Bound by silence

The morning was quiet, the kind that made every sound—every footstep, every rustle of the wind—seem amplified. Elyswith stood by the door of the farmhouse, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She watched Ragnar and Lagertha in the distance, their figures growing smaller as they walked down the winding dirt path that led to Kattegat.

Ragnar carried himself with the same easy confidence as always, his stride purposeful, his head held high. Lagertha walked beside him, her shield slung across her back and her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. They looked like warriors ready to claim the world—and perhaps they were.

Elyswith shivered despite the weak morning sun. Her heart felt as though it was lodged in her throat. She glanced at her brother, standing silently beside her. Athelstan's hands were clasped tightly in front of him, his lips moving in a whispered prayer she couldn't quite make out.

"Do you think they'll come back?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Athelstan didn't respond. His silence deepened her unease. Did he not believe they would return, or was he afraid to say it aloud? They had been left behind, foreigners in this harsh land, with responsibilities they never asked for.

Her mind drifted to the night before.

The fire had crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows over the faces gathered at the table. Elyswith sat stiffly beside Athelstan, feeling like an outsider among Ragnar's family despite their months here.

"We leave for Kattegat at dawn," Ragnar had announced, tearing a piece of bread with his hands. His tone was casual, as if he were commenting on the weather. "And from there, we sail west."

Lagertha had looked up sharply, her brow furrowing. "You want me to come?" she asked, her voice tinged with surprise.

"Of course," Ragnar replied, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

"And the farm? The children?"

"The priest will stay," Ragnar had said, nodding toward Athelstan. "He'll look after it."

Bjorn's chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stood abruptly, his face flushed with anger. "Father, you cannot place a slave above me!" he shouted, his voice cracking with indignation.

Ragnar's eyes snapped to his son, cold and commanding. Bjorn's mouth closed, and he sank back into his seat, though his glare remained fixed on Athelstan.

"I don't regard him as a slave," Ragnar had said evenly. His words hung in the air, challenging anyone to dispute him.

"Please, Ragnar Lothbrok," Athelstan had said then, rising shakily to his feet. His voice was low but filled with desperation. "Don't do this. Don't go."

Ragnar didn't even spare him a glance. Instead, he turned to his daughter. "What do you think, Gyda?" he asked, his tone softening.

Gyda smiled shyly, her voice bright. "I don't mind. I like the priest."

"Then it's decided," Ragnar said, his tone final as he rose from the table and walked away.

Elyswith had barely exhaled when Lagertha leaned in close, her blue eyes piercing. Her voice was low and deadly as she addressed Athelstan and Elyswith. "If any harm comes to my children, I will tear the lungs out of your bodies."

The chill of her words lingered even now as Elyswith shook off the memory and returned her gaze to the path.

Ragnar and Lagertha were nearly out of sight now, the faint outline of Ragnar's braided head still visible against the horizon. Athelstan exhaled deeply, his breath misting in the cold morning air.

"We'll manage," he said softly, more to himself than to her.

Elyswith wanted to believe him, but the weight of their situation bore down on her like a stone. Left behind in this brutal land, with the farm and the children, and a growing sense that danger lurked around every corner.

She gripped her brother's arm. "We have no choice."

Athelstan nodded, but the worry in his eyes betrayed him. She could see the cracks in his faith—how much of himself he doubted after all he'd endured.

As they turned to go back inside, Elyswith couldn't shake the feeling that this was just the beginning of their trials.