Home

The makeshift Viking camp on the edge of the English forest had taken shape over the past few days, the wooden fences a testament to the Northmen's determination. Elyswith stood at the threshold of her tent, gazing at the silent tree line as the dawn's first light began to colour the sky. The damp grass underneath her feet was the same she remembered, yet every step reminded her that she wasn't free - ­not truly.

She remembered the way Ragnar had looked at her just nights ago, his smirk laced with mockery.

They had been setting up the defenses around the camp. Elyswith had carried a bundle of cloth for bandages, feeling the suspicious stares from some of the Vikings who had grown impatient with Ragnar's strategy. She was nearly to her tent when his voice had caught her off guard.

''You're quiet,'' he had said, strolling up behind her. His tone was casual, but the gleam in his eye set her on edge.''I have nothing to say," she had simply replied'', tightening her hold on the cloth.

He had chuckled then. ''Nothing, or too much?'' Elyswith frowned, heat rising in her cheeks.

''If you prefer it, I will leave,'' she had said, growing annoyed by Ragnar's cockiness.

Ragnar stepped closer then, so close that she could smell the faint traces of the campfire's smoke on his clothes. ''No one's stopping you,'' he said softly. ''Run into the forest if you like'' - his lips curled into a wry smile - ''maybe you will find your way home.''

Now, as she stood in the soft glow of morning, she felt the weight of those words lingering. She could have run, perhaps, but she also felt an obligation - to her brother, left behind in Kattegat, and to the wounded or dying who would need her hands here. God sees all, she told herself, the thought brought a sort of comfort.

A distant sound broke through her thoughts then. 

Voices, cheers, and the unmistakable clank of weapons drifted from the hill ahead of the camp. Elyswith stepped forward, her bare feet sinking into the wet grass. A small group of Vikings had returned, laden with treasures and captives.

 They emerged from the tree line like ghosts.

Elyswith's stomach twisted at the sight, her mind flashing back to Lindisfarne - and ­the day she and Athelstan had been taken, the gentle morning shattered by the roar of invaders. But this time, the captives were not holy men. They were large warriors, their eyes burning with fury despite their chains.

The resemblance made her ill. She stood rooted to the spot, watching as the Vikings herded the prisoners deeper into the camp. A few men and shieldmaidens stood guard. Elyswith noticed Ragnar off to the side, speaking in low tones with Rollo. From her vantage, she could see the tension in Rollo's stance - the tightness in his jaw and the restless grip on his axe. But Ragnar  appeared calm, assessing the new captives. He is clever, she thought, and that frightened her. More than brute strength ever could.

Then as she was looking out on the sight before her, one of the captives staggered forward, a gash across his temple bleeding down the side of his face.

Elyswith's instincts took over. She hurried to grab her makeshift kit of bandages and balms. She could feel the eyes of the Vikings around her - some curious, some hostile.

She gazed over at Ragnar, unsure how her actions would be received by the Northmen, but as soon as he gave her a small nod, she knelt beside the injured captive. He glared at her, hostility clear in his gaze. But she kept her manner calm, her touch gentle as she pressed a cloth to his wound. What must he think of me, she thought, a woman in Viking clothing, traveling with those who had likely just attacked him. But she pushed the thought aside, focusing on stopping the bleeding.

When the wound was bound, one of the Northmen yanked the captive to his feet. Elyswith stood, brushing the dirt from her dress. She stepped back, letting the Vikings do what they would.

Ragnar caught her eye then - ­she had felt his gaze burn into the back of her head for minutes, and as she looked over, his lips was curved into a half-smile. She felt the echo of that night's promise in his expression, when he'd practically dared her to flee. Yet here she stood, still.

In that brief moment, their gazes locked - ­hers filled with a swirl of guilt and longing: his steady, unflinching, almost assessing. Then he turned away to address the men, leaving her standing on the edge of a place that was both achingly familiar and hauntingly foreign.