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By the time I reached the little cottage that I supposed was now my home, I'd come to the conclusion that I couldn't remain here any longer. I couldn't stay in this place with these people in this godforsaken time. I had to get home. I had to get back to my family, to everything that mattered to me. And Lord help I was going to change my major from History to English Language when I got back and if I ever heard Old Norse again, I was going to snap.
Maybe then I could forget this ever happened. I could live an ordinary life, say I fell and got lost for a few days and then never speak of it again.
And I had to leave tonight.
No more games. No more lies. No more trying to appease the megalomaniac that clearly seemed to be looking for a reason to kill me. No, I'd go home. To a time where murder was illegal. To a time where I wasn't surrounded by men with axes. To a time where strangers pour you cups of tea instead of throwing you in rat infested dungeons.
But there in remained the issue. I still didn't know how that damn rock worked. I didn't even know how I got here, so what was to say that I could just go home whenever I wanted to? Who was I to decide when this Trainwreck of a journey was over?
Nevertheless, I packed up my satchel and pulled on my hat and torn old jacket. Of course, I had to wait until past dark - when many within the walls were drunk or asleep - before I could try to get out. Luckily for me, the men on patrol were trying to keep people out, not in. And, to further my odds, I already knew every in depth strategy and battle plan used by the heathen army in York. It was, after all, one of my odd little areas of interest before I arrived.
As I reached for my cloak, I noticed that it was gone. In a panic, I looked up to see where I'd misplaced it - only to find someone sat in the doorway with it in hand.
"Going somewhere?" Ivar folded his arms, knowing that he'd caught me doing something incriminating. Dear Lord this man was infuriating. But also nothing like how history seemed to portray him, and yet everything like how I thought he might be.
"No." I answered, perhaps a little too quickly, fumbling with the leather straps of my brown bag. "Why are you here?"
"You know why." He answered sharply, as though it was obvious.
"Because-" I began, but was quickly interrupted.
"I don't trust you." He answered again.
Well, finally he'd said it at least. Hopefully that would put an end to the awkward eye contact. Nevertheless, I had to think of something smart. Something that wouldn't get me killed. Or not. "You don't seem to trust many people around here." I blurted out, before realising what I'd just said and to whom I had addressed. Not being instantly killed, of course, gave my foolish brain a chance to come up with more idiotic thoughts that I simply could not help but blurt out. "That sounds more like an issue with you, than an issue with me." I persisted. "But if you do insist on pursuing me and watching my every mood until you are satisfied of my innocence, I'm afraid you'll find it rather boring."
"If you're a witch," He demanded again, and I was prepared to roll my eyes at his stubbornness... Until I heard the rest, of course. "What are the Saxons planning?"
Was he asking for my help? Ivar The Boneless... Asking me for help? Dear Lord, if only my dad was here. "They're planning to attack your hunters." I answered, and no matter how well he disguised it, I could tell by the look on his face that such attacks had already begun. "And once your army is sufficiently weakened, they'll attack."
"But they won't win?" He insisted, to which I gave a nod.
"You'll think of something." I paused. "And I don't mean your brothers, I mean you, Ivar."
It seemed like these were words that he hadn't heard very often in his life, people truly believing in him and his capabilities. Of course, I had the perspective of a twentieth century historian on my side, so I knew very well what he was capable of. Perhaps if I'd been from their time, I would've been more naïve. But I doubt it. Behind the layers of rage and stubbornness that pushed away the outside world, Ivar was like any other damaged boy his age. I had to remember that now, as I spoke to him, he couldn't have been much older than myself - perhaps even being the same age - and with the weight of an army on his shoulders? All the while suffering an agonizing condition in a time with very little medicinal knowledge? It was no mean feat. And, even though he seemed to have taken to hating me, I couldn't help but continue my admiration for him. Maybe there was some issue in my brain, I wasn't sure, but I hoped that my words could inspire him in some way without directly giving him the answers. I didn't want to credit myself with his strategies, to be the one who gave them to him. I wanted to know that the person I'd studied for so many years was that person still - with no interference from me and my knowledge of the future.
"My mother could see things too." He spoke up from the silence, making me look up at him suddenly. Of course, Aslaug the famous witch. I'd always enjoyed reading about her in the sagas as a child, how strong a woman she was. "She said I'd be a monster."
At this, I was a little shocked. I wasn't really sure why he was telling me this, of all people. I mean, I knew already about the prophecy that Aslaug had made - that if Ragnar lay with her then she would give birth to a monster and that this child turned out to be Ivar. But hearing him say it, that slight edge of pain that cut through his every word, was something I couldn't even begin to fathom. "I don't think so." I answered calmly. "I think you can still choose what kind of person you want to be, even if your destiny is decided." As silence fell in us again, I began to realise that maybe there was a reason for my being here after all. The longer I sat there, the less I wanted to leave and return home. It was strange, but in some odd way I wondered if this was all meant to be. I wondered if, while talking so much about Ivar's destiny, I'd discovered my own.
