CHAPTER NINE; the reunion ( part one )

        Peter's feet were sinking in the wet mud as he leaned his body against the hut, being careful to remain unseen with his right hand carrying his sword at his side. The voices of the men on the other side of the shelter could be heard with a strain but carried enough volume for him to hear mostly word-to-word what they were saying. A worry of fight was not something they fussed with. 

It was when his head turned the small side of the open window that he managed to get a peek of one of them, being careful with his weight — a tall, dark-long haired men stood closest to see, a sword with a stone at the end of it's hilt strapped to his back. There was nothing familiar about him. 

He was a Dane. Peter would not be familiar with one who was a Dane if not Tova. 

But the other man he had a good view of, with darker hair that was cut short, had a necklace with a cross around his neck. He was a Christian. Or at the very least, he believed in Peter's God to carry a form of guidance and protection around. 

There was a third. Peter heard him speak, but could not see him. But there were four horses, so there must be four men. Another was around somewhere.

Pulling his body back against the hut, Peter gripped his sword a little tighter. He hoped Tova had stayed where she was this once. Because he wouldn't win against four and she'd need to stay hidden. With Rorik. 

Rorik.

When he took another glimpse through the window, he saw that the men were talking a little more huddled together. And their — Rorik's blankets — on the poor cot. They'd need them with bad weather approaching. 

Slowly walking around the hut again, his body low and continued to be tucked against the wall, Peter tried to spot the fourth man. Or the third. To compare their builds. To calculate who'd be the easiest to match. Wouldn't matter all that much to Tova, she'd use her speed and smaller build to her advantage as she always did. 

He knew then that she wouldn't stay hidden. 

She was looking over toward him when he stopped by the edge of the wall, shoulder pressed by the wood as he waited for the men to exit. Slowly, Peter shook his head, hoping she got the message to keep herself out of sight and out of mind for them. 

Stay there with Rik. He was trying to say with his eyes. He hoped his face screamed it loud and clear. 

Tova glanced down to her son in her arms, pressing him further into her before lifting her head again, giving her own motion for her friend to stay where he was. 

Leaning his head back, disappearing completely from her eyesight, Peter sighed, unsure of what to do. They could wait the four men out, but what if they took shelter? They needed to leave, and sooner rather than later. 

And if he served as a distraction, his friend and her son could flee. But would she? 

Peter was only fooling himself with believing Tova would leave him to die. . . or perhaps he wasn't. There was Rorik to take account of.

It was at that moment, he was unsure of her. He didn't know her well enough to be able to calculate what she'd do. Only what he hoped she would do, which was not enough. 

They would have to find fur from elsewhere, Peter decided. That way — all three of them would be fine and no bloodshed was needed. His fingers pulled on his necklace and he gripped his cross, muttering a prayer as he moved to turn the way he had came from. 

But it seemed that the fourth man of the group had found him, axe in hand and a helmet on his head. 

Standing upright himself, Peter's jaw clenched. His other hand went up slowly, a sign of hopeful peace and surrender, "I found shelter here a few days ago," He slowly explained himself, keeping his voice low and quiet to not attract the attention of the other men, "Forgive me for spying on who had taken up this space during my absence." 

This man was not a Christian, but a Dane. His light moustache was bushy and he was large, and tall, and Peter doubted he'd win a fight against this man unless he got the upper hand. Fighting as Tova would could do Peter some good. 

The man grinned, though it lacked any malice. He didn't raise his hand either. "Spying on us, were ya?" 

A nice Dane would be best fitted for this situation. Peter forced a smile, quite clear to the other man. "Only wishing I could grab my things and be on my way." 

"Who's the other horse belong to then?" 

His fingers tightened around his sword. Peter forgot about Tova's horse. "It was my Mother's. She's dead now," His other hand gripped his cross a little tighter at the lie, and the way he felt no guilt, before tucking it inside his clothing and letting his arm drop. "I mean no harm." 

The Dane laughed, his head coming back slightly at the words, his chest pushing forward slightly. His body seemed to shake in amusement. "No harm, he says," He mocked Peter, continuing to find joy. "Funny little Christian man." 

Tova grew restless as she tried to spot her friend, her hands holding Rorik tighter with each second that passed. 

The little boy shook his head, curls bouncing, at the grip. "Mama —" 

"Shush," Tova pressed her lips to his brow, hushing him immediately. Spotting a man exiting the hut, her eyes widened and she jerked around, hiding behind the tree and pulling Rorik with her, a hand clasping around his mouth. 

Peter. She couldn't leave Peter. 

"Little?" Peter mumbled to himself, resisting the urge to observe his body. But anything in comparison to this big excuse of a man was little, he supposed. "And I suppose we must all be a big and fat man such as yourself to not be considered little to you then?" 

A laugh interrupted them, and Peter's body tensed to the point of painfully, a second man joining to oppose against him. That meant the other two men would know of his presence and to think he'd decided on — 

"Did this man call you big and fat, Clapa?" The voice, an Irishman, was riddled with laughter as he held his hands against his stomach. Peter tilted his head, quickly looking over his shoulder to spot the Christian man he'd seen inside the hut. Maybe he'd speak some sense. 

The Dane, by the new name of Clapa, narrowed his eyes over Peter's shoulder and toward his Irish friend, "He didn't see you first." And that caused the laughter to soften, the friendly insult being soaked in. 

Peter did not want to be standing between them. He slowly took a step to the side, turning his body so he could see if the Irishman approached, and — very slowly — he placed his sword back on his belt, feeling himself being watched by the pair. 

He hoped they understood his sign of surrender more than his attempt with Clapa. 

"I took shelter here," He told the Irishman, repeating himself, "When I returned from an attack whilst hunting, I noticed the horses. I assumed you were with my attackers and merely wished to collect my things." 

"Think he's telling the truth, Finan?" 

The Dane was called Clapa and the Irishman was called Finan, and neither knew his name, which was good. Peter wanted to keep that for himself, and Tova's existence entirely, so he stayed silent as he was watched. 

Clapa clipped his axe to it's empty hold, nodding toward Peter, "He's a Christian man, like you," He informs Finan, who nods in acknowledgement, "Was muttering something as he held his cross. He tucked it away —" He tapped his chest, and Peter slightly shook his head, wondering how long Clapa had been stood behind him for before he even noticed the man. "Right here." 

"A lone Christian?" Another voice asked, and two more men appeared from behind Clapa, one with the sword on his back and the other that he hadn't managed to get a glimpse of. 

And Peter couldn't help the way he stared at the man on the right of Clapa. He was smaller than the big Dane, but he was a Dane himself, with smaller but still muscular arms, and hair that was braided tightly, but still, come curls managed to escape through. 

It was the eyes that held Peter's attention. 

And the necklace. 

And — "Sihtric?" 

Immediately, Sihtric — if that was who Peter believed it could be — drew his sword defensively, and Finan followed through, both of their eyes narrowed in suspicion. Clapa only laughed slightly and the unknown man stepped forward. 

"You know Sihtric?" He was asked by the man with the stone sword, a hand being pointed to Sihtric, "How do you know of him if you're a Christian man?" 

"Mayhaps we have a sinner, Lord," Finan's suggestion poked through the tension. "Makes his bed with Danes that know of Sihtric here?" 

Peter's pointed look toward the Irishman caused Clapa to laugh again. His knuckles turned weight from the way he was holding his sword, "I have no intention of fighting," He says once again, for it was the truth, "I only wish to be on my way," He looked back to Sihtric. "I do not know you." 

That wasn't enough. 

Uhtred, the only man that hadn't been named in Peter's space, had seen the way this Christian had stared at Sihtric. Something had flashed in his eyes had the glimpse he'd gotten of their approach. "Then how do you know his name?" 

"A guess, Lord," Peter tried to respectfully answer, refusing to look over Finan's shoulder to where he knew Tova was if she was still there. Something in his gut told him he was. "He looks like a boy I know. A boy with a Mother that told me of a Dane by the name of Sihtric." 

That seemed to knock some of the defence that Sihtric had taken up down, his brows softening it's hardness as he drew them together in confusion. He knew of no boy with a Mother that was Christian. . . or even Dane. Unless he had forgotten them from Dunholm from passing by. Or they had been friends of his late Mother. 

"I know no boy with a Mother, Lord," Sihtric denied. 

"You did not know her to be a Mother when you knew her," Peter's tone was one of sympathy, Uhtred noticed, and he stared at Sihtric as if he pitied the Dane. He sounded like a good Christian man, but he dressed like Finan, though his arms were covered unlike the Irishman's. 

Sihtric could only shrug at Finan's look. But the Irishman had lowered his sword at Uhtred's lack of response. 

"Put your swords away," Uhtred ordered two of his three men, "You will not strike a lone Christian man. Continue." He beckoned with a hand. 

What if he was wrong? Peter worried, looking from Clapa's large frame and over to Sihtric's, and back again. But what the Lord — Uhtred — had said brought him some ease. If he was wrong, then he wouldn't reveal where his friend currently was. 

"A woman by the name of Tova Ragnarsdottir with a necklace the same as yours told me of you," Peter's reveal knocked coldness into two bodies that stilled them both, Uhtred's eyes widening in shock, "And. . ." 

Uhtred looked over to Sihtric, but the Dane did not return the stare, his face one of grief and, dare Uhtred think it, hope. Along their journey, they had been searching for Tova, for Uhtred's lost sister, and Sihtric had been growing restless over their failure in finding her. 

He then marched forward, and Peter's shoulders squared protectively, preparing to defend himself if need be. 

"What else?" Uhtred demanded to know, a hand curling around Peter's shoulder to pull him closer. 

Finan itched forward at that, remembering that this Christian man — Peter, for Finan still did not know his name — had been nothing but offering since their recovery of hiding. "Lord. . ." 

Uhtred spared Finan a look but naught else. His touch remained but he softened his expression, his other hand coming up the same way that Peter's first had — a sign of peace. "What else did Tova tell you? Who is this boy you speak of with her?" 

Rorik. The little boy flashed in Peter's mind as he debated on revealing him to them, his bottom lip between his teeth for a second. They weren't harming him. And Sihtric eyes said it all, much like the little boy's did. 

It had to be enough. For Tova's sake. For Rorik. 

"The man is her son, Lord. And the boy is Sihtric's son, she told me," Peter cleared his throat, a hand resting on his hilt, looking back over to the man that Tova sometimes spoke of, bits and pieces but it was all he needed to know. "She searches for you. She searches for you still. And her brothers, a. . . Ragnar and," Peter's brows came together as he struggled to remember the other. 

"Uhtred?" Uhtred offered, and his fingers tightened when Peter nodded, "Where is she? You will take us to her." 

"I cannot —" 

"You will do this now," Uhtred ordered, and Finan did not intervene this time, knowing Tova was Uhtred's sister. Knowing who Tova was to Sihtric, who remained locked in his state. And so Finan moved for him, rounding to Peter's other side. Though not threateningly, just a manner to remind the Christian he had no choice but to tell them. 

Maybe he was wrong. 

Maybe. . . 

It wasn't his choice to make. It wasn't his journey. He was just with her, by a promise made from his own mouth. He'd protect her whilst doing the best he can. 

"I will not put her in harm's way," Peter's words drove through Sihtric. "How can I trust her safety is in tact if I tell you where she is?" 

Sihtric's eyes flew to the two horses, the ones that belonged to Peter — and as he tried to claim, one that belonged to his dead Mother — and not to the four. And then his stare grew wide, and he flew forward, "She is here, Lord." 

Both Uhtred and Peter rushed out, "What?" 

And Peter attempted to move past Finan, who nudged him back, "She is not —" 

Sihtric did not stop to listen. He rushed forward, moving past them all, his sword away and a hand gripping his necklace, an ache in his chest as he imagined seeing her again, after all these years. 

But the boy that Peter spoke of? What boy? Could it be —? 

"Tova!" Sihtric could not hold in the shout any longer, rounding the hut and frantically looking around, looking more like a Dane that Christian's spoke of with their wildness, influenced by the Devil's wicked ways. No movement came. "Tova!" 

"Lord —" Finan tried to warn Uhtred, in case Sihtric was wrong and Uhtred's sister was not here. But Uhtred had already moved, for Peter's face gave it all away. 

The stressed worry did not rain down on the Christian for no good reason. 

Tova was here. 

"You mustn't —" Peter was stopped by Clapa's push, and he glared at the Dane, "Big — oof!" He was shoved again, as Finan stiffed a laugh at the offence on Clapa's face. 

"Tova! It is me!" Sihtric shouted into the trees. "It is Sihtric! Your Sihtric!" 

And behind one of those trees, Tova shook her head. Rorik's own buried into the gap of her neck as she breathed as calmly as she could. Her mind was playing tricks on her, punishing her over and over again for her failures in saving her family, and perhaps now Peter's own life. 

But then his voice echoed again and she did not wish for his voice to be used as a punishment held against her. That was cruel. The Gods were cruel for this play against her own heart. 

Her fingers wrapped around her necklace over Rorik's head of thick curls. "It is alright," She whispers to her son.

Rorik's whisper back makes her freeze, "Who shouts, Mama?" 

Her chin tucked against her collarbone as she stared into her son's mismatched eyes, taking in the fact he could hear the calls as well. And then her head shot back up, hearing her name being called again, and now knowing it wasn't all in her head. 

Her son had nothing to answer for. Aside from being born a bastard, he was innocent, and the Gods had no need to drag his goodness into their cruelty. She knew they wouldn't. And she trusted that. 

"Sihtric?" She calls back out, still pressed against the trees. 

"Tova! Where are you?" 

Tova's eyes close for a second, turning her body around as low and quietly as she can, pressing a finger to her son's lips. "Stay here, sweet boy," She instructs of him, her heart hurting at the frightened expression on his pale face. "Only come out if I call for you."

She moves away when he nods, accepting her motherly terms. 

Instead of standing where she had been hiding, she crawls past another two tree trunks, breathing in before standing, a hand wrapped around her chain. And her eyes finding the face that had haunted her for so long. 

Despite knowing it, she had forgotten how much Rorik truly took after his Father. It was crystal clear. And over his head, she saw the body of her brother, and then another behind him, but no Peter. 

Her friend was not there. 

Sickness clogged her throat. "Where is Peter?" She demanded to know, but her voice did not come out as she had hoped, wavering slightly. Showing her fear of the situation. 

Not once did Sihtric remove his eyes from her, afraid she would disappear. "He is fine." He answers, much more gentle in a matter of speech than she, and took a step closer, influenced to take another when she did not flinch at his growing closeness. 

Tova almost launched herself forward when she caught sight of his matching treasure hanging around his neck. It was him. It was him. And he had found her. 

With misty eyes, her arms locked around his neck and she pulled him down slightly, his own arms rounding her waist to pull her tight against his chest, a sobbed whisper of his name ripping through her at the touch. 

She felt lifted skin — a scar — where her fingertips ran past the back of his shoulder, and so, she held him tighter. 

His lips pressed against her blond hair, "You are here," He breathes, holding her tighter. Remembering the last time he had held her like this, when he'd promised to meet her, when she'd ran for the horse he'd planned for her journey. He'd meant to meet her. And he'd blamed himself ever since when he hadn't. 

Her body moved back, and he attempted to stop her so she did not leave his embrace, but her hands only moved upward to cup his cheeks, scanning his face. Scanning his realness. And he let her do it, his own fingertips digging into her waist. 

"And you are here," She murmured, nodding to herself. 

He wants to question the haunted scare in her gaze. He had seen the same in Uhtred's eyes that day at Dunholm where his Lord had killed his Father, but she didn't give him chance. 

Pulling his head to meet hers, their lips collided. Proof of their moment. And a possible dare against how long they'd need to part for air. Uhtred hung back, allowing them their reunion before demanding his own with his younger sister — with the one he, for a long time after finding Thyra, believed had been dead. 

But of course not. Not Tova.

She did not look like the Tova he knew that day. Like Thyra, she had changed. Adapted herself to what had happened, and to the fit of survival, and he completely understood why. 

Uhtred thought Tova was the spitting image of Ragnar. They looked just alike. And he knew their brother would find nothing but joy in this when he saw her again — for Tova had always been Ragnar's favourite. Tova had been Ragnar's in a way none of the others had been. 

"You're alive," Tova cried against Sihtric's lips then. Her forehead touched his, keeping them close. Keeping him close. "And you found me." 

It was luck, Sihtric knew. And he was more than grateful for it. And for Peter. 

"You have a loyal friend," Sihtric praised the Christian man. He did not forget the way Peter had refused to tell them of Tova's whereabouts, even if Sihtric had figured it out. But. . . friend. Sihtric would stick to that. He could not believe anything else. And he hoped. 

He could feel her smile against his skin, "I know." And relief flood through him. 

She had waited. He had waited. 

"Tova?" 

Her skin left Sihtric's and he frowned at the interruption, turning to his Lord when she did. 

"Uhtred?" Her body hesitated to leave Sihtric's, but only for a moment, and then she raced forward, like when she was younger and attempting to catch up to her brother — for Ragnar always went easy on her — and found herself laughing when he caught her. 

Peter made his way out from behind the hut, glaring toward Clapa, with mud trekked up his side, but he stopped beside Finan, staring at the scene in front of them. 

"What you looking for?" Finan wondered, turning to face where Peter was staring at. But then Peter huffed and moved forward, and the Irishman narrowed his eyes, "Oi, little man —" 

"Peter," Tova called, one arm still over her brother's shoulder as she beckoned him toward them. Her eyes caught Finan's, his darker ones clashing with her bright blue gaze, and he nodded respectfully, catching the family resemblance to Young Ragnar. They certainly looked more alike than Thyra did to either of them. 

She returned the nod with a small smile before kissing her brother's cheek and slowly moving back to Sihtric, where he welcomed her instantly. 

"Christian Peter," Uhtred made a small joke as he looked to his sister's companion. 

But Peter had enough of jokes. "Fake Dane," He jabbed back, having been told of their history by Tova, and Uhtred looked to his younger sister, who only shook her head with a smile. 

"Where is. . .?" Peter then frowned, knowing Tova wouldn't of told her son to run off by himself. 

And Tova looked to Sihtric, her smile dying a little. Her worry on his reaction, and the Dane frowned right back at her, before she stepped back, collecting herself, squaring her shoulders as she turned to the trees. 

"Rorik, it's Mama." 

She didn't need to call twice, for a boy sprang from behind a tree at her voice. Sihtric felt he'd been winded, staring at a boy that was the image of him in the way Tova was of Ragnar, and watching as he — Rorik — pushed himself against Tova's front. 

"It's alright," Tova bent down to his height, and Uhtred watched as Peter stepped toward them, the boy's eyes landing on him and lighting up. Eyes that were identical to Sihtric's — mismatched. "Rorik —" 

"Uncle Pete!" Rorik cheered, his nose scrunching up and he attempted to run toward Peter this time, but Tova held him back, a hand on his stomach whilst her other brushed hair back from his face. "But. . ." 

"Ro —" 

The separation must of been a scare for him, Peter realised. Hiding was something Rorik hadn't done much of that separated the three. 

"I'm okay, Rorik," Peter reassured the young boy, whose eyes softened and his fingers slowly unclenched from it's rounded fist. 

Tova stood, pressing her son to her front as she turned to them fully. Her eyes met her brother's, seeing the way he stared at her and then her son, and then back at her, understanding, and at the same time, both of them turned to Sihtric. 

Her hold became a little protective, though she did not mean to become that way. She only feared his reaction, for their son was like him — a bastard. Born outside of a man and woman, husband and wife, and perhaps things had changed for him during their time apart. 

"This is Rorik," Tova introduced her son, to the man that made the boy their son. "And he. . . he is our son, Sihtric." 

The boy looked next to nothing like her. 

Sihtric could not help himself from just. . . staring at the proof of what they had done before separating for all this time. The boy was him; from the curls to the eyes, and to the little fighter Rorik seemed to be shaping up into wanting to become, his head held high. 

He had promised he'd marry her. And now they had a bastard child between them. 

Sihtric had nothing of Tova but a necklace and a rush to find her, and she'd had a little boy that was half him this whole time, and he'd not known. 

Shame filled him whole. He'd let her down, let their child down, by failing to meet up after her. He'd tried and he had failed. 

"Well," That's Clapa speaking, "We can see that, lil' lady." 

And Finan snorted. 

I am so sorry for the delay in this update. It has been six months, but I am nearing the year of Uni and have been busy with my studies and just haven't had time to re-watch this part of tlk to get my fix of motivation. Thank you for those that have been really patient, and I appreciate all the lovely messages of excitement since my tiktok edit the other night! 

This is part one of two chapters for their reunion. It got too long of a chapter for what I like for Tova's lengths so I broke some off for chapter ten, so it isn't complete yet. There will be plenty of updates to get her further going as I have so much planned for this fic, as soon as I break for summer! I haven't abandoned the story. 

Please leave comments and let me know what you think! It does help with finding motivation to write for all writers and fics.