. He came of his own free will."

"Because he felt guilty for the loss of my bow."

"He is soft in that regard. You are one of his few weaknesses outside of the size of him. But if you are an indication of anything," He pauses--gaze traveling down her figure. "I believe he'll be alright."

She shifts in discomfort. No his gaze, even in an attempt to be harmless is anything but. "You still tricked him. He believes it to be in his favor but it's not."

"Oh really, and why is that?"

"You knew that I would come looking for him, and my distress over his situation would be enough to--"

She pauses, her limbs growing numb with the venom of his trap. Like a blind mouse she stumbles right into it. What an awful thing you are. She thinks, a scowl pressed to her lips. You've made a fool of us all.

The king lifts a hand as an invitation to continue her statement, but Dagny only shakes her head. The finality of it too consuming to voice aloud.

He decides to finish the thought in her stead. "Enough to take his place."

She didn't have to accept it. Give the bow back, take Bardi back to their homes miles away from kings and serpents alike. They would never have to see this terrible place again if they so desired. Mother would gain more skill sewing furs, she'd learn to fashion a bow of her own if it meant providing more fur and game for the winter months. Yir could peel any vegetable with her eyes closed. Hlodvir a master animal herder...

"I know what you are Dagny, even if you don't." Ivar tears right through the safety of her own thoughts. "It will consume you, if it hasn't started to already. Your mother fears it, so she tries keeps it tucked deep inside of you. Eventually you'll have to feed it, and it's either the blood of my enemies, or the blood you share with them."

Ulfhéðnar, Ulfhéðnar, Ulfhéðnar. The voice of Yir chants in her head.

"You know nothing about me, Ivar the Boneless."

"The first time I saw you through Odin's eyes you were in the forest. It consumed you then. One moment an arrow pierced the flesh of your kill, the next your nails pierced the flesh of your palm. Do you still bear the scar of it? You do, don't you? Imagine doing that to anyone you want to, giving it free reign and setting yourself free."

Her gaze falls to her free palm. A dark line covers the expanse of it, a reminder of what lies beneath. There's almost sympathy in his voice. The first person to encourage the beast within to come out and stretch her legs. "Don't you know you're never supposed to let a monster loose?" He looks at murder as if it's art, and death an honor.

"Actually," Ivar counters, voice filled with a challenge. "I've found it's only brought me success."

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

When Dagny exits the haul a violent breath escapes her chest. For the first time it feels as if heart inside her ribcage is beating once more. It's violent thunder enough to rival Thor's music within the clouds.

Bardi is with the serpent's brother. The reins of their horses remain in his grasp, and she can't control the guilt that consumes her at the sight of him. You're just like me. She thinks. One day you won't be able to hide it either. One day you'll feel this weakness that I do, and wonder if ruined everything because of it.

Their conversation is silenced at her approach, and she wonders if they were speaking of her. Two sets of eyes take in her form, the pale complexion of her face. As if Ivar the Boneless held her down and showed her spirits of the dead. But it isn't the worry etched into her brow, or the paleness of her flesh that has them staring. But rather the new bow strapped across her back. Beside it a pack of fresh arrows, all sharpened to a deadly point.

"Thank you." She says to the dog with her approach.

His smile is sharp teeth that hold more resentment than an acceptance of her gratitude for watching over Bardi. Hvitserk begins to walk away from the pair, but not before the weight of his torso slams into her shoulder. "See you around." He says with a snicker.

She ignores him, despite the urge to turn around and yank at the thin braids once more. Instead she holds out a palm for Bardi to hand her the reins. The sooner they left the better. No doubt their mother was already burning sage and preparing a funeral pyre.

They walk through Kattegat side by side in silence. The mass of bodies have slightly thinned out, but it isn't until they're toward the path between the shore and the hills of their homes that the pair mount their rides. Together they gallop until the pathway of stone and slush turns to grass embedded in shallow snow. The flat land slowly turns to rolling hills, and trees blanket the fading winter sun over head until only flickers of precious light peak through.

"You took the bow." Bardi announces when they've let up on pace.

She nods. "Aye, I did."

"Then you will lie to mother when I leave again tomorrow?"

She's thrust into the conversation fresh on her skin like new ink. The triumph that lit the serpent's face with victory, and plundered her's with defeat. A deal with Hel's male incarnate.

"For now, I will only train under you. I am not yet ready for acts of war."

"Not yet. One day you will be, and when you are not even Hvitserk will be able to defeat you."

"You're so sure of yourself, Ivar the Boneless."

"Never doubt your king, Dagny."

She's thrust into the present. "No, I will not."

"But she will--"

"Not care, because you won't be going back there. I am."