His mouth went dry and his lips were cracking in the cold air. He wasn't Björn; at least, not really, but she didn't seem to know that. "I don't… feel right," he said, his voice rough and too young jarring against the quiet. It sounded like someone else speaking through him.
She stepped closer with her boots scuffing the dirt floor, crunching over scattered straw and a forgotten bone. Her hand pressed gently to his forehead, it felt cool, calloused and smelled faintly of leather and dried herbs.
"No fever. Nightmares?" Her tone was brisk but her fingers hesitated with a flicker of softness breaking through, and her thumb brushing his temple briefly.
"Yeah," he said seizing the lifeline, and his voice was barely above a whisper. "Bad ones." Understatement of the century.
She stepped back with arms crossed and her tunic creaking faintly. "Shake them off, warriors don't wallow. And get dressed." Her gaze lingered, expectant, and he fumbled with the tunic and boots piled nearby on a low stool with its legs uneven on the dirt.
The wool tunic itched as he pulled it on, its seams scratchy and worn. It was a dull gray, patched in places, and sat over a linen undershirt that still smelled faintly of lye.
The leather boots were stiff and rough, the rawhide laces hard to work with. His hands shook as he tried to tie them, and his fingers were fumbling with the unfamiliar knots.
Nothing like putting on a jacket. Zippers and comfort felt a world away now.
He felt her watching, a quiet pressure to move faster. Her outline stood in the open doorway with pale morning light creeping around her.
Outside, the cold bit at his skin.
The training yard was a patch of hard dirt, worn down by boots and bordered by a splintered wooden fence leaning under its own weight. A rusted iron brazier sat in the corner, its coals long cold. A raven perched on a post, watching them with small dark eyes.
Lagertha handed him a wooden sword. The oak was chipped and dark with sweat. It felt heavy in his hands, more than he expected. The leather grip was worn smooth.
He'd never held a sword before.
He shifted, feet unsure on the uneven ground trying to copy a stance he remembered from TV.
His boots sank slightly in the mud.
"Steady," Lagertha said, lifting her sword and shield. The shield was round and painted with a faded red spiral, its iron center dented from old fights. "You know this. Defend."
He didn't.
She lunged. The wooden sword came fast at his side catching the light. He raised his sword too slow and it cracked against his forearm.
The jolt shot up to his shoulder and pain flared, but then faded faster than it should. A strange warmth spread through the bruise, like a rush of energy he didn't understand.
No time to think as she attacked again, her boots scraping the dirt.
Something kicked in. Not his reflexes, but Björn's.
He blocked, the shock buzzing through his teeth. His grip slipped on the sweaty handle.
He swung back, wide and clumsy.
She knocked it aside with her shield like it was nothing.
"You're slow today," she said while circling him and her braid swayed with each step. "What's going on in your head?"
He lowered the sword while breathing hard. His tunic stuck to his back with sweat. "Feels like I forgot everything," he said. The words spilled out, frustrated and honest.
Her shoulders relaxed slightly and the edge in her stance eased. "You haven't. Your body remembers, even if your head's foggy." She tapped her temple with one gloved hand. "Focus. You're my son. Act like it."
It hit hard. He wasn't her son but part of him wanted to be, for her.
"I'll try," he said and he gripped the sword tighter, his fingers sore.
She nodded and came at him again, slower now, testing him. Her boots shifted through the dirt.
He stumbled, missed blocks, nearly tripped on a buried rock but Björn's instincts helped. He dodged, blocked, reacted before he even thought.
Each hit hurt less than it should and that strange warmth dulled the pain.
A shallow cut stung then faded fast, the skin tingling where the blade had touched.
He pushed the weirdness aside, focusing on Lagertha's moves. Her effort showed in her breath, syncing with his own ragged gasps. The only sounds were the clash of wood and a gull crying in the distance.
Finally, she stepped back. Sweat dotted her forehead, glinting over the bruise on her cheek. "That's enough. You're off, but you're still in it."
She clapped his shoulder firmly and warmly. Her glove was cool against his skin. "Rest and be sharper tomorrow."
She walked away, her boots leaving light prints in the dirt.
He stood there with sword in hand, the tip dragging a thin line in the ground.
The yard fell quiet.
Just wind and the loose fence creaking.
He felt the weight of this place, of her life, Björn's life, now his.
He wasn't ready.
But he'd learn.
For himself.
For her.
He had to.