It was home. She kept telling herself that. Hedeby was home now. The lands around it were familiar, so much so that even her horse knew its way toward the town, and she was able to let her thoughts wander, hands loose on the reins, as they neared the small sprawl of buildings that were the core of her husband's holdings.
It was hard not to notice the differences between Hedeby and Kattegat - the land, the atmosphere... The people. Arriving in Kattegat, everyone had welcomed her warmly, even though she'd been uncertain and angry at the time. She'd spent so little time there before leaving again to return to this place, but the people she'd encountered had been welcoming and caring, glad to see her and glad of her return. In contrast, the people in Hedeby were wary and reserved, and she knew that it was at least in part due to her husband. His rule was so much different than Ragnar's hand over Kattegat, and it was reflected in the attitudes of their people. But the fact remained that they did recognize her, which meant that (whatever was happening with the flow of time around Kattegat) Hedeby was as it was 'meant' to be. How she remembered and expected it to be.
She didn't look over at Ragnar as they rode into the town, not wanting to see the expression that she suspected might be on his face. She had known better than to bring him, had known that she should have found a way to leave him behind, outside the bounds of Sigvard's rule. But after her return from the strange place with the winged man, after that dark early morning tucked against Ragnar's side, she had to admit to herself that perhaps she didn't want to force him to leave. She dismounted outside the long hall and handed the reins of her horse to the young man who stepped close to take them. She nodded, knowing his face and the recognition in his eyes, and then she took a moment to settle herself, straighten her armor, touch fingers to the hilt of her sword, her knife. It was a near-unconscious preparation for battle.
"I did not have permission to take the warriors to come to your aid. Nor to take Bjorn." The words were sudden but quiet, and she didn't look over at Ragnar. It was the only preparation she offered him before striding toward the door of the hall.
The darkness, the contrast with outside, made her pause her steps for a moment over the threshold, allowing time for the soft conversations that had been going to slowly die away. For that first moment, she stood alone in the bright frame of the door, outlined by the light of the day. Once the dazzle cleared from her eyes, she saw the gazes of her husband's people turned in her direction, curious and wary. Her husband's eyes found her as well, and she squared her shoulders under his regard. Everything was still for a moment, until she saw everyone's eyes shift to the side and felt the presence at her back that told her that Ragnar had stepped forward as well. The hall was even more silent then, though she saw the deepening curiosity in people's expressions.
She stepped forward then, into the hall, and began the walk toward Sigvard, whose own eyes narrowed as he regarded her and her traveling companion. And then his voice rang out across the space, loud and grating (and with the subtle slur of too much to drink, even this early in teh day). "Look. My absent wife returns. And brings with her not my adopted son, but an uninvited stranger into my home."