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She did the only thing she could think of – crouch down and hide in the crowd forming around her. Words flowed through her mind but she couldn't hear them as the weak chant fell upon her deafened ears. She picked up a handful of dirt and watched it as it carelessly fell between her fingers, so delicate and pure, like a child would do. Oh how simple it was to be a child, when she had one parent, not none.

They came off the boats.

How irony plays in cruel circles. A different invader, a different time, but the results remained the same: a parent killed on the beach. But no child to join them in Valhalla this time. She was alone on Midgard. She wanted to curse the Gods and scream, but the feeling of anger couldn't form in her mouth. She couldn't think of the words to say or things to do. She felt nothing at all; nothing except for the cool earth falling between her fingers.

Helga crouched down with her and placed her hand on her back, trying to console her niece. "My dear, did you hear me?"

Of course she heard her. Why did she think the world was crashing down around her and she needed to escape? Did she not feel the Earth collapsing in? Or spinning out of control? Did she not realize it took a moment to process she had become an orphan? She started to laugh uncontrollably. People around her interrupted their half-hearted chanting to stare at her. Their perplexed expressions made Lhyrie explode more. How unaware they were of the God's merciless joke.

The crowd began to shift. They parted around the crouched figures as Lagertha turned to move into her new throne in the Great Hall, carefully surrounded by her guard of shield-maidens. She picked up the great sword Aslaug had let fall into the earth as the new Queen of the Danes. A group of Lagertha's warriors then flocked to the slain body of Aslaug and thrusted the arrow further in her back. A few gasps emitted from the crowd as some turned away, unwilling to watch their former Queen be mistreated. The warriors pulled the bloodied arrow from her back and turned her over, revealing a half smile on the former Queen's face. Many of the crowd stayed and watched as a stretcher was brought in and she was placed upon it, seeming to be prepped for her funeral.

As the crowd scattered, Lhyrie began to stir from her crouched position. Tears had formed in her eyes, but she could not feel the sadness that was trapped within her yet. Helga pulled her up. Her legs were shaky from a lack of feeling the earth, her body still void of sensation except for the dirt staining her hands. She feared a wave of emotion would capsize on her, but when would it hit?

"Go back to the house and make some poppy tea," Helga said to Sigvi, as she tried to support Lhyrie and take a few steps. Sigvi grasped her baby closer to her chest, trying to suppress the tears she had in her eyes. She turned and tried to push through the slow moving, awe-struck crowd back to Lhyrie's now empty home. "Come on dear," she encouraged, rubbing Lhyrie's shoulders in encouragement.

She moved her feet hesitantly, uncertain of the ground beneath her. Feeling confident the God's wouldn't pull the earth from under her, Lhyrie began to walk slowly, in a trance, still needing guidance and support from her aunt. Walking slowly back to the house, they heard concerned whispers and sullen cries. They navigated the overflowing streets, stepping over and around the piles of the dead, like rapids in a stream. A woman sprawled out on the body of man covered in blood, dead on the ground. Her shrill cry echoed in Lhyrie's ears. A man clasped arms with another, both bruised and cut over their bodies. A young boy searched eagerly for this parents, looking through every pile, hopeless tears welled in his eyes – Lhyrie prayed he would find them alive. They approached the doorway and Helga moved to it.

"No, no, no," Lhyrie begged, pulling away from her aunt. "I want to see my mother, before Lagertha's people place her in a pyre. I want to prepare her for Valhalla."

"Let us drink poppies, then we can go for your mother," Helga answered, attempting to guide her into the doorway.

"I am calm, Helga. I do not need poppies; I need to see my mother."

Helga gave a despairing sigh and led her down the path to the beach. Countless bodies laid in the sand, most pierced with arrows. A fire had consumed a row of houses and the ashes marked a strike contrast with the white beach. Her mind raced as she saw people already gathering bodies and assembling pyres on the sand.

But then she spotted her: her hair sprawled out in tentacles around her, her eyes already closed. She was steps from the sanctuary of her aunt's home and shop, spread-eagle with the sand scattered around her like she was making snow angels, three arrows in her chest. Her shield was fallen next her and a man with her sword in him nearby. Lhyrie started running, desperate to feel her, to see if any life was still left. Rationally she knew it impossible, but that thought crammed far into the depths of her mind, clinging to Eir to heal her.

Her sight narrowed, grown dark around her, with the single focus on her mother, like a spotlight in her mind. She hurdled over the slain, hardly recognizing she was moving. She felt like she was floating. Her breath came hard and burned in her chest, huffing like a fire too warm. A few yards from her mother, her pace slowed not seeing the subtle movement of her chest and she tripped over her own feet. Lhyrie crawled the rest of the way, pulling herself with excessive force as the energy suddenly drained from her body.

Still warm with the summer sun, Lhyrie draped herself over her mother. She ached as she strained to listen for the rhythmic beating of her heart but could not hear one. Without warning, anguish flooded her. She felt as though her heart was being torn from its cavity and being squeezed of its very last morsel of life; as though she was dying with her mother. A wave of warm fury ran over her and escalated the anguish she felt. Water littered her eyes, her eyebrows drawn in frustration and fear. She cursed the Gods and dug her fingernails into her palms. She felt the sting and rush of blood in her fists which dripped and mixed with the others in the sand.

Helga came to her side. Lhyrie noticed the wrinkles on her face grew deeper, like caverns carved from death. She looked so much older now, perhaps it was the sadness that haunted her eyes and aged her. Lhyrie began to wonder how much older she, herself, looked now – how the depression of her eyes echoed that of which she felt, now three times over. Her mother looked the opposite, as she laid unmoving in the packed sand. She looked peaceful and youthful, as though the Valkyries had already taken her to Fólkvangr.

I must dress her, Lhyrie thought. The men assembling the pyres were now drenched in sweat, looking like they were in a rain storm. They would begin to cremate them soon. Her mother must be adorned with her jewelry and changed out of her war torn clothes. She must be acceptable to the Gods and have her kit full of medicines to take to them. She would join her first husband and son.

"Will you help me move her?" She asked her aunt.

Carefully Helga and Lhyrie carried her mother the few yards into shop she died trying to protect. Lhyrie had grown tired with weakness and feared she would become so weak she would drop her. She clung with every ounce of energy she had left not to. "I will go and gather her things," she told her aunt, once they had her settled on a table. She made her way slowly through the waves of people dragging their loved ones, not truly thinking, not truly feeling. Her feet seemed weighted; her whole body did, with fatigue and despair. She mustered just enough strength to force her door open and barely squeeze though. She nearly fell before making it to a chair.

The surge of emotion rattled her again. It brewed like the wave she had in her dream a few nights ago. Was that dream a vision of what had happened? It bore the darkness she felt, the uncertainty that lingered over Kattegat, the usurping of Ragnar's reign. Lhyrie had never had a vision before. In hindsight, she wished she thought more on it when it happened.

Turmoil raged in her, it spilled over the ramparts of her mind and destroyed any hope and lightness she might have had. She began rocking back and forth in the chair, trying to conceal or exhaust this sensation in her, wishing it would pass. She curled her knees into her chest, locking them close to her. Trying to block out the world around her, she buried her head in her knees.

The fire that Sigvi left burning cast shadows and jumped in golden bows on the walls, it was close to a smolder. It whispered the fables of burning timber around her. The hissing of the fire seemed to grow louder in her ears, laughing in small, sharp voices. She sat up more alert and felt terror run through her. The laughing seemed to encompass her, surrounding her, trapping her, growing ever more deafening in her ears. She sat frozen. Her hands moved to grasp her ears to block out the shrill noise. It washed over her, mocking her in deep rolls and bounced off the small confines of the room, racing back to her.

The noise grew so boisterous around her it became muted, as though she was suddenly drowning under water. The echo still bombarded her with its fury. The room glowed intensely like the fires of Hel, like the fires her mother will soon burn upon. It charred the walls and burned in ashes. Lhyrie forced her eyes shut, away from the depths of the fire encircling the home; away from the horrible voices of a hundred scornful laughs. She screamed at the top of her lungs as hot tears ran down her face.

"STOP IT!" She cried to the Gods. "STOP THIS!" She felt her throat strain with exploitation.

Then suddenly, it stopped. The room was deafening silent, no burn marks etched in the wood, no ashes or smoke filled the room. The fire in front of her had puttered out, but the heat radiated like Hel off of it. She peered awestruck at her surroundings. What madness had she succumbed to? Was she so tired with death she surrendered to a fitful sleep? Was it another awful dream or forewarning? Were the God's mocking her?

She wiped under her eyes, which were raw from tears shed and drew in hard labored breaths to calm herself. Her breath was shaky from fear. Her fingers trembled as she pushed off the chair and staggered over to her mother's trunk. She needed to remember her purpose for returning home: to gather her mother's things. Shaking her arms out, she tried to shake the uneasy feeling from her as she flipped through her mother's things. Beautiful dresses, made from laboring for hours with embroidery and cloth stuffed the chest. One of a brilliant blue, like a river freshly flowing after the thawing of ice, was one of her mother's favorites. Another, yellow as a dandelion in summer brought out her mother's blonde hair. Far on the bottom of the trunk sat a vivid purple dress, dyed with brewed lavender pedals over several days, it shined like the dusk before a storm.

Lhyrie looked at the small collection of jewelry her mother owned. Her wedding band was already placed on her finger, a simple circle of gold. She owned a modest gold bracelet, three strands woven together in a continuous circle and a long necklace finished with an opal stone at its center. Lhyrie grabbed those and the blue dress for her mother's journey to the afterlife before heading back to the beach.

It seemed like no time at past with her vision. The sun had not moved from its position in the high sky and the fires were not yet lit on the pyres. Many bodies still lined the streets but men with carts pulled by horses now piled them for their load, quickening Kattegat's clean up. Lhyrie rushed back to her aunt's home, still attempting to shake off the ill vision she had. The images still burned in her mind and charred it like the walls of her home.

"I'm sorry I took so long," she said to Helga, indeed thinking her vision occupied more time than not.

"My dear, you are back sooner than I had thought," Helga replied, placing a cauldron of water over her burning fire.

"I closed my eyes for a moment and thought I slept longer; but I must be mistaken."

"Your mother loved that dress," she said, reaching to feel the woolen fabric between her fingers. "She will shine in Fólkvangr." Helga looked toward Lhyrie with a smile. Vikings had a unique outlook on death. It was feared to an extent, but welcomed and rewarded for then you will be with the Gods. Lhyrie could not see the attraction of feasting with the Gods after they cursed her with misfortune.

In silence they bathed her mother. Meticulously they undressed her, bandaged her wounds and washed her. Lhyrie braided her hair in an intricate row of braids, weaving in and out of one another, a dazzling maze of blonde hair. The woolen dress seemed weighted to the earth as they tried to fit her in it. Lhyrie pulled, careful not to rip the beautiful piece of fabric, until it gave way under her mother, fitting her effortlessly. She smoothed the lines of the dress and picked the nicks that formed on it. Her mother would be flawless in Fólkvangr. They laid the necklace on her, placing the opal on her throat and the bracelet on her wrist. Lhyrie shined her wedding ring, wiping of the blood caked to it.

Finally, after the horses had dropped their pile of men, women and children at the pyres, the warriors came for her. Lhyrie stayed at their side as they moved her to a stretcher and carried her to a pyre. She laid next to another woman about her age. Lhyrie wondered if they were friends. She hopes they walk into Fólkvangr together. She placed her mother's shield on her chest, her sword balanced upon it. Trembling, fighting the tears that were pooling in her eyes, she kissed her mother's hand before folding her arms over her sword and shield.

"Goodbye," her voice whispered, quivering.

The sun still shone bright in the summer sky, but the melancholy Lhyrie was consumed with darkened her mind. The pain ached in her bones and made her shiver. Her head throbbed from making furrows on her forehead. She saw a parade of people travel down the center of town, a joyous chanting with smoke rising from their center. She felt no joy now. She could not celebrate this death.

Far off at the docks, a longboat was being prepared. Ferns, so bright and green filled the boat, clothing and jewelry shined off the sun, the parade stopped and litter made its way to the docks. The Queen - former Queen Aslaug - was dressed in her best, a simple crown upon her head. Lhyrie hadn't expected the Queen to be laid out so suddenly, without her sons here to bear witness. They surely must have been killed then, Lhyrie further mourned. Lagertha would have allowed them the honor to see their mother off, wouldn't she? Lhyrie shook off the thought of Ubbe and Sigurd, not wanting to add to the heartache she was already experiencing.

Lhyrie backed away from the mass funeral as a woman began singing an eerie note. It echoed into the void she felt, sending shivers down her spine. She felt goosebumps rise on her skin. Looking up she saw a raven black as night flying toward the spectacle. Its cry joined the singer in harmony, forming death's song. It circled over the longboat as it was pushed off the dock and archers gathered on the docks, their arrows dipped in hot oil, pleading to be lit and loosed. Their flight arched majestically, as though guided by the Gods to the longboat. Another flight of arrows fired onto the 4 pyres on the beach. Lhyrie's mind flashed to the soft sound Aslaug made as she fell when pierced by the arrow, then to the whizz of arrows her mother was struck with and her gasps of pain as she struggled with breath before death took her.

Flames rose high and mighty from the pyres and black smoke drifted into the sky. Fire let the dead reach Valhalla by climbing the ladder of smoke to the Gods but Lhyrie grew nauseous and faint from the stench of burning flesh, so much that she had to cover her mouth with the sleeve of her dress. She wasn't sure if the tears that formed in her eyes were due to sadness or the smoke, though she wiped them carefully from under her raw eyes, the salt already stinging her face.

As she turned to let the others drink and celebrate, she noticed Lagertha on the far side of the beach, staring into the fjord at the burning longboat her predecessor floated upon. She felt a different type of anger than she felt early today as she looked at the new Queen. She felt vengeful, filled with hatred toward her, not just for her mother, but for Aslaug, Ubbe, Sigurd and the hundreds of people slaughtered today in Kattegat. Suppressing a deep breath, she held it until the feeling quieted and the tension in her fists loosened. Hvitserk and Ivar would get their revenge, Lhyrie knew. She would wait for them to release her anger. For now, she tried to find a sleep that wouldn't come.

There was an unusual stir in Kattegat as they rode through. Men and women stared and quickly shielded their eyes like they were looking at the sun. No, not at the sun; that would be too bright and with annoyance, but at a comet so fierce it might explode in the skies, but intriguing that you couldn't help but look. They pushed their horses to their limit, riding as quickly as they could after they were released from their hold from Margrethe. They sensed something was wrong.

A horn sounded as they passed through the main gates, but no one came to stop them. Perhaps whatever Lagertha had planned had failed. But why lure them to Hedeby and not kill them? Did she fear retaliation from their father if she had killed them and then failed? But if she had succeeded and usurped Kattegat, like she most likely wanted to, wouldn't she have killed them so they didn't kill her? So many questions entered his mind and he nudged his horse ever faster, ignoring the perturbed glances he was being given.

Two women he didn't recognize stood guard. They carried teal and black shields, not the blood red of Ragnar Lothbrok. His colors weren't blowing in the wind as they normally hung from the rafters, their brilliant red and black ravens were gone. He leapt off his horse in full trot and rushed past the guards, bracing for whatever ill wish laid in front of him. Remarkably, they did not stop him or fight, but let him pass, opening the doors wide to pour sunlight into the filled Hall.

It showed him what he feared: Lagertha sitting where his father sat. Two women standing next to the throne passed in front of her, standing just out of his way. He recognized them: Astrid, the black-haired woman, and Torvi, Bjorn's wife. Was Bjorn part of this? A row of shield-maidens, shields braced, lined one wall of the Great Hall, archers stood next to the doors, and other men and women lined up opposite the shield-maidens, forming a path to Lagertha. He searched the crowd for two faces he despondently needed to see, but could not find them. All he saw were the people who carried weapons and clung to them like they were waiting for another fight, desperate it seemed for more battle. He breathed hard with desolation and malice.

"Where is our mother?" He boomed. His words seemed to echo off the walls of the Great Hall despite the people pressed against its edges. He moved his weight back and forth in his feet, ready to attack if necessary.

"She is dead, Ubbe," Lagertha answered calmly, unmoving in her expression, striving to assert some form of paramount over the two men standing before her. "I killed her."

He had expected Lagertha to take the throne, but killing Aslaug never crossed his mind. "Why?" He asked, desperate for answers. He could feel his anger begin to boil in his toes. He scanned the room again, taking account of the weapons and the weakness in her guard. They could break into three lines, he figured, if he would attack. Three levels to get to Lagertha. Six people to kill – seven including her. Sigurd could take the archers.

"She took Kattegat away from me – I wanted it back."

Ready to charge, he shifted his feet again as she spoke. He could feel the weight of his axe on his hip as his hand instinctually lingered over it. It was time. Like a horse ready to run, he jarred forward but only an inch, before Sigurd placed his arm in front of him, holding him back. The archers notched their arrows and swords scrapped free of their sheaths, aimed at him. He wanted to snap at Sigurd and push past his brother, regardless of an arrow flying his way. Wrath spilled over him and his breath sharpened, trying to withhold the wishes of his brother. He would never do anything to upset his brothers, he had to be their advocate like he was when Ragnar was away, including now. But the time wasn't right, as he could see now, he must wait to attack. His hand still grasped his axe.

"Why didn't you also have us killed?" His brother asked. How was he not raging in madness? Was he not furious from Lagertha's betrayal or the murder of their mother? They were alone to deal with this mess.

"It had nothing to do with you. You are Ragnar's son," she said, "It was not your fault that your father was bewitched."

"It was a mistake not to kill us," he said, raising his axe in her direction.

"That was a chance I was prepared to take."

Pausing for a moment, he finalized his plan and stared at her with daggers in his eyes. He nodded at her – others may have taken it was an acceptance of her new title and the absolution of theirs, but Lagertha knew it was a challenge. Turning as though leaving, he stripped off his cloak in one sweep and paused, smiling. "Ubbe –, " Sigurd began, before being forced into a group of archers by his brother, who turned and charged up the Hall to Lagertha.

One shield-maiden came at him, but he cut her down in her thigh and then her chest as she fell. The warriors in the Hall stirred, prepared to rush, but Lagertha called them off. Another woman ran to meet him, he spun and caught her in the back. As he sliced her skin, blood pooled on the wood boards. Next, two men stood to move in front of Lagertha, shields braced for a fury of impact. He felt wild with hatred, like a wild dog starving for blood and rushed them hard. They were stronger than the women he had just killed or injured – he couldn't tell, he didn't care. They pushed back as one sent a forcefully blow to his cheek. He paused, almost in brazen awe at the man, before he countered with a hook to the man's face, pulling him off kilter. The line that the two men made up dissolved, leaving Lagertha open.

He took a step toward her before another warrior rushed him, attempting to tackle him. The man he had just punched grabbed him from behind and locked him in place. He fought and swung his axe at the man behind him and forced the other man and himself to the floor. He barrel-rolled and gathered his bearings, as his challenger sprang toward him and his axe met his stomach. Now the path to Lagertha was truly open, as men laid scattered on the floor. He charged her, a growl on his lips. She nodded to a man on the side of his path who swung at his legs, nicking behind his knee and forced him down. Shield-maidens sprang on him, and tackled him to his back, imprisoned. He fought against them, using all his energy to raise himself up, but moved hardly an inch. Like a caged animal, he snarled at her, glaring with fire at her. He gave a heavy sigh, feeling the weight of the warriors on him and surrendered, laying his head back on the cold, damp floorboards.

She leapt up in amazement, nearly missing her head on the metal lantern hanging from the ceiling filled with fire; she would've chuckled in amusement if the Hall wasn't deafening quiet. She couldn't believe her ears. Completely ignoring the child she was pulling teeth from, all she could see was him, alive. She had spent so much of the day thinking about him as she worked, thinking for certain he was killed. One of the reasons she accepted Lagertha's request to look at her injured warriors and their families, was to hear their fate, and because refusing the new Queen might have gotten her killed.

She thought on everything she regretted not telling him: how she thought of him every day she was gone; how she missed his laugh when he was telling stories; how he smiled when he was teasing her; how his eyes matched the ocean's blue; how his lips felt when he kissed her goodbye – the small kisses that teenagers do when they don't know how to yet. She regretted bickering at him before talking with him when she came home; not kissing him back when he kissed her in the barn; not having sex with him like that kiss would have led to; not telling him she loved him.

"Where is our mother?"

But now, as he stood at the entrance of the Great Hall, all she wanted to do was rush over to him and save him from the pain he was about to endure. To block out the world and the horrors it possessed the last few days: to tell him about his mother. Her stomach dropped. He would try to kill Lagertha right here, right now.

Torvi and Astrid had moved in front of her. Had they thought she would help him get his revenge or was it coincidence? Regardless, all she had was her medical satchel on her, not her sword. She made a mental note to always carry it now. She saw the look in his eyes as he shifted his weight uneasily on his feet, he was taking inventory. Did he see her? She tried desperately to send him any plea to stop the attack he was brewing, but he didn't glance over at her.

Then suddenly, the ringing of metal on metal filled the Hall as swords were unsheathed and shields braced. "It was a mistake not to kill us," he glared, Hel burned bright in his eyes. Don't do anything stupid, she thought. She wrung her hands in uneasiness, and gave a calming breath for the both of them, hoping it reached him. When they were growing up it seemed like sometimes they shared the same mind, she hoped this was one of those moments.

They turned as to leave and she held her breath. Oh, no, she begged, as he shoved Sigurd into a group of guards. But the archers didn't fire. A few shield-maidens charged and were struck down with the hard blow of his axe. He turned wildly, swinging his axe with precision, his braid swinging in arcs behind him. One man he braced against punched him hard and she gave a sharp gasp. Then, in a blur he was on the floor, wrestling a man, weapons flying. She heard the soft squelch of bowel being punctured and the hard snap of a broken bone.

Then quickly, he was feet from her. Lagertha gave a nod to a man kneeling in front of her and he pulled his sword out, quickly slicing his thigh as he strutted by. He buckled hard onto his knees, grimacing in pain or frustration, or both. Shield-maidens descended upon him, forcing him down as he gave a heart wrenching growl to Lagertha, the fire still burning in his eyes. Astrid went to kick the axe out of his white-knuckled fist. Was she going to kill them now?

"Lhyrie," Lagertha called to her, motioning over to the wounded warriors sprawled out in her Hall. Was she supposed to go to Ubbe? Why heal a wounded man if he was destined to die? Was she supposed to go to the warriors she couldn't align with?

She hesitated and snatched her satchel from the ground by her feet. She slowly made her way to the clearing in the Hall, giving a slight curtsey to the Queen before ignoring Ubbe's glance as she walked by him. He raised his head enough against the force of the warriors to peer at her. She couldn't tell if his expression was awe or disappointment, but it filled her with guilt.

She first went to the women cut down first, they were mute compared to their other fighting friends and much too much blood ran rivers through the grain of the wood floors. She checked their wrist anyway, only to feel no life pulse through their delicate wrists and solemnly reached into her bag for mistletoe to place in their hands. It would protect their souls while waiting for the afterlife. One man was clutching his stomach, gasping in hard labored breaths, fear plastered on his face. Lhyrie kneeled in front of him and gently pulled his hands from his stomach. His intestines poured out in perfect loops and he began shaking in shock. Some women in the hall gasped and someone heaved. She gave a sober look toward Lagertha and she motioned to a man close to Lhyrie. Two bounding steps later and a large thrust, the man collapsed backward, a sword being pulled from his chest. Lhyrie closed her eyes tight as blood sprayed onto her and tried to see the man to Valhalla. The man was scared, petrified of death, but the thought a fastened death sat ill with her. Odin hadn't taken him yet.

Lagertha cleared her throat. "If you ever to try to do that again, Ubbe, you will not be so fortunate," she said as her warriors slowly released him from his hold, certain he had ended his fight.

Lhyrie moved to another man, his arm cut open with the bone poking through. He looked like he was about to charge Ubbe as he shook of the guards and scowled at Lagertha. Lhyrie gave the man a piece of leather soaked in withered poppy leaves to bite on. She pointed to another man to hold him while she grasped above and below the man's protruding injury. "Picture Freya in your bed," she whispered at him and snapped as forcefully as she could. She thought she went deaf in the ear he screamed in, and shook her head to facilitate hearing again as she wrapped a piece of ascaria leaf and cloth around the newly adjoined pieces.

Sigurd was thrust forward to stand by his brother in the center of the Hall and gave Lhyrie a horrified look at what she had just done to the man, who was now passed out leaning against a pillar. "You may gather the things we have piled that are not useful to us," Lagertha told them. "You may stay in Kattegat. But if you resist me, you will die."

It didn't seem like they would move from their spot, resistant to move in case an arrow found their backs. As Lhyrie stepped forward with a piece of cloth to tie off Ubbe's wound, he rushed past her, nearly running into her. They followed Astrid into their old rooms and she heard them rummage through things. She continued about the room, applying balms and ointments to the minor scrapes or bruises acquired in the fight, waiting for them to return back into the Hall. After a few minutes Astrid returned to Lagertha's side, but the two men did not join her. Lhyrie heard a side door slam behind the curtains. Trying not to seem desperate, she quickened her pace and quietly gathered her supplies into her bag, before slipping out the same doors that were just closed.

They were a few yards in front of her, moving slowly with Ubbe's limp. They had clothes draped over their arms, shields on their backs and bags weighing down their shoulders. They looked like homeless beggars – she figured they were now. "Sigurd! Ubbe!" She called quietly, half-running after them, as to not draw attention to them. Sigurd stopped and looked back at her but Ubbe shuffled forward toward his horse. "Let me help you," she said, catching up and pulling a bag from Ubbe's shoulder. It felt weighted with bricks and she nearly dropped it.

"Why?" He asked with a grunt, turning toward her.

"Because you need it," she said softly, trying to force the harsh look he was giving her away.

"You didn't in the Hall." He cocked his head to the side like he always did when he was proving a point. She missed that too when she was gone. She cleared her throat to conceal a smile.

"Ubbe, she –"

"That would've gotten us all killed. And I couldn't lose anyone else I loved," she said, setting down the heavy bag she was holding. Ubbe scanned her, perhaps trying to see if she had turned her alliances to Lagertha, but he looked intently, looking for a flaw. Sigurd started draping his bounty on his horse, ignoring them.

"Why were you in the Hall?"

"Ubbe, it doesn't matter," Sigurd said, rolling his eyes back at his brother.

"He's always been paranoid, Sigurd, you know that. I was doing my job as a healer," she said to Ubbe, matter-of-factly.

"She killed our mother – "

"And she killed mine." She rose up onto her toes to be eye level with him and jabbed a finger into his chest. "You don't get to use your pain to question my actions." She stared at him hard for a moment, trying not to lose her balance on her tip toes, until he broke eye contact and pulled of a row of clothes onto his horse. Sigurd was just staring at her with hopeless eyes.

"I'm sorry, Lhyrie," he said.

She shook off the sympathies and asked, "Where will you be going?"

Sigurd look toward his older brother. "Our father still has his old farmhouse," Ubbe said, picking up the package at her feet and tossing it to Sigurd, wincing in pain as he did.

"If you will not let me come and help you, at least let me bandage your leg before you bleed out."

He gave a half-hearted sigh and turned around, rubbing his brow. "Fine," he said, shrugging his shoulders and flipping his hands forward in nonchalance.

Kneeling in front of him, she grabbed a piece of cloth and a balm from her bag. He pulled back and grimaced as she applied the balm to his bleeding wound. She bit her lip and continued to layer it to stop the bleeding. Unwrapping the cloth and smoothing it out she looked up at Ubbe, making sure he was okay. He was looking up at the sky and fidgeting his hands. Suddenly, Lhyrie blushed and tried to ignore the piece of him in front of her. Her mind flashed to what the Frankish women taught her about sex and she turned a further shade of pink. Quickly, she pulled the cloth tight and Ubbe whelped in pain.

"Sorry," she apologized, jumping up from her position, and brushed her bloodied hands onto her dress.

"No, it's fine," he said, running his hands through his hair, trying to shake off the awkward situation they both felt.

Sigurd cleared his throat. "We should go."

Lhyrie pulled her bag onto her shoulder and took a step back. She watched as Ubbe cumbersomely tried to mount his horse without putting pressure on his leg, suppressing a smile as she knew he wouldn't ask for help. "Well, are you coming?" He looked back to ask her.

"I don't have a horse."

"Come on," he said, scooting back on his horse, grimacing, careful not to spill the clothes he was sitting on off the back of the horse.

She shook her head, hesitantly. "I have –,"

"You don't have anything here anymore," he said, turning his horse to be at her side. "Don't make us be alone tonight," he lowered his hand to her, raising his eyebrows in question. Lhyrie bit he inside of her cheek and took his hand, pulling herself up onto the horse in front of him. He shifted behind her and leaned forward to grab the reigns. As he pulled the horse into a trot behind his brother, Lhyrie looked back at the Great Hall and saw Astrid cross her arms and turn inside.

The remnants of the small village where Ragnar Lothbrok once lived were quiet besides the soft laps of river on the beach. Other structures nearby were burnt with ash or caved in from weather, and despite no formal protection, no animals or invaders seemed to do damage. It was a few hours ride from Kattegat in their slowed pace, as anything faster than a trot would cause Ubbe to grimace in pain, a little more than a half-day's walk. Blood began to pool on the bandage again and Lhyrie silently cursed herself for not making them stop so she could fix it. She was hoping she didn't need to cauterize it when they got to the farm.

They spent most of journey in silence, both men coming to grips of the situation unfolding in their hometown. Lhyrie could feel Ubbe tense up and see him clenching the reigns on and off as they rode, replaying the scenes in his mind. She grew restless on horseback. She couldn't remember the last trip she made on horseback, or been more than a few hours on one and grew sore. Trying not to shift too much in her seat in front of him, she made a mental list of all the flowers and ferns they passed on their journey.

"Lovely decorations," she commented, look up at the bones suspended from the ceiling. There was a snake skin coiled on the main beam and perhaps a dozen animals, from a stag to a rabbit, hanging from the ceiling with fishing line. Besides the unusual artwork, the farmhouse was pleasantly dressed, with a large bed on one end and a table, kiln and smaller bed at the other. She piled the heavy bags she carried in on the table.