Ivar's crawling. Gone are the wings of freedom that help him soar above the forest every night. They're clipped with punishment, and Ivar must return to the body that's failed him since birth. Smoke burns his lungs, and flame leaves his face flushed. The ground is ruin. A hot endless pit of ash consumed by the anger only Surt could conjure.

She sits in the center of it. The moon in a sky of darkness. Her mass of golden tresses is tied back into the braid he's seen on her every time. Some nights when she comes to his dreams he wonders what it looks like down. Perhaps a mop of waves or a halo of curls. It's difficult to imagine such a sight. She's unaware of the chaos surrounding her. How the stags race through burning brush, and ravens scream above the smokey pines. Where she sits there is nothing, a silent void of grief though over what he cannot pinpoint just yet.

With her gaze of blue trained on the ground, Dagny doesn't react as Ivar pulls forward. His palms sting from the heat, and blisters seep into the soft flesh. Despite this Ivar trudges on through the waste until he's sprawled beside her. His burned palm brushes against the worn fabric of her breeches, and he wonders if this is the closest he will ever get to her. For only snake charmers can tame a viper.

Ivar finds the source of her attention, and its more beautiful up close than he originally imagined. The bow she's known for with all its intricate runes dug into the wood. Whomever made it was an artist first and a warrior second, or so he assumes. Since Ivar would never have thought to fashion such beauty into a weapon that was easily replaceable.

His doubts have come alive. The wood is snapped clean in two. The string a forgotten thing, he can't even locate it amongst the burnt grass. A wave of anguish overcomes him, though the king has no one to blame but himself. Even if it's a cruel illusion from Odin. Ivar should feel a small victory, for Dagny has paid a price for her refusal. But he cannot recruit a broken thing.

"What happened?" He uses the voice of the serpent to coax her submission.

Her gaze doesn't lift from the broken bow. "It's ruined." Her voice is hoarse. A tired tone filled with hopelessness rather than the fire he witnessed just nights before.

"You can fashion another." Ivar suggests.

It's what he would have done. He isn't an archer. Though gifted with a bow he often found it limiting. A useless weapon for short range, and often too fragile not to snap or break. Once the arrows ran out it was deemed useless. Not to mention more thought and resilience went into the fashioning of a sword,knives, axes, or hammers. Often blades told a story. Each fashioned from different ore with various runes or handles. He couldn't recall a single man or woman who fashioned their soul into a bow. Until he met her.

For the first time she looks up. Her gaze a violent sea aimed directly at him. Once more he witnessing the woman he met before. Only now there's a sadness to the storm that wasn't there at their meeting. A mixture of grief and anguish all in the small space of a pupil.

"No, I can't."

He releases a sigh. His patience is often tested with little reprieve, and now is no different. "Why not, then?" He could have ten bows with similar runes fashioned, one ready to replace the next once it snapped.

"A new bow isn't the same, even if it is made to look just like the one before it." It's as if she's read his mind. Her tone more of a mother scolding a child than a wounded wolf. "It is only a shadow of what originally was there. The sentiment is gone."

Ivar's lips dip into a frown that doesn't go unnoticed beneath her narrowed gaze. The sentiment. Was this weapon gifted by someone important? Or perhaps it was not her own. Then who did she take it from? What possible sentimental value went into a shaped piece of wood? He of all people should have understood, but Ivar's days of latching onto temporary things were long gone. Also gone were the days of attaching himself to anything at all.

She blinks. "Does my answer not please you, Ivar?"

It didn't. He doesn't know a thing about her, yet he knows the gods have given him a challenge. Her purpose is futile, for he's already been refused from whatever destiny he was meant to have. One soldier did not make an army. Yet he claims responsibility for the broken bow before him. Whatever sentimental value it held ruined over his endless pride. He shouldn't feel anything. Yet Odin's ensnared her existence into his mind, and he can't let go. Not until he's done what he's meant to do. Whatever that may be.

"Does my answer not please you, Ivar?" She repeats. Except her voice is different. It's softer, more submissive than the one he's witnessed before. Her face becomes blurry, lost in a dark cloud from the surrounding fire. Her blonde braid darkens into shadow. Ivar reaches into the air toward her, only to come back with a fistful of smoke.

"Does Torvald's skill not please you Ivar?" Eira squeaks beside him.

He's thrust unwillingly into the present. The dream that's haunted him every night since that fateful meeting reduced to the ash and smoke that it was. Ivar wonders if Odin wishes to drive him mad for his failure. For only Ivar the Boneless could bring lesser kings to their knees but be bested by a farm girl. A terrible farm girl with a tongue sharper than his.

His gaze lazily falls on Eira, who tries to hide her shaking limbs by grasping onto her youngest, Leif. She fails miserably. Ivar wants to scold her for acting so weak. No harm could befall her eldest when practicing with his father.

"He is alright." Ivar drawls and the woman flinches.

Before him Hvitserk circles his eldest son, a sword of wood in his grasp. Ivar often witnesses the training of his nephew since Hvitserk began only a few short months before. Vikings were bred young. Torvald would be expected to follow his father and uncle to raid by twelve. Even if they themselves had been spared the duty until their bodies developed into young men. But Torvald is only a boy of six, soon to be seven if you ask him. So Hvitserk torments himself and the boy by teaching him with those foolish wooden tools. If you were my son I'd still use a sword of metal Ivar thinks. For Torvald would learn how easily death lingers on the battlefield after being nicked with a blade once or twice. But Ivar is not the boy's father, and this is one of the only situations he can not hold over Hvitserk. A father taught his son in the way he desired.

Eira desires to hear that her son is a young talent. That the king swells with pride looking at his nephew, impressed with the skills he hones at such a young age. But while Torvald is quick, he is clumsy. He often drops the sword or stumbles when encroaching his father. Hvitserk gives him a good whack several times before the boy's sword touches his father's chest. He's still too light to carry a shield, and too fragile to break his skin with a real blade. Time will crawl until he is ready to board a longship.

Hvitserk is painfully aware of it. Ivar notices the way his lips form a frown with every swing the boy makes. They are impatient men, Ragnarssons. They forget the days of being children, fumbling with swords too heavy for their stature. Missing every target with the arrow, or almost taking out their mother's ear with a throwing knife meant for one of the guards. Time was a fickle mistress. Some days she sprinted, some she crawled. And his nephew's progress would crawl until the boy died and the man was born.

"Do not frown, wife." Hvitserk chides with heavy breath. "He is only lamenting over his dream woman."

Torvald waves his arm in a clumsy swing toward his father, and Ivar wishes for the second time that day that the sword was sharper than wood. His nails dig into the arms of his seat until his knuckles turn white. The dog always pushes the serpent.

"Shut up." Ivar seethes.

Eira tenses beside him, her young son squirms in her arms as a result, feeding off her fear.

His brother snickers. "It is not my fault the gods tricked you Ivar."

"Then you shouldn't have an opinion on the matter."

Hvitserk shakes his head of honey braids and shoves his imposter blade into Torvald's chest. The boy falls to the hardened dirt with a grunt and Hvitserk whistles in victory.

"Dead again, boy."

"He is too harsh with him." Eira whispers.

Ivar withholds the urge to snicker at her. "It is our way Eira. Would you rather he die on his first raid?"

A shake of her head is enough affirmation that she wouldn't. Though Ivar is aware she would rather not have her son raid at all.

"Did you train with your father?" Eira asks. Her pale hand clutching Leif to her breast.

"No." The king replies. The harsh nature of his tone enough of a warning for Eira not to press into the past.

She nods. "Then Torvald is lucky to train with his."

If anyone considered Hvitserk's guidance to be anything less than foolish.

His nephew would learn the proper way. When a sword was aimed at his chest in the midst of a shield wall. And the boy will either block it or join the others into Valhalla.

He may have understood the desire to protect a child if he had one. They felt painfully replaceable. If one passed another could be produced. Though that was a simple notion for him, for Ivar wasn't the one who would have to carry it. Regardless of that notion, he held little care for children anymore. There was a time when his heart swelled at the thought of becoming a father. Such a difficult feat for a cripple. But many forget his run in with the dream woman isn't the first time the gods attempted to make a fool of Ivar the Boneless. He certainly never would.

One of Ivar's guards approaches then, his features puzzling to even the king. For the man's expression bears no anger, but rather nervousness. As if he's worried of what the king will say to him. Ivar hardly has a submissive body in his ranks. They were just as cruel as their king in their own terrible ways.

"My king." He approaches with the bow of his head.

Ivar nods, gesturing for the man to continue.

The other's eyes begin to wander, his gaze of green falling on anyone but the king. Tarnished teeth bite down on his lower lip, an appearance that fills Ivar with impatience.

"Have you lost your sense?" Ivar scolds.

The guard shakes his head. "No sir it's just-"

"Just what?" Ivar spats. "If I wanted a waif for a guard I'd have Hvitserk's wife protecting me instead of you."

A snarl fills the air from his brother's direction. But Ivar ignores it. It's only a public display to comfort Eira.

"It's a boy my king." The guard lets out a sigh. "He demands he see you."

Ivar roars with laughter and the guard flinches in response. What a pathetic notion that any boy could demand an audience with the king. Ivar wonders to himself how to properly punish the man before him for falling for such tricks. No one demanded anything from the king.

"You don't understand—" the soldier begins but is quickly cut off by Ivar's short temper.

"If anyone is lacking anything here it is you." Ivar hisses. "Do you know what happens when we allow anyone to just have an audience with the king? They all think they can do it. Until my ears are dripping with blood from the torment of all their grievances."

The guard shrinks beneath Ivar's wicked gaze. "I know my king, but this boy is different."

"Is he a king as well"

"No."

"A prince perhaps? A jarl from a foreign land coming to offer his allegiance?"

"Well no but—"

"Then he is of no concern." Ivar waves a hand dismissively.

Hvitserk clears his throat. "I will go see what the boy wants."

Ivar shakes his head. "It is a waste of time."

"Aye that it may be." Hvitserk gives a shrug of his broad shoulders. "But at the very least he should be reminded of his place. And that it is not wasting the king's time."

The guard before Ivar let's out straggled breath, and Ivar loathes Hvitserk for diverting his brother's rage away from the fool. But he does enjoy the thought of the mysterious boy learning his place. No doubt a common beggar or worse demanding help from the king. Perhaps he had a father always gone on raids and a mother more enamored with ale than her own child. A problem Ivar couldn't solve.

"Fine." He spats. "Take this one with you, Hvitserk. If it is a waste of your time teach this one a lesson as well."

The guard grinds his teeth as a mischievous smirk crosses Hvitserk's features. The dog has always enjoyed inflicting pain. Even when they were boys a satisfied smirk always rigged at Hvitserk's lips when he wrestled Sigurd to the ground, or when he sliced Ubbe's flesh with his sword during training.

Hvitserk takes his leave, the guard walking with a hunched posture beside him. No doubt he's internally licking the wounds inflicted by his king. The viper watches intently with a narrowed gaze as they disappear ahead toward his hall.

Torvald brushes the fresh dirt that's marred itself on the fabric of his breeches. With a clumsy grip he spins the sword until it toppled onto the hard ground. His lips a fresh shade of blue due to the cold as they form a small frown.

"What does a boy want, uncle?"

"Probably everything and nothing." Ivar drawls.

The boy's tan brows furrow and the king releases a dark chuckle.

"Your uncle means to say that the boy has grievances he cannot fix." Eira interrupts, her patience for nonsensical questions a longer thread than Ivar's ever would be.

Her diversion is a welcome surprise, though he doesn't show it. It often goes over the king's head that he's a man that can be learned. Perhaps Eira has spent enough time silently observing Ivar's temperament and mannerisms. What caused the king to lash out at others, and what left him silently seething in his seat.

His nephew on the other hand, remains blissfully ignorant to his uncle's turbulent mood swings.

"But what if he has something important to share?" Torvald presses and Ivar is suddenly reminded how irritating a child can be if provoked.

Ivar narrows his gaze. "He doesn't."

Torvald's gaze falls at the displeasure in his uncle's tone. "Oh."

Ignorant Ivar thinks. Ignorant just like your father.

Eira shuffles from her seat, as always on cue. Leif stirs in her arms with a wail. He's discontent with his mother's stirring and prefers the latter where he is laying against her without interruption. "Come Torvald, your training has finished for today."

"But father--" The boy protests.

"Is busy." She chides. It's the most dominance Ivar has witnessed from her in a conversation.

And while her son's eyes gleam with protest, he gives in. Without his mother he will have to face Ivar's ever changing temperament alone. A task not for the faint of heart. The only thing currently keeping him under control is the fact that Eira is there, and he despises listening to Hvitserk complain that Eira is too frightened to even breath because of Ivar.

The boy approaches his mother, and she runs a pale hand through his honey tresses. A small frown pulls her lips downward as Eira's gaze travels down the small frame of her eldest. His flesh is peppered with scratches and blooming with fresh bruises. Ivar wonders if she will say anything on the matter, but she simply brings her lips to the top of his head and turns toward the hall.

"Come, son."

A gaze so hauntingly similar to his elder brother's finds Ivar, and his spine clenches in the process. That same narrowed look of doubt he's endured since childhood. Torvald's lips twitch, as if he has one last thing to suggest, but he doesn't. He turns and jogs to catch up with his mother who is already steps ahead, comforting the stirring babe in her arms.

It's better you kept your mouth shut.

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

To Ivar's displeasure, he isn't left alone for long. The sound of approaching footsteps is another headache begging to disturb his lone moment of peace. Even so is the fact that it is multiple footsteps which fill his ears. Not Hvitserk returning alone to gloat about the punishment he's given. Instead his brother has only brought another problem to Ivar to fix.

If he wants anything done right, he has to do it himself.

"Hvitserk, is there a reason you haven't returned alone?" There's an edge to his voice that stops the footsteps all together.

Hvitserk and the guard exchange a wary glace. The third body ignorantly placed behind the pair so the king cannot sneer and chide as he longs to.

"I thought it best if you spoke to him, Ivar." His brother's reply isn't delivered weakly as he's expected, yet it's no less irritating.

Before Ivar can return with a snide comment, Hvitserk and the guard both step aside to reveal the boy that's made his men momentarily foolish.

Ivar's jaw drops despite his best efforts. But just as quickly as he's lost his composure, it's regained. A deadly smirk tugs against the lips of the king as his gaze falls on the boy before him. Still his flesh is marred with violet bruises, but the split lip is healing nicely. It appears as if he's aged five years in just five days. He returns Ivar's gaze, his posture tall even though his head only falls to Hvitserk's shoulder. A boy who has arrived as a man. One that's come for retribution for the wrongs Ivar has caused. Why else would he bother to come from that secluded farm in the mountains?

There was one reason, and it only caused Ivar's smirk to grow.

"You're here about the bow."

Bardi blinks, his expression shifts in seconds from a hungry wolf pup to a befuddled child once more.

Hvitserk looks to Ivar with the same confused expression, but the king ignores it. His only prerogative at the moment is the boy before him.

"How--"

"I know everything, boy." Ivar sneers.

"Then you know who broke it?" Bardi tests, and Ivar searches for the obvious answer.

"Your mother no doubt."

The wicked thing he's only seen once. Yet she weaves stories of Ivar the Boneless as if she was his own mother. He remembers the look of hatred in her eyes when he crawled through her door. How her voice filled the outside with rage as her daughter came home to find a king in her hut and two broken brothers.

"Why have you come?" Ivar crosses his arms. "I have enough to do without granting an audience to foolish farm boys."

Bardi's gaze falls and Ivar doesn't doubt his reasoning. The boy didn't come for anything other than to yell at the king for ruining his sister's bow. Even if it was not Ivar who snapped the wood, his stunt is what caused it all. There was something admirable about the boy standing up for his sister, but Ivar knew that she of all woman did not need another to fight her own battles. Her pride was the reason it was Bardi and not Dagny standing before Ivar demanding some form of retribution. She knew better than to demand anything at all.

"So you can repair your mistake." Bardi replies.

It's the answer Ivar is expecting and he can't help but chuckle at the notion. "I've made no mistake, it was you who attacked my men."

"And you lost any hope of earning my sister's loyalty in the process." The boy chides.

"Shut up." Hvitserk growls, and gives a kick to the boy's shin. Bardi yelps in pain, but his stance doesn't falter.

Ivar's grip curls into his seat, crimson filling his vision. He wonders if Bardi will be so confident when he finds himself wedged between Ivar's sword. But there's a better strategy for getting what he wants, so Ivar pushes the rage away.

He reaches into his pocket, and Bardi stiffens. The king takes his time discarding the throwing knives that rest in his pocket. They're sharper than wolf's teeth, and darker than the night sky. A single digit slides into place, spinning the blade around his finger. His gaze finds the boy again, who has grown rigid as a board.

"Have you ever thrown a knife, boy?"

Bardi shakes his head and Ivar gives a subtle nod.

Ivar tosses the blades to the ground in front of him. All three of the men jump back, and he internally criticizes their weakness.

"You." Ivar points to the guard. "Come stand beside me."

The guard hesitates, but a glare from the king is enough to subdue him. His heavy feet drag beside Ivar's seat facing Bardi and Hvitserk. His gaze is a panic despite best efforts, and Ivar is sure the man knows what comes next. His king bears many habits that haven't changed with the passing years.

"Go on." He urges. "Pick them up."

Bardi is still as a statue, yet his gaze is wild and alive. A longing fills his blue eyes that's identical to his eldest sister from Ivar's dreams. The need is there to grasp the weapon in his palm, feel the sharp blade against his cold flesh. Ivar's felt that desire more than any other. He's always hyper aware when another bears the same expression of bloodlust.

Hvitserk produces a shove against the boy's shoulder and he tumbles forward. Thin knees scrape against the hardened dirt. Ivar's gaze narrows on the red hands that reach for the trio of blades. He takes note of how they shake in the cold air, though the king knows it has nothing to do with the winter afternoon.

"If you can hit my guard one time with these knives, my brother Hvitserk will spare you from acquiring a split lip once more." Ivar begins, his tone booming throughout the yard. "If you pierce his flesh twice then I will teach you to throw one properly--"

"If I can hit him more than once why would I need your help?" Bardi cuts.

Ivar's glare pierces Bardi, and the boy's gaze falls to the ground. "You barely bear the strength to swing a hammer, let alone throw a knife wherever you please. It takes more than a simple flick of the wrist you know."

"And what if I hit him with all three?"

This produces a chuckle from the king. For he doubts the boy can produce the accuracy to hit the guard once, let alone twice. But he's a cruel creature and the enjoyment he'll receive watching Bardi fumble with the blades is more than enough reason to allow this silly game to occur at all.

"If you can manage a third strike, I'll find a way to replace that wretched bow you and your sister worship so." He waves his hand dismissively as if the action itself is ridiculous.

"I suppose I have no say in this." The guard grunts.

"Of course you don't." The king barks. "He will hardly cause a scratch."

A chuckle escapes Hvitserk's lips as Bardi's gaze darkens. There's a defiance within the boy that Ivar's witnessed before. That semblance of a challenge that Ivar rarely witnesses anymore. For who would ever challenge a king outside of two children whose mother hid them away like thieves in the night from his incumbent rule? It was there once with Ubbe. His elder brother thought he was so smart. With his meddling and desire for a simple life, he fashioned himself beside Ivar's enemy and it was Ivar who had the last laugh. Then there was Sigurd. Who challenged Ivar from the moment he came into the world. Whether it be with fists or words, Sigurd never relented. Until an axe embedded itself into the young prince's belly and Ivar couldn't even conjure faux tears.

This boy couldn't hold a candle to those two.

Bardi sucks in a breath, his finger swings the blade in hand. Ivar wonders if fear consumes him. If the pressure mounting to be the hero his sister was never given will overpower any hope of accuracy.

The first blade glides through the air. It's impossibly slow, time crawls for the king as he follows its path. The boy's eyes are sealed shut, a whisper reverently escapes his lips. A silent prayer to the gods that threw them all into their situation. All of whom were likely laughing with goblets of mead and cursing their very existence.

A hiss escapes the guard's lips, and it's only then Ivar realizes the blade has pierced the flesh above his knee.

Impossible. Yet it isn't. A singular ribbon of red glides down the guard's leg, welling into a small pool when he rips the blade from the wound, his palms pressing into the hilt with a snarl.

"You little-"

"Hush." Ivar hisses, his gaze as wide as the plume of blood on his man's leg.

Bardi looks no less relieved. For he's only escaped the torment Hvitserk was so eager to inflict upon him. He is still far from accomplishing the task he came for.

"It's only beginner's luck." The king retorts. "A flesh wound."

The guard reluctantly regains his stance, shoulders straight and fists closed at his sides. Ivar idles by with bated breath as Bardi prepares to throw the second blade. This time he tests the weight of it, shifting it from hand to hand.

When Ivar flashes a curious gaze the boy only shrugs. "Dagny does this when she throws knives."

Bardi shifts the knife once more between his palms, before tossing the second into the air. This one is faster, and Ivar loses sight of it in a blink.

His guard only stiffens in response, and Ivar assumes that the boy misses his target. But then the king notices it--the plume of crimson staining his guard's tunic. The knife protruding from his flesh like a spike.

Ivar's never felt more insulted by the gods.

There is only one blade left. His heart tumbles to his belly, breath hitched in anticipation. Ivar the Boneless has never lost. Even if this is not a battle of sword and shield, it is a battle of the mind. One where the boy was meant to collapse on himself in his own doubts. But their mother has raised stubborn stock, and Ivar's guard is now nursing two wounds.

The final blade leaves Bardi's grasp. It soars through the air, immune to the harsh wind that blows through Kattegat. Ivar can't tear his gaze as the hilt takes flight. His eyes trace the blade as it heads right for the guard, each breath it only grows closer.

Then a howl fills the air and Ivar's stomach clenches. His nails seep into the wooden bark of his chair until pain shoots up his palm. It wouldn't be the first time they've snapped from his temper.

Hvitserk breaks the silence. "You said you couldn't throw a knife."

Bardi whirls, fighting the smirk on his lips. "I never have."

"Liar." The prince spats.

Ivar's guard tears the final knife from its place above his chest. It falls to the ground in a single swoop, and his emerald gaze falls on the king.

"Allow me to punish the boy, my king."

Ivar shakes his head. "There will be no punishment."

Both men share an expression of bewilderment. "But Ivar--"

Hvitserk's protest is cut off by a hiss from Ivar's lips. "Unlike you Hvitserk, I keep my word. This boy may have defied every odd, and perhaps the gods have bewitched him for my misery. But I must uphold my half of the bargain. As any just king would."

Hvitserk opens his mouth to protest once more, but Ivar's attention is on more important matters. His gaze of ice focused on the boy before him. Bardi stands with a confidence that wasn't there before. His eyes lit with glee even if a frown plagued his lips.

"You earned your sister a new bow, boy." Ivar produces a smirk. "A newfound hero you've become. After crying in her arms just days ago."

He waits for the sarcastic retort but it never comes, the boy bears half a brain. He's aware that he will receive what he desires if only to tolerate Ivar a moment longer.

"Return tomorrow. I will show you how to properly throw a knife so that you hit an eye instead of a knee. Then you will return every day until the bow is complete. If you fail to arrive, then I will use it as kindling for my fire." Ivar gives a dismissive wave with his hand. "Now leave. I've had enough entertainment for one afternoon."

"But you never said I had to come every day." Bardi protests.

What a petulant child you are. The king thinks. "I am the king, I decide how you get your bow. Now go before I go against my own word."

The boy doesn't move, and for a moment Ivar believes he won't. Until he spins on a heel, and turns away. A hurricane heading back into the forest that consumes Ivar's dreams. The king's gaze doesn't falter until Bardi becomes a mass among the other bodies beyond the yard, and it's only then that Ivar's guard decides to renounce his presence.

"My king--"

"Go clean your wounds." Ivar says. "We are done here."

With a nod the guard is gone, though Ivar doesn't care to follow where he went. It is not only he and Hvitserk.

"Why did you agree to it?"

Hvitserk's question isn't a surprise, in fact he expects it. His brother's curiosity a never ending spider's web.

"Because Hvitserk." He replies with a sigh. It's an obvious answer afterall. "He will have to return every day until the bow is finished."

"I know, Ivar. That is what I don't understand." Hvitserk's bears a confused expression "Why not rid yourself of him?"

"He is a farm boy, is he not?"

"Yes?"

"Then it will be difficult to find time to journey from the hills all the way to Kattegat. Even if he can, it will be difficult to do it everyday. It's almost impossible to sneak away from a farm when every hand is needed."

It takes a moment, but Ivar notices when Hvitserk finally comprehends his plan. The way his eyes light up mischievously in the afternoon gloom. A slight smirk tugs and his lips and for a moment Ivar recalls the brother who stood by his side when others wouldn't. A ghost of the past that haunted him still.

"Someone will notice his absence." Hvitserk chides. "And when they do--"

"When she does." Ivar corrects.

"You will gift her the bow."

The king nods. "And she will be in debt to me."

"That's if she accepts it."

"She will." Ivar replies. The vision of his dream returns to him. The sorrow in her eyes tattooed into his memory. The bow is her second skin, no doubt she won't be able to resist it. "She has no choice."