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Freydis tucks herself away down an abandoned corridor. She sets her basket on the ground and folds her knees beneath her, glad to have been able to escape for a quiet moment.
Everything about York has been exhausting, more so than usual. Her feet throb and her head aches. The stones are cool against her back, and she takes a moment to be happy to be so unimportant that she can slip away mostly unnoticed. A tiny thrill of rebellion shoots through her, and she allows herself a smile as she pulls her basket closer.
Making bandages is monotonous work. Her mind wanders, as it often does—a fault, no doubt, but one she is both unable and unwilling to remedy. It is exciting to be away from Kattegat; Freydis, a born slave, had never thought she might see more of the world than her own little corner. She knows what these bandages will be used for, has seen the preparations for battle around the city, and she is already heady with the victory she believes the gods will grant them.
The sound of metal against stone makes her jump. Balling a bandage to her chest, she scoots back as far as she can into the shadows. She does not really think she will get in trouble for coming here to be by herself—she is, after all, still doing her work—but she does not relish the thought of punishment if she is wrong. Freydis holds her breath as the sound draws closer and nearly chokes on her tongue when she sees who rounds the corner.
Rounds is perhaps a generous turn of phrase. There is nothing quick about the way Ivar the Boneless is moving. He is leaning heavily on his crutch, clearly taxed by the effort of moving his left leg. Panic speeds her heart—she is definitely in trouble now—but curiosity is there too. She has heard tell of his new braces, but this is the first time she has seen them in person. This is, in fact, the first time she has been this close to him, period.
The gods are on Freydis’ side; Ivar does not see her. He is concentrating hard, huffing with exertion. No one has mentioned his difficulty with his new aids, and Freydis reasons he is careful to keep it hidden. She watches him for a moment before realizing that he is practicing, working for speed and fluidity in the privacy of this hidden corridor.
He is an enigma, Ivar, youngest son of Ragnar. She feels she should sneak away before she is spotted, but she feels rooted to the ground and, worse, she is staring. Her gaze sweeps his stooped form, appraising his movements, his legendary determination out on full display. Countless times, Freydis has seen him crawl; privately, she often marvels at the strength of it. This takes strength too, strength and sheer will.
They do not talk of him here in England as they did in Kattegat, but she would have had to have been deaf not to hear the snide whispers that followed him at home. He is proving himself here, proving himself as more than Ragnar’s crippled son. Even though she doesn’t know him at all, she feels a swell of pride. He will do great things for their people, she knows it, and she is privileged to witness it, no matter her distance and no matter their difference in station. She wonders if Ivar knows this, or if he truly believes it, behind the arrogant anger he is so known for.
He doesn't look angry now. She watches his gaze trace the length of the corridor, gauging the distance. His cheeks are red with effort. Without his ever present sneer, he looks younger but somehow no less dangerous. She wants to tell him that he can do it, but that would be foolhardy and a very large overstep. Anyway, he does not need her encouragement to take one step, and then another.
A soft sound of admiration slips through Freydis’ lips before she can catch it. Horrified, she puts her hand to her mouth, but it is too late. Ivar’s head jerks in her direction. There is a moment, brief though it is, where his expression is open; she can see clearly that his legs bother him, that he is tired, and that he is braced for judgement. Then his face shutters and his eyes are blue and cold.
“What are you doing all the way up here, slave?”
He uses the sing-song cat and mouse tone she has heard many a-time, though never directed at her. Any vulnerability she might have sensed is long gone. Ivar pulls himself up to his full height—an impressive full height, she is not blind—and stares down his nose at her. It is intimidating, make no mistake, but Freydis knows he is just as surprised to not be alone as she had been.
Never the less, it is a wise move not to poke the bear. Ivar’s temper is renowned. No matter what she privately thinks of his potential for greatness, she doesn’t wish to be on the receiving end of it.
“I beg your pardon.”
Freydis ducks her chin and grabs up her basket, shoving the bandages in and hoisting the whole thing on her hip. She doesn’t look at Ivar when she skirts by, and he does not move out of her way. His gaze burns her back as she retreats. But then the small thrill of rebellion is back, and what is she doing? She pauses at the corner, glancing over her shoulder, and she smiles at him, wide and genuine.
She disappears around the corner, slowing to see if he will call for her. Her heart still pounds at being caught. For a time, there is only silence. Then, she hears it, the heaviness of his step, the dragging crutch. He is not coming after her and he is not calling out for her to come back; he has returned to his solitary practice, one step and another.
Greatness, she thinks. This time, Freydis' smile is private.