open; on bones of ash and sand

igrun stirred in her sleep but the once princess turned captive, made thrall does not wake. Beneath her eye lids her eyes move rapidly, pretty mouth twisting with nightmares. She tossed and turned, clutching the threadbare blanket in a fist that loosened and tightened at regular intervals.

---

’You have betrayed me child!’ Morrighan’s voice trembles the forest around Sigrun where she stands in a small clearing the snow up to her knees. It fell freely, dusted her shoulders and caught in her dark auburn hair. Her attire is hardly appropriate for the weather though she does not feel cold. Her dream self wore the dress she was captured in, the night Njal stole her away from her home, from her culture. From her goddess before the ritual could be completed. He claimed she is spoken of as a Valkyrie — but to who she wondered now as she stared up at the pale skinned, raven haired Morrighan whose plump lips formed a terse line of ire and disapproval. Her stare was so intense that Sigrun cringed in her dream and also in the corporeal world. Sigrun opened her mouth to speak, to plea, to protest but when she tried to form words she found that she could not. No sound tumbled from betwixt her lips no matter how hard she tried. Voiceless. Without her voice she is powerless, she feared. She is no valkyrie. She does not belong to the fearsome norsemen that she is indentured to. Except, she realized the falsity that lingers behind that thought. She has grown to care for Njal. He does not replace her father but he tried to do right by her by taking her in. She had given him permission to sell her to Queen Aslaug if it meant that his forge could breathe life into the beautiful weapons he crafts for the heathen army. Sigrun has held, wielded such artful things. They are Njal’s passion, they are his lifeblood and she surmised that their debts are now paid to one another. He protected her, kept her as relatively safe as he could. She forsaken her given name for a heathen name, for Njalsdóttir.

She betrayed Morrighan. She betrayed herself.

’You bear the mark of your tribe, you bear MY mark upon your flesh. Ríoghnach you forget! But I remember.’ The goddess hisses at her and dismisses her with an errant wave of her hand.

---

As if on some silent cue of her guilty conscious Sigrun woke up with a greedy gasp of air. She sits up and tries to calm the rapid pace of her beating heart, her hands trembling where they clutch the threadbare blanket. She buries them in her lap and bites on her tongue to keep from screaming. She was thrown into this life and she made her choices. She has done what she thinks is fair, she payed her debts. What of her tribe? She cannot help but think in a way to comfort herself. They abandoned her! Sigrun lived her life the best she can, adapting as she needs to because she is a survivor, she is a fighter and she would rather be damned than simply give up because she was dealt an unfortunate fate. Surely, Morrighan understands that.

It was only a dream, after all. She reaches up and tugs her fingers through her hair as she pushes herself to her feet, smoothing out the mousy brown plain dress she wears. It is an ugly thing, she thought with a frown, with a tug  at the heavy fabric. “I remember, Morrighan.” She murmured lowly, unaware that she spoke in Norse as opposed to her native tongue. It is early and she presumed that all were still asleep within the long house but she wonders if she should attempt to go back to sleep or perhaps if she should start upon her cleaning chores while she has the luxury of doing it without interruption.

igrun draws back from the door as her hand reaches for it only for it to open of it’s own accord. A soft, startled gasp leaves her lips as she finds herself face to face, abruptly, with a half dressed Ragnarsson. For a moment, with the manor still darkened with the last vestiges of night lit only by the candles set about she is not sure which Ragnarsson’s bare chest she is eye level with (aside from, of course, that it is not Ivar’s). She blinks a few times thinking that is braid is too long to be Ubbe’s and that it is not an song of Aslaug but instead of Lagertha. She realizes rather quickly and with a flush of red to her cheeks that it is Björn Ironside. He seems as surprised as she but he collects himself quickly and gives her a brisk order: to the kitchen without any pre-greeting or questions and then steps aside, holding the door for her declaring in the next breath that he needs her help.

For a moment a bitter taste lingers in her mouth as she tries to fathom what sort of help a Ragnarsson requires of her but then she hears the sounds coming from the kitchen. Unusual sounds that do not belong. She brushes past him, reaching up to collect her hair red hair between her hands and tie it back from her face with a worn strip of leather. It is far from the elegant braid she usually keeps it in but it would appear she has no time for such luxuries this morning. “What has happened, mi’lord?” She asks him, still unsure after all this time how to properly greet the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok. Ivar appeared to like being called Prince as she suspects it fuels the youngest’s ego. Björn, Sigrun suspects, is a different breed of man. The official titles of formality may be lost to her as she still thinks to the culture she was born into and how defined and strict titles were but she does not dare address him with any sort of familiarity.