When you moved away from England to marry a Viking, you'd feared the worst. You'd heard horror stories about the sons of Ragnar, Ivar in particular. Their wedding ceremonies were unfamiliar to you. Ubbe's wife, Margrethe, explained everything while she braided your hair. She'd taught you their language and which Gods were meaningful during a wedding. You were eternally grateful for her presence.

Ivar had been cold to you that first night. He couldn't exactly consummate the marriage in the traditional sense, which clearly grated on him. After nearly a week of sharing a bed in silence, he finally spoke to you.

"What's your necklace for?"

You'd been afraid to tell him of your cross necklace. Several men had already made crude comments about your English origins. You'd heard of Ivar's hatred of Christians, and your fingers trembled as you explained the importance of the jewelry. But Ivar seemed to accept it. At least, he let you keep the necklace.

Even if he found Christianity to be ridiculous.

One night, you lie in bed with your husband after bathing. His hair was freshly braided and his chest bare. Your fingers traced the black symbols tattooed over his biceps. Ivar shifted to the side and pressed a kiss to the cross of your necklace.