“Aye. We need tae get tae Uist.”
Isolda felt her stomach drop, felt the fear she’d been pushing aside come rushing back. She said nothing, her chin lifting as she glimpsed toward the grey water.
Ragnar watched her closely. “Ye dinnae like the water,” he observed.
“Och… I’m terrified of it.”
“Why?”
“Me last crossin’ was enough tae put me off it. Three days of naethin’ but heavin’ and shiverin’, bein’ certain every wave would be the one tae drag us down.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I thought I was goin’ tae die before we reached shore. Felt sick enough that at some point I wished I would.”
“But ye didnae.”
“Nay. But that daesnae mean I’m eager tae tempt fate again.”
“I’ll keep ye safe.” Ragnar said.
“Ye keep sayin’ that. As if words mean anythin’ against the sea.”
“They mean somethin’ tae me.” He said with quiet certainty. “And I’ll nae let ye drown, Isolda. I swear it.”
He was looking at her like she mattered—not as a political necessity, but as a person whose fear deserved acknowledgment.
It cannae be. He’s just concerned fer the Pact.
“I should get dressed.” Her voice came out soft. “If we’re leavin’ soon… I should…”
“Aye.” He still hadn’t moved, his eyes firmly fixed on her face. “Isolda?”
She paused, her hand on the doorframe.
“The tea was kind of ye.”
Isolda didn’t know what to say. So instead, she did the only thing that made sense—she nodded, turned and walked away, back into the room, leaving him with his half-empty cup.
His soft laugh followed, warm as the tea she’d brought him, and twice as unsettling.
About an hour later the ship awaited them at the harbor, its single mast pointing toward the sky while men moved about the deck checking ropes and adjusting the furled sail. The dragon-head prow stared toward open water with carved eyes that had witnessed things Isolda didn’t want to contemplate. She found herself standing on the dock, trying to keep her hands from shaking.
“Me lady,” A young man appeared at her elbow, sun-bleached hair sticking up ad odd angles and shaved short on the sides. “Me name’s Ubbe. I’ll help ye aboard.”
She took his hand and stepped onto the gangplank. The wood shifted beneath her feet while below, the water churned gray-green, smelling of things that lived and died in darkness.
‘Tis fine… ‘tis just three steps…Her boot touched the deck and the ship swayed, making her stomach lurch and she tasted sharp bile.
“Here, me lady.” Ubbe guided her toward the mast. “Hold ontae this, aye?”
Isolda wrapped both hands around the rough wood and held on like it was the only thing keeping her alive.
Breathe… just breathe!
“Left side.” Ragnar’s voice came from behind her, low and close. She hadn’t heard him approach over the sound of her own thundering pulse.
“What?”
“Move tae the left of the mast. Ye’ll feel the pitch less there.”
She wanted to argue, but the deck shifted and her stomach churned over. Pride suddenly seemed less important than not humiliating herself in front of him and his crew, so she moved. He didn’t follow. Didn’t touch her. Just stood close enough that if she needed stability, it would be there.