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A critical gaze rested on him. Ivar didn't need to look at his brother to know that a remark was on the tip of his tongue, just waiting to be blurted out. Surely he was on the verge of bursting, as the questioning gaze had already started shortly after Ivar had entered the makeshift tent where they had arranged to meet for a final council.
The fact that Hvitserk could hold out for so long without saying anything was in itself a peculiarity. Perhaps, Ivar hastily concluded, he was wise enough to weigh his options thoroughly and not risk a quarrel between them just before they would set out to slay some traitors from Harald's army. In the heat of battle, a knife could otherwise find its way into a body that doesn't belong to the enemy. By mistake, of course. One never knew.
That Hvitserk actually wasn't aware of this danger was revealed when they finished their conversation and his gaze once again wandered to the object of his inner struggle. He cleared his throat and adjusted his seat, straightening his back as if he could show more spine in an upright position, waiting for Ivar to return his gaze.
As soon as their eyes met, the withheld words gushed out of Hvitserk. As if the sealing of his mouth had been triggered by a curse that could only be lifted by looking into the bright blue eyes that his little brother had inherited from their famous father.
"What’s with that braid, brother? Do you need help to fix it? Did your hands fall asleep while braiding?" Hvitserk pointed vaguely at the spot he was talking about. Ivar didn't need to look in a mirror to know what his brother was aiming at. He knew that one of his braids stood out in particular. It didn't bother him, at least not as much as it seemed to affect his brother, but he still didn't want it to become a topic of discussion. Especially when the tent could fill up at any moment with more warriors to whom he didn't want to give an explanation for the state of his hair.
A curse to shut Hvisterk up would suit Ivar just fine at the moment.
"No, thank you. There's no need for that." Ivar spoke casually on purpose, not wanting to make a big deal out of it and hoping that Hvisterk would shrug off the subject faster that way.
"It is very much needed. This one braid is a disaster. You don't really want to go into battle like that, do you?"
"I will. Proud as ever and with the intention of winning. What about you? Now that everything is prepared and discussed anew, don't you want to go to your warriors to brief them once again? We cannot afford to lose this battle." Ivar rose from his seat and leaned heavily on his crutch. He tried to make it clear that this conversation was over for him, that he was about to leave the tent. He also tried to steer the topic in another direction. One which he preferred more and one that was actually important right now.
However, he had underestimated his brother's stubbornness.
"Exactly, we can't afford to lose, and yet you insult the gods by going into battle like this." Once again Hvitserk used elaborate hand gestures to point out the problem. "It looks like a child braided it. One who has only one arm and whose fingers are fused together. You can't be serious, Ivar?" He just couldn't believe that Ivar didn't seem to mind that his hairstyle wasn't as perfect as usual. Normally he had something like pride - and more than enough of it, and he always put a lot of effort into his hairdo. Especially before a fight.
The somewhat offended expression on his younger brother's face did not escape Hvisterk, although it was quickly covered by a grin to hide the fact that Ivar wasn't pleased with the last comments.
"Come on. Let me help you fix it." As brothers, it was nothing unusual for them to help each other do their hair. They had all learned how to do it at a young age, as had every other Viking. It was part of their custom.
His hand, which wanted to reach for the end of the braid to undo the cord that held it together, was slapped away in a dismissive gesture.
"Stop it. It stays as it is!" Ivar took two steps back, wanting to put distance between them so that Hvitserk would not dare to try again. "The bishop has braided this one," he added in a softer tone than before, making it sound as if it was the most normal thing in the world for him to allow anyone other than his brother or personal slaves to touch his hair.
"What?" Hvitserk uttered in astonishment. He was now even more perplexed than before, which was reflected in the open-mouth expression with which he continued to stare at his brother. It was difficult for him to mentally process the information he had just heard.
"Heahmund did it," Ivar replied, slightly annoyed that Hvitserk reacted the way he did. It was an exaggeration, Ivar thought. He also failed to consider that the fact that he called the bishop by his given name did not make it any easier for his older brother to process what he had just revealed.
"Why did you let him do it?"
Sighing in defeat, Ivar sat down on the bench from which he had just gotten up and gestured for Hvisterk to do the same. He had come to the conclusion that he had no choice but to tell his brother how it had come to this, so he decided to do it right away before he would be confronted with any more teasing or questions.
"This is going to stay between us. Just so we are clear."
"I promise," Hvitserk willingly vowed, curious about what he was about to hear.
~~~~About an hour before~~~~
Sitting in front of the mirror, which he had ordered to be brought into his tent, Ivar reflected on his thoughts about the upcoming battle, once again went through the possible outcomes that could occur, and considered how he would ideally react to them. At best, he wanted to be prepared for anything.
Meanwhile, his fingers slid skillfully through his hair, laying strand after strand on top of each other until he reached the tips of his hair. With some liquid wax that he took from the burning candle in front of him on a small stool, he wetted the ends so that the braid did not come loose again before he would later join the smaller ones together into a bigger one, which would be held by a cord.
For today's cause, he wanted to make a special effort.
He heard the curtain in the entrance area of his tent being flung back and turned a little to be able to identify through the mirror who had allowed himself uninvited access. There were only a handful of people who would dare to do this, and when Ivar realized who it was, a gentle smile appeared on his lips.
"Bishop? What gives me the honor?"
"Everything is prepared. The army is ready and just waiting for your order to move out," Heahmund explained without wasting time with a greeting.
"Thank you for letting me know." Ivar nodded as a sign of his gratitude and let his gaze rest on Heahmund through the mirror. The latter was already in his armor, carrying his powerful sword at his side, making no move to say or do anything else. He just stood there and watched.
Ivar started to divide the next thicker strand into three equal parts in order to braid them together afterward. He wasn't sure what to make of the fact that the bishop made no move to leave again. Was he expecting anything?
"Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"I was just wondering why you waste so much time styling your hair that way. You should keep it short. It's so much more efficient." Heahmund awoke from his stupor and walked toward Ivar, grabbing another stool and placing it next to the young Viking before settling down on it. His eyes now fixed on what Ivar's fingers were doing.
"So you want to talk about hairstyles with me?" Ivar ended the sentence with a chuckle, the idea too funny for him that someone like Heahmund could be interested in such a thing.
"I would like to know why," Heahmund repeated the intention of his question stoically.
"Don't you think I look handsome with long hair?" Ivar asked teasingly, earning an annoyed look from the foreign warrior he liked to have around. Lately, even a bit more than a couple of weeks prior.
"That was not an answer to my question."
"No, it wasn't, but I'd still like an answer to my question first. Consider it an order from your leader." The amused grin on Ivar's face was impossible to miss. He found pleasure, as always, in emphasizing his superiority.
Heahmund let out a chuckle. Not even three lunar cycles ago, he would have taken this seriously. In the meantime, however, something had changed between them. A seed had fought its way through solid rock, had sprouted, and had thus sown a feeling in both of them that made them seek the closeness of the other again and again. As a good Christian, he was far from giving it a name, but neither did he vehemently resist these sensations, which were something new to him.
He was not afraid of Ivar, looked behind the facade of mockery. "It suits you, no question about it. But I still think short hair would be a lot less annoying."
Ivar once again reached for the hot wax in the candle and applied it to his fingertips before placing them on the end of the finished braid to seal it. When he heard Heahmund's response and saw how interested he still was observing him, his lips shaped into a smile anew. He believed that he didn't need any confirmation from outside, but the fact that Heahmund thought that his long hair suited him made him feel strangely pleased - if not even happy.
"This hairstyle is special. Long hair has something to do with honor in my culture. It shows that someone is a true warrior," Ivar began to explain, letting his gaze wander briefly to Heahmund's short hair. "You should let yours grow too. After all, you are a true warrior yourself."
"That's not going to happen," the bishop quickly replied, somehow taken aback by this suggestion and his imagination of himself in such a heathen way. "But when I first met you, your hair was pretty short. Why did it have that length when you say it has to be long to be seen as a real warrior?"
"Because at that point, I hadn't achieved anything that would have brought me honor, or at least not much. My hair was already longer in York than I had worn it the years before. You know, as children, almost everyone has long hair, but with the coming of the twelfth year of life, it is cut very short. For this, we have a special ceremony where the cut hair is offered to the gods in gratitude. For taking care of the child until this point, and from then on, you pay your respects to the gods by making sure it grows again. But especially the warriors and shieldmaiden in training do not let this just happen. From the moment of the ceremony, the achievements you make count. The more you achieve, the more raids and battles you successfully engage in, the longer you get to grow it again."
"So it's a kind of status symbol?" Heahmund listened with interest, torn as he so often was between fascination over the culture so foreign to him and the feeling that the whole thing was ridiculous.
"You could say that, yes. And by saying I should cut it off, it is like me ordering you to throw away your cross and sword. I would be depriving myself of my hard-won honor, and I would also be disrespectful to the gods."
Heahmund nodded in understanding. It made sense - somehow. "But why are you wasting time by braiding it? You could make a simple ponytail, but instead, you sit here for an hour like a royal woman with nothing to do but lose herself in her vanity."
This comparison was not particularly appealing to Ivar, and he clicked his tongue in warning. He liked Heahmund, let him get away with things for which he would have punished others long ago, but even this leniency had limits.
"You pray to your gods while making these stupid hand gestures..."
"There is only one God," Heahmund immediately corrected, never getting tired of doing this over and over again, and knowing full well that Ivar did it on purpose to tease him in his belief. The self-satisfied grin on the boy’s face was proof enough, that he had reacted much to Ivar's liking.
"Of course. How could I forget…," Ivar replied, playfully shaken, as if he couldn't explain how he could have forgotten. "So, when you pray to the one and only god , you do it in a certain way. I do the same by braiding my hair. With each braid I do, I speak to my gods, ask for their protection and their goodwill towards me. I talk to Odin, tell him about my strategies and hope that he shares his wisdom with me and that he will approve my plans. He is the wisest of all the gods, a great strategist himself. I place my hope in him acknowledging me as worthy and welcoming me to Valhalla in case I perish in battle. I also express my gratitude to Thor, the strongest of all the gods, and ask him to lend me some of his almighty strength. One blow from his hammer could bring us victory. He could summon a thunderbolt that would strike down anyone who is in the wrong."
"And in the wrong is anyone who opposes you and your victory, right?"
"Correct, your Grace." The nickname earned him a light punch to the upper arm, but Ivar just laughed it off and proceeded to split the next strand of hair into three smaller pieces.
"And to whom are you speaking now?" wondered Heahmund, who still hadn't had enough of Ivar's stories. He always found it fascinating when the boy began to tell stories, and he especially liked the enthusiasm with which he talked about the things he believed in. Heahmund was sure that Ivar would make an exceptionally good missionary if only he would not wander on the wrong path. He could listen to the young Viking for hours, spellbound by the soft voice that was so different from what one would expect from a cold-blooded war leader.
"To you," Ivar said with a smirk, stating the obvious, knowing that this answer was not what Heahmund meant and that it would easily annoy his guest. He couldn't help himself. He just loved that irritated look on the bishop's face.
To Ivar's disappointment, however, Heahmund was not annoyed, only returning the grin with one of his own as he raised his hand and pressed a finger against Ivar's temple. "I meant in there."
"Týr of course," came the quick reply.
"Of course. And what does this mythical creature provide you?" The bishop resisted calling these beings gods, as it felt too much like a betrayal against his own.
"Týr is another god of war. He helped to bind the giant wolf Fenrir by using a trick. The gods feared the wolf because he was supposed to devour Odin during Ragnarok. The end of everything. So they asked the dwarves to forge something that was so powerful that it could bind Fenrir, and so it came to pass that they forged a chain, called Gleipnir, so strong that Fenrir would not be able to escape. But the wolf was skeptical and demanded that he would only put the leash on if, in return, a god would put his arm in his mouth. As security, so to speak. No one dared to do this except Týr. He sacrificed his arm. Knowing full well that Fenrir would bite it off as soon as he realized he couldn't get off the chain. Therefore, I ask him to guide me when I too must make such a difficult decision. I pray that I will be able to decide for the greater good and that I will not be blinded or held back by selfish reasons."
Heahmund let the words sink in. Although he didn't believe in the existence of said gods, the thought itself fascinated him that Ivar was also, in some way, praying before a battle. He let his gaze wander to the small section of loose hair that still needed to be braided. Driven by an inner impulse and an idea forming within him, he let his fingers run through it. He had been watching Ivar the whole time they were talking and figured that his doings didn't look very complicated.
Meanwhile, on the other side, Ivar continued braiding unperturbed but was wondering what was going on in the bishop's head. He saw his thoughtful look and couldn't help but notice the fingers that gently slid through his open hair. Normally he only let a select group of people touch his hair, but Heahmund seemed to be one of them from that day on because Ivar didn't mind being touched by him.
"Can I do one myself while asking the true God for your protection?"
The question surprised Ivar, which was also evident in his facial expression. "Are you even able to do that?" He couldn't imagine that Heahmund had ever done anyone's hair before. Neither a normal pigtail, let alone a braided one.
"I've never done this before, but it doesn't look too hard," Heahmund said confidently. There was no doubt in his mind that he would surely master something as simple as braiding hair. Every woman or little girl could do it, so why should it be difficult for him?
Uncertainty joined the surprise in Ivar's features. Unlike Heahmund, he wasn't sure if he would be able to do it. It had taken him a few tries to get his braids to look reasonably good, but, as Ivar thought to himself, maybe it was because he had been a kid back then and had less experience with everything. Braiding his hair was important to him. It meant more to him than showing off a fancy hairstyle. Nevertheless, he finally nodded in agreement, giving Heahmund permission to try his luck.
In the following minutes, Ivar did his best not to burst out laughing. After the first failed attempts, where the braid sat much too loose or Heahmund already didn't know after the first moves which strand he should move next, Ivar tried to explain, and especially also to demonstrate again, how to do it correctly. But it did not change the fact that Heahmund was simply clumsy.
His fingers were not used to working in a delicate way. His hands were trained to hold a sword, to swing it precisely in order to inflict the greatest possible damage. He didn't have to be gentle in doing so. This lack of habit was more than noticeable, and Ivar's grin grew bigger and bigger the more often Heahmund loosened the messed-up braid again, becoming more and more frustrated as he began once more, refusing any further help in the process.
The warrior's pride in Heahmund would not allow him to be helped with such a task, which he considered easy. He wanted to do it all by himself and prove to a broadly grinning Heathan boy that he was not too stupid to braid.
In the end, Heahmund managed to do a reasonably acceptable job, at least Ivar convinced him that the braid he had done was good enough. Secretly, though, Ivar just wanted him to stop pulling at his hair.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ivar kept his report short and to the point, telling Hvitserk only the most necessary key data. Heahmund had joined him, they had talked about the custom of braiding, and so the bishop had wanted to try it himself. Fact-based and not too revealing.
That Heahmund had pressed his lips against his scalp while whispering sweet words, asking him to come out of the battle safe and sound, Ivar kept to himself. Also that he himself had interwoven three of his cords into one bracelet that was now wrapped around the bishop's wrist, no one but the two of them needed to know.
Hvitserk didn't need to know everything. The youngest brother wanted to keep this exciting part of his current life to himself.
However, the gentle smile that appeared on his face as he recounted the past hour, the gleam in his eyes, and the overall dreamy expression were impossible to miss. They were telltale signs that even his older brother did not miss. It was just too obvious.
Hvitserk did not possess much emotional intelligence, but that his little brother had developed a great weakness for the Christian warrior was undeniable even for him. It also explained to him, why Ivar was willing to go into battle with this monstrosity of a braid, which for Hvitserk still amounted to an insult to the gods. Knowing that a Christian hand was responsible for it only further strengthened his opinion.
For Ivar, however, this little braid was perfect. It looked like a disaster, but the meaning behind it made it the most beautiful braid he had ever worn. He actually felt more protected now, too. Not because of some weak god who might be watching over him in addition. Ivar could well do without Christ's protection, for he knew that his gods were on his side. That was enough for him. But what made him feel secure was the knowledge that he meant something to Heahmund, that the bishop wanted him to be protected, and that he would therefore defend him himself if it came down to it.
This feeling warmed his heart, and when Heahmund entered the tent and Hvitserk looked over at him, ready to hurl a few mocking insults, Ivar grabbed his brother's wrist with an iron grip, drawing his attention back to himself.
"Swallow it, Hvitserk, or I'll make you swallow your whole tongue!" It was not an empty threat, they both knew that.
Just as Heahmund would protect him, he would prevent his pride from being broken.