Baptism in the north wind

Elyswith woke to the cold. The fire in the tent had died sometime in the night, leaving only the faint warmth of the body beside her. Ragnar's steady breathing filled the silence, his arm draped loosely over her waist. She lay still for a moment, torn between the comfort of his closeness and the guilt clawing at her chest.

This is wrong.

Her mind fought to reconcile the intimacy they had shared, with the reality of who Ragnar was: the man who had captured her, kept her brother hostage, and led the raids that had spilled so much Christian blood. Quietly, she slipped out from beneath his arm and rose, praying she hadn't woken him.

The cold wind outside hit her like a slap, but she welcomed it. The camp was still shrouded in early morning darkness, the sun yet to rise. She closed her eyes, letting the biting air clear her thoughts. For a moment, as she had done so many times since she arrived back in England, she imagined herself back on her family's land. If she focused hard enough, she could almost hear the church bells and the sound of her mother's laughter.

Opening her eyes again, she saw a singlefigure on the far side of the camp, hunched over with his face in his hands.

 Rollo.

Elyswith hesitated before crossing the camp. The crunch of her footsteps on the frost-covered ground was the only sound as she approached him.

''Rollo?'' she called softly.

He didn't look up, but his shoulders stiffened. ''Shouldn't you be praying or something?'' he muttered, his tone sharp but weary.

''I was,'' she replied, unfazed. ''But I saw you here. What is wrong?''

Rollo finally lifted his head, his eyes bloodshot, the lines on his face deeper than usual. ''What do you think? Today, I kneel before their god. I let them drown me in that lake. Do you know what that means?''

Elyswith sat beside him, her expression softening. ''It means you're doing what needs to be done to keep your people alive,'' she said wary, but gently.

He let out a small, bitter laugh then. ''Is that what you tell yourself about your god? That He makes you endure so you can survive?''

Elyswith hesitated, taken aback by the sharpness of his words.

 "It is not about survival.'' she answered,  ''It is about faith."

Rollo looked at her then, his gaze heavy. "What good has it done you? Your god didn't stop us from taking you. Didn't stop us from burning your villages.''

Elyswith felt throat tightened, his words hurt, but she placed a hand on his arm.

 ''Faith is not about stopping pain. It is about finding strength.''

Rollo stared at her hand for a moment, clearly not convinced,  before pulling away, his expression hardening. ''You're a strange woman, Elyswith.'' He stood abruptly, leaving her alone with the firelight flickering in his absence.

Later that morning, the camp was alive with activity as they prepared to ride to the lake where the baptism would take place. Elyswith found herself once again riding with Ragnar, seated in front of him on his horse.

He was in a playful mood, his warmth stark against the crisp air. Every so often, his hands brushed her arms as he adjusted the reins, his cheek grazing her hair as he leaned closer.

''You're quiet this morning,'' he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

''Perhaps I've nothing to say,'' she replied coolly, determined to keep her distance.

He chuckled softly, leaning down to whisper near her ear. ''I don't believe that. You always have something to say, even if it's just to tell me how much you disapprove of me.''

Elyswith stiffened, gratefull Ragnar could not see the smile she tried to supress. She didn't respond him, keeping her gaze fixed ahead.

When they arrived at the lake, the tension between the two groups was yet again clear. The English stood in rigid formation, their bishop leading a solemn procession toward the water. The Vikings, by contrast, lounged with an air of mockery, their laughter cutting through the quiet.

Elyswith stood toward the back of the crowd, watching as Rollo waded into the lake with the bishop. The man's Latin prayers echoed across the water, each word a reminder of the solemnity of the moment. But to the Vikings, it was all a farce.

Loki, standing at the front, spat on the ground in disgust. ''Fool,'' he muttered, his voice dripping with contempt.

Elyswith glanced at Ragnar, who stood just ahead of her, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp as they met King Ælla's across the distance. The two men were locked in a silent battle of wills, their expressions unreadable.

As the bishop pushed Rollo under the water, the Vikings erupted into laughter. Even Ragnar allowed a faint smirk. When his gaze met Elyswith's though, the humor faded from his face. Her stern expression stopped him cold, and she saw something flicker in his eyes - respect, perhaps, or curiosity.

The ceremony concluded with the bishop declaring Rollo baptized under his new Christian name: Rolf. The king, his queen, and their young boy knelt on the shore, their piety a sharp contrast to the Vikings irreverence. To Elyswith's suprise, Ragnar knelt as well, his head bowed in what could almost be mistaken for prayer.

The sight struck her as absurd, yet moving. In that moment, they seemed less like enemies and more like two leaders seeking common ground.

As the Englishmen began to disperse, Ælla approached the crowd. 

''We have witnessed a miracle today,'' he said, his tone measured. ''Now, I ask that you fulfill your promise. Return to your ships and wait for your payment in peace.''

 ''Agreed, Ragnar Lothbrok?''

Ragnar's gaze flicked to Rollo, who was wringing water from his clothes and grinning like a fool. With a nod, and a faint smile, he silently replied.

Elyswith watched as the king and his family mounted their horses, her heart heavy with conflicting emotions. She longed for the day she could return home with her brother, free from the chaos and danger of the Vikings' world.

But as she glanced at Ragnar, his blue eyes piercing through her defenses, she wondered if a part of her would ever truly leave this life behind.