ivoryne

[ivoryne]

beauty and the beast

Do you have a daughter?

Yes.

Then you will bring her to me.

summary: a man takes shelter in a seemingly abandoned great hall and takes a flower to give his daughter upon leaving, angering his host.

word count: 6039 (part 1/3)

genre: AU (beast!ivar/beauty!reader)

a/n: the concept of beast here is very loose and doesn’t necessarily relate to ivar being a cripple, especially from the perspective of beauty. It has more to do with his perception of himself, and his entrapment and isolation - a curse that can only be broken by ‘true love’.

The winter storm had caught up faster than the old earl anticipated, and he had lost hope of finding his way through the raging snowfall when a flicker of fire caught his eyes through the flurry. He urged his horse forward, bowing his shoulder against the wind, and was surprised when the thicket of trees ended without warning. He found himself in a clearing, with a great longhouse sitting at its center. Hopeful gold flame flickered through a window, and he braced himself to plead for shelter at the door.

Afraid of being rude, he took care to find the stables first, and tied his horse in an empty stall, marveling all the while at the strong-looking horses sleeping in the other stalls. Briefly, he considers simply staying there. It was warm enough, and the hay will make a bearable bed, but then his stomach made a complaint of hunger, and he supposed he may as well knock on the door now than be mistaken as a thief or a vagrant when he’s discovered in the morning.

His feet took him slowly back to the front door, sinking deep into the snow which each step. He knocked once, and the door swung open. He called out, peering cautiously into the room, but found no one there.

“Hello!” he called again, pushing the door a little further so he could see better. A large open space greeted him, warm and inviting. To his left were two long hallways that disappeared into shadow, on his right was a great hearth where fire blazed. Beside it was a long table flanked by benches, and drawn by the smell, he found that a single setting had been made: a plate, a knife, and a goblet, inlaid with rubies. The roasted chicken was still tender on its platter, sided with potatoes. A bowl of stew still steamed, and a tankard of ale completed the offering.

He looked around, arms wrapped around his still thawing form, looking for anyone. He did not wish to assume that someone had seen him arrive and saw fit to be so generous to a stranger, but though he waited on the bench warming himself for as long as he could, no one came. His hunger threatening to overcome him, he muttered a prayer to any god listening – to thank them if this was indeed good fortune, and to ask for protection if he had been mistaken – and began to eat.

At first, he jumped at every sound, even at the rise and fall of the gale outside, his eyes watchful. He saw no people, but he recognized the opulence of the hall as someone who once lived in similar comfort. Of course, this was much more than he’d ever afforded, even in his most prosperous years. This was princely. The walls were smooth and of good dark wood, the ceiling panels were carved with skill, and the rugs at his feet were thick.

The physical manifestations of his host’s wealth, along with a full stomach and a warm fire slowly coaxed him into tranquility, for it seemed likelier now that his host could afford to be so liberal in his hospitality. Nevertheless, he did not expect room to be made for him, and he was perfectly satisfied with stretching out on the bench and closing his eyes for a brief rest. Tomorrow, he would thank his host at the earliest opportunity. Then he must be off, for he was reminded that he had a daughter and a new wife waiting for him fearfully to return home.

But in the morning, he woke to soft white light still alone. Another meal was laid out on the table – a light and creamy broth that melted on his tongue, freshly baked bread, and an apple, an apple in winter! He took his time eating, hoping his host will appear, but it was quiet and still throughout. Finally, when he could delay no longer, he said “thank you!” in a loud voice, and went out into the new day.

Under the calmer sky, he marveled at his good fortune to find such a kind place in the midst of misfortune. For he had come from city hoping to profit from the gamble he’d placed on a ship bound for the Mediterranean, only to find that it had been caught in a terrible storm and half the goods had tumbled overboard. He was barely compensated for his investment, and after buying some sorely needed furs and a new dress for his second wife, he had nothing but a few coins left when he left the city. He had not even gotten anything for his daughter. Though she had asked for nothing, he was still awash with guilt and regret.

It was with such gloomy thoughts that he walked around the longhouse, and found a path that continued on back into the forest. That would be his way home. Then to his awe, he found a small slender tree, hidden until he was directly before it. At first, he thought that the snow had given it a canopy, but then he realized that the wispy ash like flurries around it were not snowflakes, but petals. It was blooming in winter.

Here was a gift for his daughter, for she dearly loved flowers, and all things that grew. Without thinking, he reached out and plucked a single blossom from a branch within eye-level.

A scoff reached his ears, and he whirled around to find a cloaked figure leaning against the trees toward which he’d been going.

“Was food and dwelling not enough? You are a hard man, indeed, to take what wasn’t offered.”

The shadows of the trees seemed to lengthen toward him, like clawed hands, but he could not move for fear. He clutched the flower on his palm. “Forgive me, sir, I don’t take it for greed. It is for my daughter.”

“Is that so?”

Where had the sun gone? Suddenly it was dark, as if the light had bled out of the day. “I tell the truth, I promise!” the old earl said. “My daughter is a kind young woman, who loves her unworthy father selflessly. I only wanted a gift to recompense the worry I must’ve caused her when I didn’t return last night.”

“And me, old man?” The earl still can’t make out his face, and in his fear, the old man thought his hunched figure twisted; but the voice was young, though awful in its tone. “What recompense will you give me for your offense? That tree is more special to me than all the treasures in my home, for that is where my mother was buried, and it is her bones that keep it alive throughout the cold winter. Shall I take your bones to sustain it further?”

“Don’t!” the old earl cried. He had angered a monster, or a god. He didn’t know what to do. “I’ll give you anything.”

A laugh. “Anything?” At the old earl’s enthusiastic nodding, he hummed, and the shadows seemed to still. “So you do have some understanding of fairness. Fine then. I shall have your daughter as recompense.”

Horror filled the old earl’s being. “Anything but her. She is everything to me.”

“And that flower is borne of my mother, who was also everything to me. It is a fair exchange.”

“No.” The old earl shook his head, unable to contemplate losing his daughter, the only one who stayed with him when he was banished by the new king. All his sons were lost to other lands, and his other daughters stopped speaking to him when they married the first suitor to offer them a way out of disgrace. “No…”

“You refuse?” the voice said, harsh and hard again. “Then there is nothing more to talk about.”

The old earl recognized the tell-tale snap of a bow being nocked from years in the battlefield, and in overwhelmed alarm, he relented. “No! No, wait–” When the arrow did not loose, he stumbled onward to placate the shadow. “Give me three days. Please. Let me at least say goodbye.”

“Three days, and no more.” The figure at the tree shifted. “Do not think to fool me, old man. It is you or the girl. If neither are here on time, I shall hunt you both down.”

The old earl ran back to get his horse, and found her fed and brushed down. On his saddle was were two bags he did not own, and when he glanced inside, his heart nearly stopped at the wealth inside: gold coins and jewels beyond count. He thought of the house roof that wouldn’t hold for another winter, and of the debts piling up with their neighbors. He could not bring himself to throw it away.

Quickly, he mounted, and came out back to the path. The figure was still there, though the shadows were less heavy, as if to signify his host’s better mood. He could glimpse parts of a face now. A strong jaw. Striking eyes. Blue eyes, like the aftermath of lightning.

The old earl urged his horse onward, thundering down the path home as if all the host of Jotunheim were behind him.

–

The old earl arrived home just before the sun set once more. His second wife rushed out, excited at first for good news, but then she saw his expression and her face crumbled in realization that their fortunes had not improved. With a wail, she ran back into the house, nearly sending you to the floor when you collided at the door.

“Father?” you ventured, holding out a hand to help him dismount. “Is everything well? I could not sleep for fear for you.”

“Forgive me, my dear,” he said with a sad smile. “I’m afraid I was delayed in leaving.” And he told her of what happened to the unfortunate ship.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” you dismissed lightly, though inside a sliver of fear resurfaced. Winter was deepening, your credit in town was running low, and in the weeks of your father’s absence, you’ve found out that your stepmother was pregnant. How could the child in her womb survive in the cold seeping through your thin walls, your worn sheets? You would have to think of something, for you could not bear the heartbreak in your father’s face if you told him now. “Next time, we’ll choose a better ship. In the meantime, you must be hungry. There is still some soup from this morning.”

You took your father’s hands, and regretted the emotion that twisted his face as he grasped them, for you knew how rough with work they’d gotten.

A dark light came upon his eyes. “I did not come back empty-handed. Come inside, I shall show you.”

Your stepmother was roused from her grief when your father took two saddlebags and emptied them upon the table. Treasure spilled unto the worn surface. Everything gleamed – gold pieces and intricately cut jewelry in every color. “Why had you not spoken sooner!” she exclaimed, a light dawning on her face.

You looked at your father in confusion, for he had spun the tale of your ship’s misfortune so completely. Even now, there was no happiness there, no relief – just an impenetrable veneer you could not pierce.

Your stepmother grabbed a handful of gold and let them fall through her fingers as she laughed with tears in her eyes.

Your father laid a hand on your elbow and reached into his coat, pulling out a single white bloom. Enchanted, you took it gingerly, for you had never seen one like it before. Its petals were soft as ashy, and while it survived the bag and the gold and the jewelry, it was crumbling in your palm bit by bit, cold and insubstantial as snow.

“Where did it come from?” you asked wonderingly.

“An old partner repaid me as I was going home,” he said, not meeting your eyes. “That is why I was delayed.”

But the words did not ring true, and you could not find it in yourself to match your stepmother’s exuberance at your sudden fortune, and as she reached for your father to embrace him, she broke the news that she was with child.

How could you describe the fear that filled your father’s face, the pallor of death?

At dinner, you watched your father try to hide his hidden turmoil. Noticing your keen attention, he asked if there was anything you wanted. There was a pair of sapphire earrings that he thought would fit your skin tone well. You thanked him sincerely, already planning to hide the jewels away for a rainy day. Of everything he had brought back, only the flower had caught your interest.

You turned the matter over and over in your mind, picking apart his story for anything that did not make sense. For example, he would not say which of his old friends gave him his share of a past venture, and you knew all of them had turned their backs when he lost his favor with the king.

On the second day of his return, an inkling of an idea came to you, gaining force as your father paid off your creditors, pulling them aside afterwards for a private word.

“How long will you be gone?” you finally asked him, after he’d spoken to the butcher when he thought you were busy with the baker. “And why do you keep your departure secret from me?”

“What secret?” he attempted ignorance.

You fixed him with a look that would accept no pretense. It was the look he always said your mother – your real mother – used on him when she would have no further argument. “You have been making arrangements to leave again. You cannot hide this from me.”

His resolution crumbled. “I don’t know, my dear,” he finally said, taking your elbow to steer you through the crowd. “You will have to take care of your stepmother for some time, and it might be a good idea to stop confusing the townspeople with your mathematical ideas, for they are a simple folk. Bodil has been telling me–”

“I do it only to help them,” you returned, startled by the sudden concern. “And Solveig has started to give interest to my designs of a watermill for spring–”

“Solveig Asmundson?” your father interrupted. “I heard he had returned from a raid to help his father with the harvest. He has shown interest in you?”

You looked at him askance, seeing the wheels on his head turn clearer than he himself did. “In my designs, father.” Before he could protest, you shook you head. “You’re trying to change the subject. Why are you leaving, where are you going, and why are you not telling me?”

“Solveig Asmundson has no wife,” your father muttered.

“Do not get your hopes up father. I do not wish him for a husband.”

You had reached the edge of town, and suddenly hunched as if from a great burden, he sat upon a rock and bade you to sit and rest with him. You put down your basket and folded yourself neatly beside him, looking up with concern at the unhealthy sheen of sweat upon his brow, and the mild shaking on his fingers on his trousers. Was he coming into illness?

“I will not be always here for you,” your father began. “You must start thinking of a family of your own.”

“You are my family,” you said. Maybe your stepmother, too, and when she gave birth, you will love the little child as one of your own.

“You’re beautiful, any man would have you if you let him close enough to ask,” your father pleaded.

“I do not want to be wanted simply because I’m beautiful.” You’ve had this argument before, why was he bringing it up again? “I am more than a face, am I not?”

“You are,” your father acceded. “And with time, your husband will know all your qualities. You cannot demand it before that. You must marry while you are beautiful, for you are no longer rich.”

“Father,” you said tiredly.

“What is wrong with all the men you’ve met?” he asked in frustration.

“Nothing,” you replied. “Everything. They don’t really listen when I speak. They don’t want to know new things. They just want to live everyday as they have always lived it. I can’t–”

“You said Solveig liked your designs,” your father interjected.

“Why the sudden urgency?” you demanded.

His brows furrowed, and there it was again – that haunted, hunted look in his eyes. He spoke no more of the subject, and commented only that your stepmother is waiting for you.

He tried to make it up to you as you walked home, recounting tales he’d collected from the recently arrived sailors in town, for he knew you loved to hear of the lands beyond the sea and the people that lived there.

You were not fooled. At dinner, the tremor in his hand had spread to his whole body, and when he stood, you had to catch him before he collapsed. The heat from his body was akin to a furnace. Worriedly, you brought him to his room and laid him on the bed before rushing out to get a wet towel.

When there was nothing else you could do but let him sleep, you left him tucked beneath the furs, with a plea to your stepmother to wake you if he worsens in the night.

In the main hall, your pallet was laid before the fire, for your new home had no space for another room. You pulled out the white flower from a box that had once held jewelry, and turned it in your hand, begging it to spill its secrets. When it would give no answer, you settled to committing it to memory, for you estimated that it would last for one more day at the most.

You were roused from sleep the next day by a shadow passing overhead. You shot to your feet.

“Where are you going?” Your father was putting on his furs with difficulty, his hands shaking with the clasp. When he would not answer, you rushed to the front door and braced yourself against it. “Father, you are ill.”

“Let me go, daughter.” He tried to push past you, but in his weakened form, he barely budged you.

But the chill was on your back and on your ankles where the wind seeped through the door. It would be a cold day. “You cannot leave in this weather.”

“It is the third day,” your father said, grasping your arms urgently. “If I do not return in time, he will come. I have dreamt it. He will come.”

You looked at him with a sinking feeling. Was this a fever dream? “Father, who is this you speak of?”

“The boy!” your father whispered. “The beast!” His eyes were wild, his hands still shook.

“What does he want?” you asked, trying to understand.

“You,” your father moaned. He teetered precariously and you reached forward to steady him. “For a flower, he would take you.” He shook his head, tears springing from his eyes. “I will not let him! I will offer myself up for my mistake, as I should’ve done the first time.”

You guided him gently to a bench and he described the rich house, the delicious array of food, the absence of people. He had thought it a miracle. Your heart beat in your ears as you took in everything he said. Bitter guilt clenched your chest when he recounted how he plucked a single flower from a tree that bloomed in winter, as a gift for you. That was how he’d met his host, a monster hiding in the shadows, waiting to ensnare him.

There was no old friend, as you’d expected. But this was something worse than a new loan from a wily moneylender.

“I must go,” your father lamented. “You must take care of the child to come. Promise me, daughter!”

The child…like a vision, you saw what needed to be done. It filled you with dread, but also with grim purpose. Your father cannot go. A child needed a father. You were only a girl – an unmarried girl, without dowry. You could not keep this family afloat.

You must take his place.

“Do you remember the way to his place?” you asked, mind working.

“A half day’s ride north, following the unmoving star,” your father answered, eyes fluttering close in painful memory. “Turn left at the toothed ridge until you find a crossroads. Take the right.”

You memorized the directions, then patted your father’s back consolingly. How fast your heart beat. Your blood was fire in your veins. “Why don’t you close your eyes a bit while I ready the horse, hm?”

Your father lurched forward. “No! I have to be there by the end of today, or he will – he will –”

“It’s still early,” you reasoned, coaxing him back. “Rest a while. Save up your strength to ride hard. I’ll wake you when I’ve prepared everything, alright?”  

He gripped your hand on his shoulder. “My daughter, my precious daughter. Thank you for understanding.”

As he slumped into sleep, your stepmother appeared at the door to their room, still half-unconscious, but aware enough to know something was amiss. “What is happening?”

You shook your head. “Take care of him,” you bade. “There are things I must do.”

You should be angry, and yet you couldn’t. What’s done is done.

You could not let your father go back.

You had to get away quickly. Gods willing, you would have set everything to rights and be on the way before he woke again. You put more wood in the fire and pulled the furs tighter around your father. You took half a loaf of old bread, changed into your hardiest dress and work boots, then slipped out into the rising sun to rouse the horse and saddle him. You would not allow yourself to second-guess, to find reasons to delay. You repeated your father’s directions over and over while you worked. When you urged the horse out of town, only the old man Lief saw you leave.

–

You rode through the cold, fixed upon your destination with determination. You tried not to think of what you would find, but still it crept in the edges of your thoughts. You could hardly trust a man who would threaten your father into sickness, even if he gave away food and shelter and treasure. Despite a steady gallop, the wind picked up by mid-morning, hooking freezing fingers under your clothes and forcing the horse to slow. Overhead, the sun remained hidden in a cover of clouds.

You had just taken the right path at the crossroads when your horse stumbled in the undergrowth, throwing you hard against the ground. It took a few moments for your vision to stop spinning, and to take stock of all your limbs. You were relatively unscathed, save for scratches and minor cuts, but a glance at your horse told you he had sprained a foot.

You did your best for it, allowing a quarter-hour before you forced yourself to move on. Delaying would only make things worse. Though you could not continue riding, you could continue on foot.

It was a brave effort, but with a lame horse to lead, and your dress catching at the brush, you were even slower than before. With the sinking heart, you continued on in the gathering night, breath misting in the lonely cold.

Hours must’ve passed, but you couldn’t turn back, for you were certain you were closer to your destination now than home. Even when the light began to fade, you plowed forward, for in doing so, you had a chance. If you stopped, you would freeze to death before the sun rose again.

You were mortally afraid your father had been mad at all. It was true the path he had described was there, but perhaps he had only imagined the house and the boy in his nightmares.

But the gold. The jewelry. Where else could it come from, but a monster from the stories?

At last, when you thought you fingers would fall off and you no longer knew if you were holding up the horse, or the other way around, your nose caught the faint whiff of smoke. You looked up, and there in the dark was a flicker of firelight.

You squashed down the desire to run headlong toward it, for it could be other men, camped down for the night. Caution urged you not to jump from one fatal path to another. You pulled out your knife from your boot. Your fingers would hardly close around the hilt, but you held it steady, for your life could depend on it.

Your fears were allayed when you abruptly stepped into a clearing, a great longhouse sitting upon the center. Fire flickered at a window. It could only be the place your father spoke of.

As you crossed into the open, you spotted a small white tree from the corner of your eye, and jumped, for you thought you had seen a person. In the faint light of the risen moon, the tree looked otherworldly, like the ghost of a woman who lived only in winter. Its branches hung low and full.

This was where your flower had come from. This was where your father was doomed. The thought kept you from coming close.

You did not know it, but like your father, you also came to the stables first, and left your horse in the same stall with water and hay to recover from the day’s trials. Before leaving, you brushed down your dress and rebraided your hair in an attempt to look more presentable. At the front door of the main house, you found the front door unlocked.

You stepped gingerly inside, and saw that it was just as your father described it. The great fire roared in the hearth, illuminating an enormous hall whose walls were painted and carved and filled with more treasure than you’d seen, buried in the silence of abandoned places. Your heartbeat echoed against your ears. Who would live in such opulence away from everyone else? All the wealthy people you’d once known made a point never to spend on anything they cannot flaunt in front of someone else.

This house was empty – empty save for torchlight that detached from the shadows of the room.

It moved close to the wall and down a dark hall, illuminating a path. You followed, thinking it was a servant, though you kept a hand on your knife, now hidden in your sleeve for easier reach. You reached an open door, and you were surprised to find a spacious room furnished richly. A dress was laid on top of the thick pile of furs, red as blood and glittering with ornate threadwork. The servant with the light had disappeared, though a shadow passed before your eyes as you turned on your feet searching, directing your attention to a steaming bath on an adjacent room.

Your cold exhaustion weighted heavier. Your aching body yearned to soak into the warm bath with fierce wanting and it took all your willpower not to strip then and there. You didn’t want to blind yourself to the generosity that must’ve put your father’s guard down as well.

You didn’t want to think that your father had not told you the specifics of the bargain he’d struck.

Do I have a choice? You were here now. You could not go back.

You went through the motions as quickly as you could, though part of you wanted to linger and savor the warmth and scent of the bathing oils by the tub. The dress fit perfectly, sliding over your skin as only expensive cloth can. You ignored the headdress and the hairpins that went with the dress, and plaited your hair loosely, as one would in the privacy of one’s home. You were not here to be pretty.

You put the knife in your sleeve and tried to feel that was enough.

Just as you were debating setting out in search of your host on your own, the flicker of a light appeared at the door once more. You followed the quiet figure, trying to catch a glimpse of a face to recognize it by, but the one who held the light was no more than shadow in the long corridor, evading approach.

You found yourself at the main hall once more. Just as before, your guide disappeared without a trace.

The smell of food brought you to the table before the fire, and found two table settings prepared. The rich flavor of herbed stew made your stomach curl in memory. When was the last time you’d seen whole fowl was served? The stew rich with herbs. It must’ve been at one of the king’s banquets for a foreign dignitary, a year or a lifetime ago.

Movement caught your eye, and you thought the servant had returned.

The figure at the door was unexpected. Without meaning to, the image that you’d conjured of your host in your head was more monster than man. But this was no beast. He was young, and handsome, broad at the shoulders and of tall stature even from a distance, his clothing rich as a nobleman’s.

You saw his legs last, twisted beneath him, unable to support his body without a crutch.

He noticed you notice it with unerring awareness and his entire countenance changed. You had judged too quickly, for there was that look in your host’s eyes: dark and desolate and cold as ice. Not even the golden fire could thaw the blue in them.

Here was the shadow that plagued your father.

You straightened and raised your chin against the fear, refusing to be cowed.

He noticed that too, and some hidden thought passed through his face as he broke the stillness, making his way toward you. His eyes never left you, like a hunter waiting for its prey to run. You held your ground by sheer will.  

“Sit,” he said, upon reaching the table.

Yes, he was young. His voice was so.

You follow the command, and he rests his crutches beside him before picking up the tankard to fill both your goblets.

“What’s your name?”

You tell him.

“Beauty?” he translated, pausing a moment to arch an eyebrow. “And how old are you?”

He picked up his knife and fork to carve the fowl. You endeavored to hold your silence, but when he sets a large serving upon your plate, you could not help but gasp sharply.

He glanced at you. “Eat. I can’t tell if you’re underage or just underfed.”

You pursed your lips, rising at the jab at your circumstances. “These are hard times.”

“So it would seem. Your father was famished when he arrived, and his clothes had seen better days. What misfortune could cause a man once clearly noble to be riding in the middle of winter, alone and unprepared?”

You did not want to hear of how your father has suffered. You’ve seen it well enough. You didn’t want to be reminded of how you’d left him behind. “I’m not inclined to share my misfortunes with someone who hasn’t even told me their name.”

A curious look came into his face, and the smile hovering at the edge of his lips turns less derisive. “I wonder which one you are: the youngest, the oldest? Did you and your sisters cast lots or did they vote to cast you out?”

“None,” you said, hiding your trepidation. There had been other girls? “I came of my own accord.”

He laughed as he pointed his knife at you. “And what lies did your father tell you? A house made of gold? A handsome prince?”

“He told me the truth, such as it is.”

He suddenly leaned forward, startling you, and you had your own knife out and on his neck before you knew what you were doing. He did not even flinch, though the blade pressed against his naked throat.

“You would not have come here knowing the truth, for I had scared your father beyond relief.”

You gritted your teeth, remembering how your father wept. “And yet here I am, prepared for far worse.”

“Far worse?” he mocked. “Am I not monstrous enough?”

“Disability does not make a monster,” you answered stonily. “Though if you explain why you take girls from their fathers, I might see where the idea comes from.”

If he pressed any closer, you would have to cut him for real, for his face was an inch from you, and you felt you could drown from the color of his eyes. “There is fear in you. Do not lie.”  

You inhaled deeply to steady your hand on the knife. “I fear what you want, not what you are.”

For a long time, he looked into your own eyes and said nothing, until you felt the room fall away. Then, in a quiet voice, softer–

“Beauty, why did you come? Willingly, too, as you said.”

The answer would do well on your gravestone. “I came to save my father.”

He gave a small shake of his head. “No one is that noble.”

“It isn’t nobility,” you disagreed gently. “It’s love.”

You lifted your eyes and was startled at the look on his face, open and unsure as he studied you. “Love,” he echoed, as if the word was unfamiliar to him.  

Perhaps it was, if he were the kind of person to scare a man to death for taking a flower.

He leaned back, and you dropped your knife. His attention was on the fire, thoughts far away and impenetrable. “The ones that cried on sight, I sent home the next day,” he said. “You were not crying, but if you had been dull-witted, it would’ve been the same, and you’d be back in your father’s arms before the neighbors raised questions.”

You held your breath. “So you’ll let me go.”

He shook his head. “You’re different. You, I will keep.”

“For how long?”

He shrugged. “Forever, I suppose.”

He had glanced at you, and your expression must’ve been plain on your face. His mouth curled into a bitter smile and his gaze became dark as he gave you back your space.

“Don’t worry, Beauty. It will not be as long as you think it might.”

You pressed, “What do you want of me then?”

He had picked up his fork to resume eating, as if the matter were trifling. “Nothing. I only ever wanted company.”

You stared at the food, but instead of appealing, it now made your stomach roil as a boat in a storm. “What does company entail, specifically?”

“Conversation. A dinner partner.”

“That is all?”

“Are you ready to offer anything more?”

You let the hooded comment pass. You sank into your thoughts, looking for insincerity in his words, clues in his expressions. But your thoughts had tangled hopelessly; nothing made sense.

After a while, he put down his fork again with a heavy sigh. “If you will not eat, then this is pointless.”

He stood, grabbing his crutch. Instinctively, you stood to help, then wondered if it would be welcome, so you ended up on your feet as if on ceremony.

“Your room is safe, you need not worry,” he said. “Every night we’ll have dinner. Beyond that, do what you want, you are not a servant. You may go where you wish, as long as you do not stray where you can no longer see the house’s fire or its smoke. And never go to the west hall.”

“Why?”

“Because I say so,” he said rashly, finally maneuvering out of the bench.

You opened your mouth as he turned, and he paused, head cocked to listen.

“You haven’t told me your name.”

He turned his face away, the words low enough to be swallowed by the crackling of the fire. “It’s Ivar. Ivar the Boneless.”

[ivoryne]

You are already a legend, the greatest shieldmaiden of all time. A hero to thousands of women… Farewell, Lagertha. Farewell. 

[ivoryne]

Medieval Kiev - Vikings season 6 episodes 1-4

[ivoryne]

“Are people so unhappy when they love?“

"Yes, Christine, when they love and are not sure of being loved.”

The Phantom of Opera, Gaston Leroux

[ivoryne]

Ghosts.

ivar is haunted by one particular ghost of his past.

word count: 978

a/n: this is a take on the meeting between ivar and katya, written from her perspective

There is a ghost in your bed.

You’ve been haunted by ghosts since you were a kid. Mostly they were harmless – just powerful memories that cling for a while before fading away. Usually, they needed triggers. The sight of a butter knife will always commence a macabre little scene at the corner of your eye, replaying the time your father stabbed your uncle in the throat when you were twelve. Sometimes, the place itself was the anchor. Your grandfather’s ghost still haunts the eastern tower where he was locked up in his mad years.

This one is new. You don’t know which one it’s supposed to be. You don’t know anyone who would dare share your bed.

Or maybe you do. It appeared upon your arrival in Kiev, after all. Who but your future husband, Oleg of Novgorod, would haunt you before either of you were even dead? They said he killed his last wife. Supposedly, she betrayed him, but there were numerous other stories to point out that he doesn’t necessarily need a very good reason to kill someone.

Maybe it’s your fear manifesting into a weight in the bed, a form in your back. Maybe it’s your fear squeezing your neck so tight that your screams are stuck in your throat. There were nights when you think you had died too, but then you wake again to the faint sun rising outside the window.

You tuck that fear away like creases on your dress before you leave your suite. Oleg would take your fears and laugh as he played with them, so he must never see them. You didn’t want to be his slave, his trophy wife. You wanted to stand beside him without flinching at the shadows he cast.

Still, nothing could’ve hid your reaction to the Viking king he’d been keeping in his court – a stutter of your heart, a moment of blankness in your head – though your smile didn’t waver. Your smile was beaten into you from birth. It would be there when you were a corpse.

It’s you. You’re the ghost. It’s you.

You’ve heard of him, this famed commander of the Great Heathen Army. He’d fought his brothers and even became king of Kattegat, for a time. Routed out he may have been, but it was an incredible achievement for someone so young and…burdened.

“King Ivar.” You taste his name on your mouth and it is like blood on your tongue.  

How he stared so. You would think he was the one who’d seen a ghost. He didn’t even try to hide it.

Oleg didn’t remark on it much, though he was hard-pressed to miss it. You didn’t think your own subtle reaction evaded him either. He was like a snake. It was his moments of quiet that were dangerous.

You shower the little boy Igor your attention instead. He was an adorable thing, though you feared for him too. You feared what would happen to him when you get with child. Then again, you might be dead before you even get to that point.

You shouldn’t think such things. You’ve been raised around men like Oleg. You will survive him like you’ve survived your family.

But you had to deal with the problem that was Ivar. You knew it wouldn’t be difficult to find him – there was a conversation on his chest bursting to get out. All you had to do was give him the chance.

Outside the castle, it took very little time you spot him among the stalls. Your maids were barely out of sight before he approached you. You studied him. It was clear it was not a title that made him formidable, it was the power woven in his being, a kind of aura that one either had or never will. You could see how people would follow him despite his condition.

“Princess.” You brace yourself against the sound of his voice, crushing the desire to run far away before something terrible happened, crushing the desire to lean into the uncertain waver of a buried apology. “I’ve been waiting for the opportunity to talk to you privately.”

You turned and held your smile, open to hear him.

“Surely you know why I need to talk to you.” You hold your ground, letting him set the pieces. “Oleg is playing games with me.”

There was your opening. “And why do you say so, Ivar the Boneless?”

“You are Freydis,” he said with conviction.

“Freydis.” The name meant nothing, and yet it settled like a cold hand on the base of your spine. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I.” He came forward, as if caught by emotion. “But it is true that you and I were once married.”

The weight on the bed. The figure on your back.

“Were we really?” He was standing so close you could see that his eyes glowed blue. Was this magic at work? Deep down, a part of you regretted wanting to know, but it was too late now. “What happened to us?”

His brows furrowed. His eyes turned away, and you knew.

The hand on your neck. The scream in your throat.

The blood in your mouth whenever you spoke his name.

The answer to the question was plain on his face. Maybe he loved her. They said Oleg loved his wife too. Still, men never seemed to have any qualms killing their wives. It didn’t matter if it hurt them after.

The weight lifted from your chest, knowing you were not being haunted. Ivar was not your ghost. You were his. A grimmer side of you managed a smile before you walked away. You could feel his gaze at your back for a very long time, keeping you anchored together.

Do I haunt you, Ivar? I hope I do.

I hope I give your wife some satisfaction in the afterlife.

[ivoryne]

“And what happened to us?”

[ivoryne]

Allfather, Thor, Frey and Freya, receive our sacrifice, bless this house and all who live here. Allfather, hear our prayer. Hear our prayer. Let no sorcerer cast a spell on this building and no disir, or ghostly gandr or verdir enter its door. Let the spirits of the dead never enter its doors. Allfather, hear our prayer. Let no mara bring bad dreams into this place, but let the landvættir be its guardian spirit. And let peace be upon this place.