The days are unnumbered; they wake to a gray dawn and when the light fades, they close their eyes and hope they are well enough hidden. Survival gives her no time for other thoughts, no momentary indulgences to wonder about a heart-and-blood sister and whatever became of her.
She keeps Wessex alive, and her daughter, in turns, keeps Lagertha alive when the monsters tear her flesh into long, bloody ribbons. Their magic is unreliable, at best - but they are opportunists, and survivors, and nothing if not hard-headed. Too stubborn to die here, they jest.
The monsters are stupid - the men, less so. But dreams fuel their legs, even when it seems their lungs might burst as they choke on their own spittle. On edge, always on edge, ready to fly at a moment's notice. Beqanna, they whisper at night. Home, Lagertha thinks. And Not Today is their rallying cry.
One night, when the light of the double moon highlights the ageing whiskers around her mouth, Lagertha pauses mid-bite, gasping for air. A bolt of pain shoots through her chest and though she’s endured spikes and claws and razor-sharp teeth, this seems to start at her core and radiate outward. She falls to her knees, and Wessex is immediately at her side, her nose trying to find some invisible monster that must have gotten past their fine-tuned senses.
Whatever the cause - it does not last long. As a lingering ache replaces the pain, the stiff and stern old Warrior Queen is consumed by the utterly unfamiliar urge to weep. And in this moment, she thinks of Anguisette and Vidar. Of Dalten and Crito and Tiphon. Of Yael and Vanquish. Of Rhy. Tears seep from the corners of her eyes, and with the first sob she’s ever allowed herself to loose, the world seems to close on them again.
Somewhere down the Beach, Rhy exhales for the final time.
Somewhere else, Wessex takes her first breath of Beqanna’s air.
Lagertha cannot stop herself, and so she unknowingly mourns with complete abandon. Beqanna goes unnoticed.
She keeps Wessex alive, and her daughter, in turns, keeps Lagertha alive when the monsters tear her flesh into long, bloody ribbons. Their magic is unreliable, at best - but they are opportunists, and survivors, and nothing if not hard-headed. Too stubborn to die here, they jest.
The monsters are stupid - the men, less so. But dreams fuel their legs, even when it seems their lungs might burst as they choke on their own spittle. On edge, always on edge, ready to fly at a moment's notice. Beqanna, they whisper at night. Home, Lagertha thinks. And Not Today is their rallying cry.
One night, when the light of the double moon highlights the ageing whiskers around her mouth, Lagertha pauses mid-bite, gasping for air. A bolt of pain shoots through her chest and though she’s endured spikes and claws and razor-sharp teeth, this seems to start at her core and radiate outward. She falls to her knees, and Wessex is immediately at her side, her nose trying to find some invisible monster that must have gotten past their fine-tuned senses.
Whatever the cause - it does not last long. As a lingering ache replaces the pain, the stiff and stern old Warrior Queen is consumed by the utterly unfamiliar urge to weep. And in this moment, she thinks of Anguisette and Vidar. Of Dalten and Crito and Tiphon. Of Yael and Vanquish. Of Rhy. Tears seep from the corners of her eyes, and with the first sob she’s ever allowed herself to loose, the world seems to close on them again.
Somewhere down the Beach, Rhy exhales for the final time.
Somewhere else, Wessex takes her first breath of Beqanna’s air.
Lagertha cannot stop herself, and so she unknowingly mourns with complete abandon. Beqanna goes unnoticed.