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*Minus the gun lol*
Before long, the Saxons were ready to attack again. But we were prepared. I wasn't sure I was ready to watch Ivar ride into battle again, but I simply kept reminding myself of every history book I'd ever read - now was not his time to die. I, on the other hand, had never been mentioned in any history book that I'd read, so I agreed to remain below the city with Frida and the sick again. This occasion took less convincing than the previous one.
"Girl, will you stop pacing?!" Frida exasperated, holding a little girl close to her as the fighting began. It had been silent, but the cries of battle and the slash of swords now filled the old sewers with sound. I knew she was right. There was no point in stressing myself out as I was. And yet, I could not help but feel nervous - as if I knew something was coming. Frida left the girl's side, grasping my arm in one fluid motion and finally gaining my attention. I stared over at her, still feeling the urge to pace around with anxiety. "Worrying will do neither of you any good." She spoke sternly, green eyes alight with fire as the firmness of her words sunk into the grip on my arm.
"I know." I sighed, pulling my arm away and looking back towards the sick and infirm. I glanced back to the ceiling momentarily, a pang of fear washing through my bones as I contemplated what could be happening above me. For all I knew, Ivar could be up there dying and there was nothing I could do to help. All I could do was pray - pray to whatever cruel Gods were up there - for his safe return to me. "I'm sorry."
Frida gave a sympathetic smile, hand moving to gently touch my cheek as she gave a sigh. "I know, child." She answered. "Now come, the men still need tending to."
I suppose in that moment, I knew how my mother and felt. While my father was away - fighting Nazis and dodging bullets - she was waiting patiently. She tried to preoccupy herself. She tried to help, to busy herself. But the waiting, the not knowing, it was all so much for a young woman to bare. It was something I never really thought I'd have to experience. At least in the cold war, most men were not yet fighting. I could have my love and live a normal life; regardless of the USSR and the USA. But here? Surrounded by constant danger?
And, of course, I could not simply fall in love with an ordinary man. I could not find a carpenter or a blacksmith. Even in this world, where few were safe, I had gone out of my way to make things more difficult. Of all people, I had fallen for Ivar - the warlord who yearned for battle and violence. But that was just my luck, wasn't it.
Loving someone such as Ivar, I knew this nervousness was a feeling that I would have to grow used to. I would have to grow accustomed to him raiding and fighting while I wondered if he was alive or dead. That was my life now.
Gently, I worked the bandage around the young boy's arm. He couldn't have been more than fifteen, and already he'd been mangled by war - seen things that no one in my generation could ever even dream of, though I supposed it was more of a nightmare than a dream. He watched me intently searching my hazel eyes with curiosity. I'd quickly realised, while among the Vikings, that I was the only one with brown eyes. I knew that it was similar in the North of England, even when I was growing up. Brown eyes were a rarity that these people would not grow used to for centuries to come. And so, I was fairly easy to recognize.
