Being in the wrong place at the wrong time was all it took for Adelasia's whole life to turn upside down. After being captured by the heathens raiding her city and taken all the way to the cold North, the youngest Ragnarsson takes an interest in her...
With an absentminded smile, Alasia stitched the last part onto the new tunic she'd made. It was a small square of ring mail, which she attached to the shoulder part and would serve more purposes of beauty than of necessity, but she thought it was a nice touch. Placing the final stitch, she looked up from the tunic and into the camp. After a terribly long debate, the brothers had finally listened and given in to Ivar's plan of conquering further land and they had moved from the kingdom of East Anglia to some field south of York.
"Did you make that for me, or for Ivar?" Hvitserk's cheery voice suddenly sounded, causing her to look over her shoulder. His eyes shone with excitement, probably for the fact that the raid on York was nearing, and he took a seat next to her in the grass, his shoulder bumping into hers. "I hope it is mine, but I have a feeling it's not."
"Sorry, Hvitserk, I made this for your moody younger brother," she said with an apologetic smile. It was true that Ivar's mood had turned sourer than milk standing out too long, but she knew he was only hiding the grief he felt now that Floki had left him to be a plaything for his gods. It was also the only reason that she could endure his angry outlashes and hurtful comments. "Not that he deserves it."
Though she had muttered that last part quietly, Hvitserk seemed to have caught it and chuckled loudly, the sound oddly untroubled. It made her smile ever so slightly, wondering how the three Ragnarssons could be so different from each other. Hvitserk was always joyful and enthusiastic, never failing to bring a smile to her face. Ubbe was serious, less ambitious than his brothers, but with that, he had a calm the other two would never possess. And then there was Ivar, who was too zealous for his own good, always making up plans behind that infamous mask of his.
"You have not changed your hair," Hvitserk suddenly commented. He reached out and his hand moved over the braids framing her head like a crown, before it fell away from her face again.
After Helga's death, she had refused to wear her hair in any other style than the one Helga had put in the day before she died. The only thing that changed was the flowers stuck in between the braids, a reflection of the landscape they camped at at that moment. Just as she was about to say something, she suddenly heard Ivar's voice roaring followed by the sound of a table being smashed in two. Her blue eyes met Hvitserk's and not a second later, both jumped up and started running in the direction of the sound.
Hvitserk burst through the flaps of the tent first and she stumbled in after, her eyes widening at the scene in front of her. Ivar looked positively agitated with his brows knitted together and his dagger against the forehead of another young man. Instantly, she recognized him to be a monk from the bald circle on the crown of his head and the dirty white dress he was wearing and she wondered what on earth Ivar was doing with a monk and more importantly, where he'd managed to steal one.
