Loker smiled down at her, the years lifting for a moment as he did, “I will be heading to the Hall soon, though I have to make a detour first. And yes, if you have a remedy to rid a chest of the smoke, I would be a fool to refuse it.” 

His brow furrowed for a moment as he cast a look down the village, toward the far left of the Hall. His son and his in laws were holed up in their home and he hoped they had stayed there. He needed to check on them, the urge to make sure his child was safe was strong and he could not wait any longer. He put a hand on Hallerna’s arm and met her eyes. 

“I have to go...” Loker looked back up as his men spoke with the wounded and cajoled or threatened them to go up to the Hall. “But I am also needed there. Hallerna I must ask you to do me a great favor.”

He bit his lower lip, his auburn beard bristling out for a moment, “I have a son, he is about a few years older than Eyja. He stays with his grandparents, my late wife’s parents. I cannot have him in the Hall...for reasons. I am concerned for their safety with the outbreak of draugr. Tell Ragnar I will be there as soon as I can, I must check in on them.” 

Tora rested against the building, leaning on it to stay still, every movement was fire on her back and between her legs. The little girl stood close to her and stared up at her injured face with unabashed curiosity. The slave smiled through split lips though it pained her, Una looked down at the kitten, petting his soft fur. If she had not been so trapped by her own pain she would have gladly shared the wonderful little creature with the woman with the sad eyes and ugly bruises. 

Faolan perked up, catching the conversation between them and his eyes rested on the little girl with the tabby kitten. She was a small, dark haired thing and the woman Hallerna had called her Una. That was a Gaelic name for sure and perhaps the little one was Irish. A slave? Or the daughter of a freedman? He moved closer while the two spoke and hunkered down, his hands resting on his knees. 

“[i]Sin piscín deas agat, cad é a ainm?[/i]” Faolan asked after the kitten’s name in Irish, his usual flat hard tone softening with the lyrical language and the fact he was speaking to a little girl, perhaps of his own kin. 

The girl stared at him with huge eyes, squeezing Tore the kitten tighter. Tears welled up and she sputtered in Norse, turning away to hide against Hallerna’s skirts. Faolan’s jaw dropped open slightly and he looked sheepishly away. So she did not speak Irish, maybe the Northmen used that name as well. He stood up and sighed through his nose, both glad she was not another Irish slave and regretful at the same time. Faolan’s face slipped back into the stoic slave’s mask and he waited for an order from Loker in place of Ragnar who had gone up to the Hall, leaving his slave to aid the housekarl. 

Hallerna’s listened intently, all her attentions for Loker the instant he held both her arms in urgent hands. The obvious anxiety in those dark blue eyes, the gravity in his voice when he asked his favor were undeniable. Not that she should have known such a thing of course, but hearing the housekarl had a son, a boy of his own only a few years older than her Eyja - yet one who did not live with him at the Hall? Seeing for herself the great man’s heart for children with her own eyes, this knowledge was truly a shock. 

Yet for all her understanding of Loker’s desire to see to his kin, he was still the Jarl’s housekarl, and Hallerna wondered that he should leave his men now, even to see to his son and his late wife’s family. Hallerna’s mind raced for a moment before she resignedly settled herself to what seemed best, even if she must put off reuniting with her daughters just a while longer. That was all it would be of course, just a while longer, because Hallerna simply could not allow herself even a moment’s doubt, that Svala and Eyja were fine, safe and whole and simply waiting for their Madir to arrive in their new home at the Hall. 

“No Loker, you tell Ragnar yourself. That is where you belong. [i]I[/i] will go see that your son and family What is your his name, and that of your in-laws’? And where will I find - “

[i]”What are you saying!? Hallerna? What… What is he… !?”[/i] Hallerna’s head snapped toward the sound of Una’s panicked voice, feeling the press against her leg where the little girl sat perched on her bag. One small fist was wrapped desperately in her skirts as wide, dark eyes watched the thrall rise to his feet. 

[i]“Shhh… Hush sweet girl… “[/i] Hallerna lay one hand against Loker’s chest, a wordless plea for a moment of time. She turned to from his hold to wrap one arm about Una’s shoulders, steady reassurance for the hurting, frightened child still clutching the enormous kitten that continued to peacefully doze in her arms, perfectly contented. 

Hallerna looked to the thrall beside Una, knowing him for Ragnar and Sigrid’s own. Not for a moment did she imagine he intended to scare the girl - she had watched him with the Ragnarsson children, and could see no cruelty in him. “His name is Faolan, Una,” she said gently, nodding to the thrall with a gentle smile. “He is not a Dane, but speaks the language of the land from which he came.” Hallerna truly did not know Faolan’s homeland, but there was one thing about the thrall of which she was sure. “He will not hurt you Una. I promise… There now… “

She rubbed the little girl’s back lightly for a moment before her gaze returned to Loker expectantly, one hand still lying lightly on his chest. “I’m sorry Loker. As I asked, your son and family? Where may I find them?” 

Faolan gave the girl a faltering smile as if his face was unused to using those muscles and Tora reached out for his arm, her hand gripping his tunic sleeve. He turned to look at her, a wave of renewed anger at the monsters that abused her. He put his hand over hers and murmured. 

“Una’s an Irish name, I thought...” 

“It is a Norse name as well,” she replied, her grey eyes full of sympathy for the homesick slave. Even after all his years his heart beat for Ireland. 

Faolan nodded and pressed his lips together, half listening to the Danes speaking to each other. “I’ll take you home, [i]cailín[/i]. Unless you wish to go to the hall.” 

Tora leaned against him, wincing as she stepped, “I want to go back to the longhouse. I think the mistress will understand.” 

He took her arm and put it over his shoulders, hefting her up into his arms. While he was not as big or strong as the Gaelic monk or Saxon priest, he could manage her slight weight. He felt a shiver of recognition, a remembrance of another slender woman who fit so snugly in his arms. The Irishman swallowed hard and blinked, forcing his emotion back down. At least Tora was a warm living burden, one that would be healed and made whole again. Not like his Bright One whose life was dimmed far too soon and whom he carried to give her a Christian burial rather than let the heathens leave her body in the rubbish heap for the stray dogs to gnaw at. Tora was fair and gentle, much like Niamh but she was not her and he could not pretend she was. She was his friend though, and she needed all his strength to help her through the nightmare that their lives had become. 

Faolan went to Loker, his head slightly downcast in respect, “Sir, I’m taking her to the Ragnarsson’s place, where she can rest.”

Loker glanced away from Hallerna and nodded to Ragnar’s slaves, “Do that, I’ll let him know where you are, lad.” 

When the thralls departed, his attention went back to Hallerna, “My son is called Bardr and he stays with my late wife’s parents, in a long house to the west of the Hall, close to the back. I must check in on them.” 

Loker paused and set his hand again on her arm. She deserved to know before being surprised by the boy who most people felt uncomfortable around. He blushed with embarrassment under his beard, a redness rising in his cheeks, “Bardr...he is my flesh and blood but he is not a son I should be proud to call mine, if you catch my meaning? He is...touched in the head some would say.” 

Hallerna’s eyes narrowed for a moment as she regarded Loker for several long moments, undaunted by either the man’s height or size, and unmoved by the redness rising in his cheeks. She let his words roll through her thoughts for a few moments, compared them to what he intended to see done. 

Action always spoke louder than words - it was an old cliche, but true nonetheless. Of course there was good reason the boy was not taken to live with Loker at the Hall, but in these past hectic moments, Hallerna had not had time to dwell on the man’s reasons. ‘Touched in the head… ‘ Some would consider this a curse of the gods, Hallerna knew very well, and shun the boy as they might a man who lost an arm or a leg. This was simply the way of things, and there was no help for it among the Danes - and particularly for a housekarl residing in his Jarl’s Hall.

But Hallerna heard what Loker said and, just as easily, what he left [i]unsaid,[/i] and nodded her head slowly. A slight shrug of her shoulders was all the estimation she could be bothered to give, for the thoughts of superstitious men who believed the gods resided in every last happenstance and misfortune, as if they’d not enough to keep them occupied simply by the running of the world. 

“You should not be proud of Bardr, you [i]say[/i] - and yet you are, and I think you the greater man for that. Why, there are probably not a few now who would say you ought not talk so closely with a madwoman, daft and utterly without the sense Frig should have seen fit to give her - and yet here you stay.” Hallerna smiled gently, and began to laugh. It felt surprisingly good, lightening the tightness in her chest no matter how out of place it might seem in the midst of smoke and death, and she did not stop herself. 

But she did take a breath at last, still smiling. “I am glad you are not a man overly concerned with appearances then - or at least not so much, that you let expectations rule you. So no more of this, I will go find your Bardr - to the west of the Hall, toward the back, yes? And return to the Hall with news soon enough.”

Loker rubbed his beard, the rings jangling softly and shrugged, “He’s my boy, what the gods decided to do with him I could not change. His mother...she was looking forward to having a child. When she died...they told me the boy might not live. He was born blue, the cord around his neck and the gods had not given him breath. I was supposed to take him and and set him in the snow.”

He gazed at her, the falling flakes catching in her tousled blonde hair, “I set him down...and the lad started to cry. His color came back and I thought perhaps Odin gave me a gift.”

Loker chuckled bitterly, “And like so many of the gifts of the Wise One, it was double edged.”

His hand slipped down her arm and he held her hand briefly, feeling the warm slender strength in her nimble fingers and he looked her in the eyes. “I wouldn’t let you go alone, you’ve got this little one to look after. I’ll go but if you wish to come with me. I would appreciate it, it would put my mind at ease to not worry that you had come across trouble on your way to the Hall.” 

Loker’s eyes fell on her axe snugged against her waist and gave her a brief grin, “Not that you could not handle it.”