[For him, there had been no separation, no tearful goodbye, no riding out of Kattegat at a gallop to find her and stop her from leaving. He'd merely woken up one morning to find the bed furs beside him cold and those he knew gone, her included. He had the healer in the bright city lights, but no wife, no son, no daughter, no brother. Loki that he had written with had said that it was not his doing and Ragnar believed the liesmith in this thing.
But now she returned, with strange tales of loss and -- what need did she have of fighters? Where did she come from? Those questions did not stop him as he came closer. She did not rise, did not smile, did not warm and he sank down to his knees before her, much like he had when she told him she was with his child, but this time his hands did not reach to cradle her belly. Instead he slunk forward, a fox trying to creep into the hen house. He had seen her angry before, many times, sometimes (mostly) well deserved and he expected her to strike out as he crept closer.
It did not stop him from coming closer and nudging at her shoulder with his head. Let her strike, let her fight, she was never more beautiful except perhaps when she was round with his child. A roundness she did not have now, but if what she said was true -- then his son was gone. She was not given to lying, but she had said many things -- the loss of Gyda -- that he did not understand.] Lagertha. [Softly, reverent. A tone saved for only his wife and children.]