Success by Vikings standards had always been tricky waters to navigate in Freydis' eyes, as the deaths of countless Viking and women and children for the sake of fame and wealth was considered a success yet within days of returning home the warriors would begin to feel the sting of loneliness upon losing their families. Though only ten, the recent raids in the western seas left the girl doubting any raid could ever be deemed 'successful' after the callous butchering on both sides.

She had protested accompanying her father to the nth degree, even as they landed on the rough shores of Northumbria. Her skills in all weaponry was meager at best, and the thought of being left unguarded on the battlefield terrified her to the point of being crippled. Rather her talents lay in the art of needlework, not warfare. Often all her father could do was shake his head in disappoint that his only child had been born such a coward.

Though it seemed the blur that was a gutless attack on the Viking camp positioned miles behind the battle had changed his opinion of her. Freydis recalled very little of the night that left four Northumbrian soldiers mutilated and spared a number of defenseless women and children the horrific fates of those around them. She had blacked out, and when she came to the warmth of blood trickling down her face was all that was left to warm her in the cold English night. There were bodies on the ground, a splintered spear shaft in her hand and the roar of Viking warriors slaughtering the Northumbrian attackers. Only the rain beating down on her face woke her from the violet stupor.

'Beserker' they called her, dressed her in bearskins and praised the gods for such a gift. Her father in particular hollered at the celebrations and thanksgiving for granting his only child such a rare ability, though Freydis herself could only sit numbly as the festivities raged on around her.

Suddenly Freydis' mind was wrenched from her own thoughts of the English raids and when she came to, all eyes were firmly centred on her, watching like hawks.

"-dis. Answer Queen Aslaug," hissed a voice next to her ear, which she then recognised as her fathers.

"W-What?" Freydis mumbled, clutching her wrist tightly as she glanced around to find the Great Hall had been filled to the brim with warriors, all watching for her reply. A few cracked grins and sniggered, whilst the rest continued to stare intently.

Then her eyes landed upon the willowy figure seated on the fur-covered throne who she could only guess was Queen Aslaug. As she had heard, the woman in question was stunning beyond words with kohl rimmed eyes so ensnaring that wasn't hard to understand we she was called a witch. The demure smile on her face was serene but misplaced, as if to lull Freydis into a false sense of comfort.

"Forgive my child, she must be still recovering from the raids this summer," her father Gudmund announced. "Her head is still not right."

"My head is fine, father," Freydis quipped under her breath.

The Queen tipped her head with her hands clasped and said, "Welcome back to Kattegat, you have all done well. And we welcome a new gift from the gods, to whom we shall thank tonight with a sacrifice. The Beserker Freydis has been granted to us at such a young age, surely should we not feast in honour of Odin for this?"

The crowd hollered and raised their mugs to the gods above, yet the woman's eyes never strayed from Freydis nor did her posture change from that of a cat readying to pounce. Beside her stood her three sons, and the one crippled son was seated on the throne beside her. His cheeks were flushed red with tears, likely from a tantrum that had carried on prior to the celebrations. But he was small enough for his age, with skinny legs twisted by a curse that could not be hidden even by the hemp fabric of his pants. She tried not to stare for fear of angering the Queen, and so instead stared at her feet.

Bodies swayed and passed by Freydis as she was left to stare at the weathered and nearly split leather of her boots. They were splattered with mud and crusted blood, too dirty to have worn to the feast. She felt a broad hand place itself between her shoulder blades and push her towards the dais upon which the Queen was seated. Without needing to look she could tell her father was eager to boast to the queen in order to gain favour in her eyes. Earl Ygraf's wife and small son accompanied them.

"Queen Aslaug, may I introduce my daughter, Freydis. My only child," Gudmund spoke over the crowd, his red beard shaking as he did.

"The Beserker child, yes?"

The earl's wife joined the conversation whilst gesturing to the son hoisted on her hip, "She saved the life of me and my son when soldiers attacked our camp."

"I think they are just stories," one of the smaller sons hissed, eyeing the ten year old with disdain. He was only one year older than her, yet his position as the King's son and height built from the dais allowed him to stare her down.

She felt her face flush red with embarrassment, particularly since she couldn't recall much of her rampage except for what she had been told.

The Earl's wife returned her attentions to the Queen and said, "They are not just stories, Queen Aslaug. I was there when the Englishmen attacked. The murdered our people with their new bows and butchered the children at their mothers' breasts. My son and I only survived long enough for my husband and his men to return thanks to the Beserker."

Aslaug eyed the child standing before her carefully, noting how she had already been dressed in the traditional bearskins of the Beserkers without being formally recognised by the Seer as such. The bear's glass eyes stared at the woman, as if to challenge her scrutiny, though seemed too large for the ten-year-old girl. Her eyes were dark, like the waters beyond the bay, and so murky that the pupil was nearly swallowed up by its inky surrounding. But they were glazed over and the girl was miles away; harmless enough if controlled properly.

A plan was formulating in his mind, hidden by her steady and placid smile, albeit influenced by the alcohol that never left her system. Her father watched on expectantly, for what Aslaug could probably guess: he was not known to many in Kattegat, a lowly farmer flaunting his gifted child for the chance to increase his status. He would be simple enough to manipulate if given the opportunity.

However purchasing the girl's loyalty would be a more time consuming task, as loyalties shifted like sand in that place. Aslaug's eyes briefly flickered to her precious Ivar, who was seated beside her on the throne, then to the uninhabited throne of Ragnar to her right.

Then her smile broadened and she tilted her head towards Freydis, saying, "Why don't you join my son's and I for a drink, child?"

"She would be honoured to," Gudmund replied in his daughter's place as he nudged the dark-haired girl onto the dais.

Freydis hesitantly stepped up on the dais before self-consciously glancing down to her disheveled clothes. The thin, itching fabric was splattered with blood as her father hadn't wished for any doubt to be left in the Queen's mind as to whether or not the child had actually seen battle. The embroidery that lined the hem of the tunic was fraying and the colours of the flower petals had dulled. She fingered the loose ends gingerly.

Queen Aslaug beckoned the girl closer and said, "Those patterns are wonderful, did your mother do that for you?"

"No… I did it last summer when Father was out raiding," she mumbled under her breath.

"It is lovely, but that tunic needs to be changed," she turned her head to the slightly older child who had called her Beserking 'just stories'. "Sigurd go and give her one of your tunics."

The blonde child turned to her in the sort of horror that only a well-to-do child could muster. "But Mother she-"

"Sigurd, do as you're told," Aslaug hissed, forcing the child to do as he was bid lest he be reprimanded more. The spitefully look cast at both Freydis and Aslaug had the young girl shrinking further back into the bearskins. The sheer size of the pelt was comforting to the normally reclusive child.

"She will only dirty our clothes, Mother," the crippled child sharing her throne said bluntly, his small brow furrowed in annoyance at the dirty Freydis. "You stink."

Freydis opened her mouth to protest, but the many pairs of eyes staring at her caused her to snap it shut within moments. Whilst it was true that the blood and sweat caused a foul odour if one was not accustomed to the stench, it still pained her to hear. Her eyes briefly glanced the boy's darkening hair and vivid blue eyes before dropping to the floor.

"Ivar of course she smells, they just came back from the summer raids," another of the blonde sons joked.

"I don't care, Hvisterk, she should take a bath," this 'Ivar' barked back before jabbing a finger in Freydis' direction. "Go away, stinky girl."

Sigurd returned and begrudgingly thrust a deep blue tunic at Freydis, causing her to stumble is his fist collided with her chest. Her jaw dropped a little at the blatant act, and the festering look in his eyes told her it was no accident either. For whatever crime she had unknowingly committed against him, he hated her.

"You shouldn't push girls, Sigurd," said the oldest son Freydis knew to be Ubbe. Though it was said too lightly and his younger brother merely rolled his eyes in response.

All the while as the sons bickered, Aslaug continued to eye Freydis. She did not retaliate when Ivar insulted her, nor when shoved by Sigurd, causing the mother's intentions for Freydis to deepen. The girl was quiet, tolerant and most of all protective. She protected a mother and her child, and with careful planning would make a perfect companion to protect Ivar into adulthood.

Aslaug beckoned over a servant and commanded a stein of mead be poured for Freydis, to which the ten-year-old was swiftly handed a mug larger than both her hands.

"Drink it, Freydis Gudmundsdottir," she signaled, taking a small sip of her on goblet. "And tell your father I would much appreciate a private meeting tomorrow at noon."

Freydis drank deeply from the stein, cringing as the hot liquid stung her throat, but she nonetheless drank dutifully. Ivar, the youngest son, stared at her with both disdain and curiosity. Even from their secluded farm by the coast, Freydis and her father had heard tales of the cruel and violent Ivar. He had apparently already killed another child and grew so angry that even full-grown men struggled to control him. He was essentially a Beserker in control of his faculties, and that set Freydis on edge. Yet his eyes were so clear and calculating that she couldn't help but want to change them into a gaze of approval. Conflict was not something she wished for.

Nodding silently, the girl drowned out her thoughts in the sound of drums and horns blearing notes into the celebrations, along with the valiant cheers of the warriors who had returned from England. Her father's boasting and praises from Earl Ygraf caused her face to blossom red, whilst the Ragnarssons continued to squabble at their mother's side.

It was all too much. She felt herself mentally retreating to England once more.