The cliff's edge

The farm felt heavier with every passing day. The air hung thick with unspoken tension, the kind that turned even small movements into a risk. Ragnar's bad mood radiated like heat from a fire, scorching anyone who got too close. Elyswith tried to keep to herself.. It wasn't just Ragnar—everyone seemed unsettled. Even the children, usually a source of brightness, played quietly, casting nervous glances at the adults.

Inside the house, Elyswith tried to focus on the simple task of mending a tear in one of Gyda's dresses. She sat on a low stool, the fabric draped across her lap, while Gyda braided Lagertha's hair near the hearth. Athelstan leaned against the far wall, his eyes distant as he thumbed through the worn pages of his Bible.

"You're doing it wrong," Gyda teased gently, giggling as she reached back to undo one of the braids Lagertha had woven.

"Am I?" Lagertha replied with mock seriousness, a rare smile softening her usually fierce features. "Then perhaps I should braid your hair into knots and let the birds untangle it."

Elyswith glanced up, smiling faintly at their exchange. It was moments like these—brief, fragile—they all seemed to cling to, a reminder of something resembling normalcy.

"Does it bother you?" Lagertha asked suddenly, her eyes cutting to Elyswith. "Being here?"

Elyswith's needle paused mid-stitch. She met Lagertha's gaze, unsure how to answer. "I'm... not sure I understand the question."

"Being here," Lagertha said again, her tone thoughtful. "In this life. Among us."

Elyswith hesitated. "It's not what I imagined for myself. But...

Before Elyswith had the chance to continue, a blood-curdling scream shattered the quiet. The needle slipped from Elyswith's fingers, clattering to the floor. Everyone froze.

Lagertha was the first to move. She rose swiftly, her hand flying to the knife at her belt. "Stay here," she ordered sharply, her voice cutting through the rising panic. "Do not move."

Elyswith's heart raced as Lagertha disappeared through the doorway. The seconds stretched unbearably. Then Lagertha's voice rang out again, urgent and commanding. "Weapons! Now!"

Gyda scrambled to fetch her small dagger, while Lagertha thrust a sword into Elyswith's trembling hands. "You, too," Lagertha said, her eyes blazing. "Protect them."

Elyswith swallowed hard, nodding. Athelstan stood close to her, his own hands gripping a blade with visible discomfort. The chaos outside was growing louder—shouts, the clash of metal, and the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching.

"We're leaving," Lagertha said, pulling Gyda close. "Follow me."

They moved quickly, darting out the back and toward the forest. Lagertha led the way, guiding them to a small, hidden boat tucked along the shore. The children climbed in first, followed by Athelstan and Elyswith. Lagertha pushed them off and leapt aboard, her eyes scanning the treeline for signs of pursuit.

The boat drifted silently, the tension in the air palpable. Elyswith lay flat on the floorboards beside Gyda, the girl clutching her arm tightly. The minutes dragged into hours, the faint lapping of the water against the boat the only sound.

Elyswith's eyes were heavy with exhaustion when she heard Lagertha's sharp intake of breath. She turned her head to see what had caught her attention and froze. There, standing on the edge of a high cliff, was Ragnar.

"There he is!" Lagertha shouted, her voice both triumphant and desperate.

But before they could react, Ragnar took a step forward—and plunged into the water below.

The impact was thunderous. Elyswith's breath caught in her throat as she leaned over the side, searching the surface. He didn't come up. Seconds stretched unbearably, her heart pounding in her chest.

"He's not coming up," Gyda whispered, her voice trembling.

Without hesitation, Athelstan dove into the water. Elyswith watched in stunned silence, the icy spray soaking her as he disappeared beneath the surface. Moments later, he emerged, gasping for air, Ragnar's limp body in tow.

"Help me!" Athelstan called hoarsely, struggling to keep Ragnar afloat. Lagertha and Bjorn reached over, hauling Ragnar into the boat with a strength born of sheer desperation.

Elyswith stared at Ragnar's pale, motionless form. His chest rose and fell weakly, but his eyes remained closed. Lagertha pressed her hands against his chest, muttering a fervent prayer to the gods.

"We need to move," Lagertha said sharply, her voice breaking the stunned silence. "Now."

They rowed furiously, their arms burning with effort, until Floki's farm came into view. Bjorn leapt out of the boat as soon as they reached the shore, sprinting toward the small house.

"Floki!" he shouted. "Floki!"

The man appeared moments later.

They carried Ragnar into the house, laying him on a low bed. Floki moved with surprising precision, gathering herbs and salves with an almost frenzied energy.

Elyswith lingered near the doorway, her hands trembling. She couldn't tear her eyes away.

"He'll live," Floki said suddenly, glancing over his shoulder. "But only if the gods will it."

Weeks passed as they remained at Floki's farm, tending to Ragnar and waiting for him to regain his strength. The storm that had begun on the cliff's edge was far from over—but for now, they could only wait.