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sunshinepanic · 13 hours ago

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Where the Silence Ends

Pairing: Sihtric x reader (female) Canon

Authors note: based on the request by lovely anon - jealous Sihtric doing something foolish that costs him readers heart. Thank you so much for requesting! 💖💖💖The trope and the setting is probably as old as the fanfiction world itself but I loved writing it. A huge thank you to my dear @leftoverp1zza for being my beta and for all the comments and suggestions. You are incredibly good at it 😘😘😘 Without you I would still be stuck in the middle of nowhere😅

Warnings: a bit from everything, fluff, smut, angst, heartbreak, of course jealousy

Word Count: 9,8 K (again 🙈)

Summary: driven by jealousy and fear of not being enough Sihtric decides to break up with reader for her own good without realising what consequences this brings upon her

“What are you thinking about?” you asked, watching Sihtric’s gaze drift, unfocused, toward the sky. Propped up on one elbow, you traced slow, invisible patterns across his bare, muscular chest, your leg draped lazily over his thigh.

The afternoon had grown late, the sun, still high, cast a warm glow over your naked skin, soothing the occasional tickle of the breeze coming off the lake. Beneath you, Sihtric’s fur cloak was as soft as a feather bed, lulling you into a gentle drowsiness. You loved it, that soft, satisfied tiredness that almost always overtook you after making love to Sihtric. It was like getting swept away by a tempest and, at the same time, slipping into a dream you didn’t want to wake from.

He worshipped your body the way only a man who had known loneliness could – with hunger and with awe, and with a need to show you he would never take you for granted.

There was fire in him, raw, consuming, impossible to resist; when his hands gripped your hips or tangled in your hair, it felt like the wind itself had claimed you. He kissed you like a man starved, like he needed you more than air, and when his muscular body pressed to yours, the world tilted and spun, a storm that carried you far from everything.

But there was softness, too, beneath that storm, in the way his lips lingered against your throat, in the gentle and reverent drag of his fingers along your spine, in the way he looked at you, as if he couldn’t believe you were real.

He drove into you with a desperate rhythm, wild, aching, relentless, claiming you with every thrust, and you met him with equal fervor, your body arching to take him deeper, to answer every unsatisfied ache you hadn’t even known was there until him.

You – a lady from one of the most noble houses in Winchester – had fallen in love with him: a Dane, a bastard, a warrior with no land, no title, no claim but his blade, and you had fallen so deeply, so irrevocably, that nothing, even the weight of your name, your duty, your blood, could pull you back.

You had tried, God knew you had, you had tried to forget the way his eyes softened only for you, tried to pretend your skin didn’t burn for him, that your body didn’t recognise him before your mind even dared to admit it and yet, here you were again – in the meadow by the lake, the sun kissing your bare, spent skin, lost in the aftermath of a most crushing orgasm only he could pull from you.

There was no going back, Sihtric was in you now, in your thoughts, in your breath, in the ache between your thighs when night stretched long and cold. He was not a passing fancy, not a reckless whim, he was your choice, the only one that ever truly felt like yours.

“I’m thinking that I want to marry you,” he said suddenly, turning toward you, as he caught your hand and brought your fingers to his lips, pressing a kiss to each one. You laughed, light and carefree, as his mouth lingered on your fingertips.

“Sihtric,” you murmured with a fond chuckle, “we’ve talked about this so many times.”

“I don’t want to wait anymore,” he said, with more urgency in his voice now. “I’m tired of sneaking around, stealing moments with you like we’re doing something wrong. I want the whole world to know you’re mine,” his voice dipped at the end, softening into something uncertain, as if he was asking, not declaring.

You smiled gently, easing your hand from his and threading your fingers into his dark curls.

“Sihtric,” you whispered, drawing him in, “you know I’m already yours.”

You kissed him, and he moaned against your lips as his tongue slipped greedily past them, hungry for you and the promise in your words. You kissed him back slowly, savouring the way his breath hitched when your fingers tightened in his hair. His body, warm and solid against yours, shifted as he pulled you closer, one arm wrapping around your waist to keep you pressed to him.

“It’s not the right time,” you whispered, and he groaned in frustration and rolled onto his back, scrubbing a hand down his face, jaw clenched tight as he stared up at the sky like it had personally betrayed him.

“When will it be?” he asked. “How many more nights do we have to keep pretending this isn’t real?”

You sat up slightly, brushing your fingers over his chest, trying to soothe the tension coiled beneath his skin. He didn’t flinch from your touch, but he didn’t relax, either.

“Is it because of him?” he suddenly asked, and your eyes widened in surprise.

“Because of whom?”

“That lordling. Aethel-something, whatever his name is. I saw you with him yesterday, walking in the market.” Sihtric’s voice was sharp, taut with something close to pain.

You blinked, thrown by the sharpness in his tone. “Aethelred?” you echoed, incredulous. “Sihtric, that was nothing. He asked to accompany me so I could show him where I buy my herbs. His sister wants to learn healing, and he can’t deny her that. That’s all.”

His jaw tightened. “He touched your arm.”

“To stop me from stepping into a puddle,” you replied, voice softening, though the surprise still lingered. “Sihtric, are you jealous?”

He looked away, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “I can never touch you in the open.” Your heart twisted at that, you shifted closer, curling against him, but his arms remained stiff at his sides.

“Sihtric, you touch me like no man ever has and no one else ever will. Do you really think I would choose him over you?” you asked, quieter now. “After everything?”

He didn’t speak right away, his gaze lost in the clouds above you, then, finally, he looked at you again. “I think you deserve more than stolen moments on a fur cloak,” his voice was somewhat hoarse, aching. “And if he can give you that… maybe I should…”

“Stop,” you pressed your palm to his chest, firm and certain. “Don’t you dare to say that. Don’t you dare to break my heart after I have given you everything. He might offer safety, titles, whatever else but he doesn’t see me, not the way you do.” You leaned in. “And I don’t want him.”

Sihtric’s breath caught, his hand moving instinctively without a thought to cover yours on his chest. “Then why does it feel like I’m losing you?”

“Because you keep bracing for it,” you murmured. “Like it's only a matter of time before I walk away, but I’m still here, Sihtric. I haven’t gone anywhere.” You let your forehead rest against his. “You’re the only one I want.”

His hands came up to cradle your face, and the relief in his touch was almost desperate, and when he kissed you it wasn’t gentle, it was hungry, like he needed to feel it, your choice, your certainty, pressed into his lips.

He shifted over you, and you gasped as you felt his arousal pressing hard against your thigh, your hands slid down his back, nails grazing lightly over muscle, pulling him closer. Sihtric’s mouth moved down your neck, slow, savouring, like he wanted to map every inch of your skin with his lips.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped, as his hands slid down your sides. “Or I won’t.”

“Don’t,” you breathed, threading your fingers into his hair. “Don’t stop, take me. Fuck me like I’m yours.”

That was all he needed, he shoved your legs apart with rough urgency, grinding his hips against you so hard it made you whimper, his length thick and hot as it slid against your slickness. You felt him tremble, not with restraint, but with the sheer force of holding back just long enough to feel you fall apart beneath him again.

He groaned low in his throat, like the sound had been buried inside him for too long and his mouth found yours again, the kiss turned feverish, your legs wrapped around his waist, instinctive, desperate to keep him close.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he rasped, teeth grazing your jaw as he gripped your thigh and pushed it higher around his waist.

He lined himself up and thrust into you in one hard, claiming stroke that knocked the breath out of you, and you cried out, fingers clutching at him, your body stretching to take every delicious inch. He didn’t give you time to adjust, he was already moving, pounding into you with a brutal rhythm, his body slamming against yours like he needed to carve himself into your skin.

“I want you to be mine, always and forever,” he groaned, voice rough in your ear.

You couldn’t answer, not with words, only gasps and broken moans spilled from your lips as he drove into you again and again, his hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, his teeth catching on your throat as if to mark you.

“Sihtric…” you whimpered, already spiraling, your body burning, unraveling.

“I know, love. I feel it too,” he growled. “Come on me. I want to feel it when you break apart on my cock.” You did, with a cry that tore from your chest as pleasure exploded through you, pulsing around him, clenching him tight.

Sihtric cursed, bit down on your shoulder, and spilled into you with a growl that sounded like triumph and worship all at once. Afterwards, he stayed inside you, panting, his hand still gripping your thigh as if he couldn’t bear to let you go.

“Mine,” he murmured, placing tender kisses all over your face.

The music filled King Alfred’s hall, golden and lively, mingling with the laughter that echoed off the walls, as guests twirled across the floor in layers of silk and linen. It was rare for the king to host a feast of such scale, the long tables nearly buckled under the weight of honeyed mead, roasted meat, and fruit, but for the betrothal of his daughter to the Lord of Mercia, nothing less would do.

Sihtric stood near the edge of the hall, close enough to see everything, far enough to feel like he didn’t belong. And it wasn’t just a feeling, he knew he didn’t belong here, not in this world of polished manners and noble bloodlines, fake smiles and polished bows.

He had already regretted, for the umpteenth time, asking Uhtred if he could come. He had hoped to catch a glimpse of you, if only from across the hall, to see you, radiant in candlelight, at ease in the world you were born into, to see you in your element but the longer he watched, the harder it became to breathe and the sharper grew the sudden ache in his chest.

And then he finally saw you, laughing, your head tilted slightly back, eyes glittering in the firelight as you spun in time with the music. Your gown shimmered in motion, fitted tight at your waist before falling loose around your legs and your hand… your hand was resting in his.

Aethelred.

The lordling’s other hand rested in the small of your back (was at your back), a little too low for his liking, guiding you through the steps of the dance with a practiced ease, and you didn’t pull away - No, in fact you smiled back at him.

That smile, gods, that smile sent something sharp and violent twisting in Sihtric’s gut and his hands curled into fists at his sides. He told himself it was nothing, a dance, a courtesy, something expected of you in a feast like this, in a life like yours.

But the way the bastard looked at you, like you were already his, made Sihtric’s blood burn. He wasn’t imagining the possessive curl of the man’s fingers, the way his touch lingered at the edge of impropriety, no, it was clear for all to see and you… you didn’t seem to notice or worse, you noticed and let it happen.

Didn’t anyone else see it? How close he held you? How his fingers grazed the curve of your back like he had a right?

It was as if you had felt Sihtric’s gaze burning holes in your skin. Your eyes suddenly lifted to scan the hall and found him lingering in the shadows. You caught his eye for just a second but long enough for your expression to falter, barely, but he caught it, he always caught everything when it came to you.

Your breath caught in your chest the moment your eyes met his across the hall, his expression hollowed out by something deeper than anger – betrayal. The hurt in his eyes struck you like a blade and for a single heartbeat, the world tilted but you didn’t stop, you couldn’t, you forced the smile back onto your face and kept your hand in Aethelred’s, your steps perfectly measured and graceful because this was the price of keeping up the facade, of protecting him, of protecting you both, and even as your heart cracked with every turn, you danced.

Sihtric’s grip on the mug in his hand tightened threatening to crush the delicate thing, as he hastily looked away before the rage boiling inside him could break loose.

It was foolish, he knew. Aethelred had the right to ask for your hand in a dance, he had the bloodline, the lands, the title, everything Sihtric didn’t but the sight of another man touching you in the open, holding you with the ease Sihtric had only ever known in secrecy behind closed doors or during those stolen moments in the meadow, made something primal rise in his chest.

Finan approached him quietly, holding out a fresh mug of ale.

“Easy now,” he said under his breath, knowing his friend’s expression too well. “It’s just a dance.”

“It’s not,” Sihtric muttered, eyes fixed again on the floor where Aethelred’s hand lingered too long at your waist. “Not to me.”

Suddenly, Aethelred leaned in, whispering something against your ear, and Sihtric found himself moving, crossing the hall with hurried steps.

You saw Sihtric coming before anyone else did, shoulders squared, eyes dark, rage clinging to him like smoke, you knew that look, you’d seen it before on the battlefield, in the training yard… but never directed at you or maybe not at you, but because of you.

Sihtric moved like a storm about to break, cutting through the crowd and this time you didn’t hesitate, you broke from Aethelred’s hold, excused yourself with a light curtsy and crossed the floor to intercept Sihtric, catching his wrist before he could do something that would have both your names whispered behind hands for weeks.

“Come with me,” you said firmly, dragging him away from the center of the hall, he didn’t resist, but his jaw was clenched so tightly you thought he might shatter his own teeth.

You pulled him into an empty side corridor, away from the light, from the hall, from Aethelred and his smug, soft words but the moment you turned to face him, Sihtric wrenched his arm free.

“What was that?” he hissed. “You let him touch you like…like you were his.”

“It was a dance,” you snapped, breathless, your pulse still racing. “That’s all, it meant nothing.”

“It didn’t look like nothing.” He suddenly laughed bitterly, eyes flashing. “And you didn’t seem to mind it at all, smiling at him like that, letting him…”

“Letting him what, Sihtric? Keep up appearances? Play the game I was born into?” You stepped closer, furious now.

“The game you apparently love to play, while I have to hide in the shadows.” Sihtric’s face twisted like you’d struck him. “Maybe that’s all I’m good for,” he suddenly added more quietly.

“The shadows.” The fury drained from you in a rush. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true.” He turned away, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I’ll never be one of them, I have no lands, no title, no gold to offer you. I can’t even ask for your hand in a dance.” A bitter laugh escaped him. “I don’t even know how to dance.”

You reached for him, but he stepped back, just out of your reach.

“You deserve better than me. You always have.”

“Stop it. Just stop.” Your voice trembled with both frustration and fear. “We’ve come too far for this. We just have to be patient a little longer. You know my brother promised that once our father is gone I’ll be free to choose my own path. He won’t stand in the way of my happiness.”

“No,” he interrupted sharply, eyes meeting yours with something hollow and burning behind them. “I can’t. I can’t do this anymore. I’m done, do you hear me? I don’t want this, I don’t want you anymore.”

You froze, like the air had been knocked from your lungs. “You don’t mean that,” you whispered. The words barely left your lips before the ache settled in, it was sharp and disorienting, as if the floor had shifted beneath your feet as you struggled to understand how the man who held you like a lifeline just this morning could now look at you like a complete stranger.

“I do,” Sihtric snapped, angry and sharp, but his voice cracked on the last syllable. Or did you just imagine it?

“Go back to him. Go back to your hall, your games, your proper life. Go and leave me alone.”

He turned from you, back rigid, fists clenched at his sides, and you just stood there, stunned, your heart splintering in thousands of shards as the echo of his words sank into you, tasting of ash.

You could still feel him on your lips, still feel the bruises of his love on your skin. Just today, you had let him claim you completely - body and soul, given yourself to him without fear, without hesitation and now he was walking away like none of it had ever mattered.

He didn’t look back, he couldn’t.

If he did, if he saw the way you stood there, shattered and still, your eyes wide with disbelief, he would’ve run to you, fallen to his knees and begged for forgiveness he didn’t deserve.

So Sihtric kept walking, even if each step felt like dragging a blade through his own chest.

The hall was loud again, full of feasting and revelry, all blurring into loud and unbearable noise around him. He didn’t stop until he was outside, out into the cool night where he could finally breathe, though each breath still felt like it caught on a rib.

He slumped his back against the stone archway just outside the gates, knuckles white, heart pounding against the inside of his skull, angry and aching, and drew his palm down his face.

“You’re the only one I want.”

It was there, before his eyes, the image of your hand reaching for him, even when he’d been cruel, when he was stepping away, when he was hurting you deliberately, backing off although the only thing he wanted was to pull you in to his embrace, because that was the only way he knew how to protect you now.

He had lost his self control today in the meadow. It had been too tempting. “Fuck me like I’m yours.”

And the awakening tonight had been rough. He had seen it in the eyes of all the lords, eldorman and other noblings – the way they stared when you entered the hall with your head high and your smile poised. You were beautiful and gracious, a firelight in silk, you were wealthy and your family had impact and power. And he was a bastard, a Dane, a killer dressed in blood and leather, not linen or silk, he would never be one of them.

You belonged to the world of feasts and unburdened existence, not to the shadows where men like him existed, men with scars on their skin and worse on their souls.

“You deserve better than me.”

He spat the words into the night like poison, hating himself for them.

The truth was, he didn’t even really care about Aethelred, he didn’t believe for a second that you wanted that coward even though it had been painful to watch him court you so openly when he couldn’t.

What he did believe was that there will be other Aethelreds and one day, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually you’d see what they could offer you and he couldn’t, that you’d grow tired of hiding or even worse if you really accepted his marriage proposal - you’d grow tired of him, of the simple life he could offer, and you would regret your foolish choice.

Yes, he was jealous, jealous beyond reason of the world that was yours and never could be his, so he’d rather burn now than watch your love slowly extinguish.

Sihtric’s head dropped against the cold stone, eyes squeezed shut, he could still feel your ghost-light touch on his skin, the softness of your fingers, the way you had kissed him like he was something beautiful, something worthy, the way you had given him everything, even when he offered so little in return.

“You’re the only one I want.”

Gods, he wanted to believe it, but deep down he knew he would never be the man the world would let you have, not truly, not without consequences and so he did the only thing he thought he could – he had to protect you, from the scandal, from the fall, from the unhappiness, from himself, even if it meant breaking your heart, even if it meant breaking his own.

Sihtric hadn’t meant to leave without saying goodbye, but as two days later Uhtred announced they were riding north – trouble brewing, Danes raising an army, talk of raids and people fleeing – Sihtric seized the chance like a man leaping from a burning building.

There had been no time to seek you out, and even if there had been, what would he have said? Leaving without a word felt easier, cleaner. It was better that way, for both of you.

Sihtric didn’t look back when they rode out of Winchester. Had you come to watch him leave? Gods, he hoped so, but he hadn’t dared to turn around, too afraid he’d see you in the crowd and fall apart.

He told himself he’d done what was best for you and yet, you haunted him. At night, in the silence of his furs beneath the stars, you came to him, in dreams, in memories, in the unbearable quiet between battles. He saw your face again and again, eyes wide with pain, mouth parted in disbelief. Sometimes you were angry, sometimes you were crying, and sometimes… you said nothing at all. Those dreams were the worst.

But time, relentless as ever, marched on, battle followed battle, orders were given, roads were ridden, choices and decisions that weren’t his to make led them crisscrossing the land, and Sihtric followed, silent and grateful, every time, when the road led further from Winchester, further from you.

It was raining when they finally returned to Winchester, the sky was gray and heavy, the kind of weather that made everything feel half-dead. It had been almost a year but everything seemed strangely the same. Uhtred had gone straight to report to the king, but Sihtric didn’t follow, he didn’t want to be near, didn't want to risk seeing you.

He barely made it to the stables before she found him.

“You’re back,” Hild’s voice was hard as stone, her cloak clung to her soaked form, rain still pouring down from the sky with no mercy, and Sihtric silently wondered what had driven her to hurry across the town in this storm when they had just arrived.

He looked up, brushing rain from his face. “Hild,” he nodded politely. “It’s good to see you.”

“Is it?” Her gaze didn’t soften. “I doubt you will still think so after you hear what I have to say.” She drew a breath, deep and steadying, but her anger was already spilling through the cracks. “Sihtric Kjartansson - you are a reckless, heartless bastard.”

Sihtric’s brow furrowed in confusion and instinctive defense.

“You broke her heart and left her with nothing. You ran away without a single word, not even a real goodbye.”

She didn’t need to say your name, he knew. Gods, he knew, and he had never seen Hild – the composed, calm, kind Hild – so utterly furious.

“It was for the best,” he muttered angrily, unsure whether he was speaking to her or trying to convince himself again.

“For the best? For whom, Sihtric?” Hild stepped forward, fierce and unrelenting.

“I wasn’t good enough for her,“ Sihtric snapped. “She deserves something better. You don’t understand, I had to step away. I didn’t want to ruin her life.” Even as he said it, the words sounded hollow. He’d told himself that so often, it had begun to sound like the truth, but hearing it aloud, it sounded like the coward’s excuse that it was.

“You didn’t want to ruin her life?” the mocking scorn in Hild’s voice caught Sihtric off guard. “That’s exactly what you did.”

“You left her broken and alone. She bore the shame, the scandal, the disdain, all of it, and you weren’t there. She didn’t even have the hope of your return to help her endure it all.”

Sihtric stared at her, stunned and speechless, having the feeling that the world had suddenly tilted, his legs felt rooted to the earth, and a tremor spread through his hands as a terrible suspicion was clawing its way up his spine.

That last time… in the meadow… when he’d lost control – just that once.

“Where is she?” he finally managed to get over his lips.

“After her father disinherited her on his deathbed, I took her into my convent, where she gave birth to your son,” Hild said flatly. “And then she left for the monastery at Lindisfarne. She wanted peace, solitude and to be as far from Winchester as possible, somewhere no one knew her, somewhere no one would look at her with pity or judgement.”

The world blurred around Sihtric as he stood rooted in place, letting the rain soak into his fur cloak. He opened his mouth gasping for air like a man drowning on dry land, but no sound came, only the echo of Hild’s words ringing in his skull.

A son. Disinherited. Alone.

That was exactly what he’d tried to protect you from, or so he told himself. He had made himself believe he was doing the right thing, that letting you go would spare you pain, that he was the weight dragging you down.

And gods… he was.

What a fool he’d been, blinded by jealousy, convincing himself it was for your sake, when really, it had been for his, to spare himself the pain he thought was inevitable, to avoid watching you one day wake beside him and realize you’d settled for less.

He hadn’t protected you, he’d abandoned you.

The alehouse was half-empty, the hour too early for the usual evening revelry, rain tapped steadily against the warped shutters, matching the rhythm of Sihtric’s heartbeat and the slow drip of spilled ale down Sihtric’s wrist as he stared blankly into his cup.

He’d been there for hours, days, a week, maybe – he’d lost count, every day after the usual training his feet brought him here.

The serving girl didn’t flirt with him anymore, she didn’t even bother to smile, just brought the next mug, took the coin, and walked away. He wasn’t good company, hadn’t been since their return, hadn’t been anything but a quiet storm pressed into a corner bench, trying to drown himself one swallow at a time.

He had tried to forget, gods knew he had, but no amount of ale could rinse away the sound of Hild’s voice, or your name, or the words "your son" that still rang in his skull like a tolling bell.

He barely looked up when the door creaked open, he didn’t need to, he recognized Finan’s boots before he saw the man. Behind him, Uhtred and Osferth stepped in, the three of them already soaked from the rain and looking like they’d been arguing the whole way over.

“You’ve had your week,” Finan said, slumping down on the bench next to Sihtric. “It’s enough.”

Sihtric didn’t answer, just lifted his mug and downed what was left of it.

“I’m serious,” Finan snapped, while Uhtred and Osferth took their places around the table. “You’ve drunk this place dry, cursed at half the customers, and made the rest too uncomfortable to come near. It’s time to stop sulking and do something.”

“What’s there to do?” Sihtric muttered. “I’ve ruined everything.”

“Then un-ruin it,” Uhtred said, waiving to the serving girl to bring more ale. His voice was calm, but the edge was there. “Find her. Speak to her. You owe her that much.”

“What if she won’t even look at me?” Sihtric asked bitterly. “What if it’s too late?”

“Then at least you’ll know,” Osferth said gently, hands folded in front of him on the table.

Had they rehearsed this while coming here? slipped through Sihtric’s mind.

“It’s better to fall at her feet asking forgiveness than to waste away wondering what could’ve been. If it hurts, then it’s what you deserve. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.”

Sihtric’s jaw clenched, he looked down at the table, where a dried ring of spilled ale had soaked into the wood beneath his cup, his fists curled slowly.

“And what if she sends me away?”

“Then you walk away knowing you tried,” Uhtred said. “Not like this, not hiding behind drink and pity and pride.”

Silence settled for a moment then Finan added, “She loved you, lad. We all saw it. You were the only one who ever doubted that. The least you can do is ride north and ask her if there's anything left.”

They were right, Sihtric knew it, he’d been circling the same thoughts for days, drowning in them, pushing them down his throat like bitter potion. It wasn’t pride that had kept him in this place, it wasn’t fear of groveling, he wasn’t afraid to fall to his knees and beg for your forgiveness if it came to that.

What terrified him truly was the finality of your decision because as long as he hadn’t tried, as long as he stayed away, he could pretend. He could pretend there was still hope, pretend the door hadn’t closed all the way. He could try to squash the ache with silence, with regret, with ale. It didn’t work, not really, but it dulled the edges.

The moment you’d push him away and turn your back on him, like he had done to you, that would be the end of it, and he didn’t know how to live with that.

Coward, a voice whispered inside him, the same voice he had tried to drown in ale, to drink away, night after night.

Sihtric stood slowly, the legs of his chair scraping against the wood floor, as he pulled a few coins from his belt and dropped them onto the table, before meeting Uhtred’s eyes.

“Lindisfarne,” he said simply, walking past his friends out into the rain.

The wind howled off the sea as Lindisfarne came into view, rising from the northern mist like something carved from stone and sorrow. The monastery stood stark against the pale sky, its walls weathered by salt and time, cloaked in silence save for the distant cawing of gulls and the crash of waves against the rocks and the air smelled of rain and peat smoke and the sea, harsh and clean.

Sihtric reined in his horse just beyond the gate, staring at the worn stone archway that marked the entrance, he dismounted slowly, boots crunching against the gravel as he walked toward the gate.

It was peaceful here. He hadn’t expected that. What had he expected? He hadn’t slept in a day and hadn’t eaten properly in three, and yet the sight of the place had stirred something, gnawing at his ribs with much greater force than hunger and tiredness could. Fear or maybe hope? If he dared name it.

He knocked, three firm raps, the sound of his fist against the old, weathered wood hollow and strangely loud, somehow too loud for this place.

Palm still resting against the gate, Sihtric shifted his weight, straining to catch any sound from within, but there was nothing, only the muted grind of small stones shifting beneath his boots.

The wind, the waves, the distant cries of seagulls, all of it slowly faded beneath the rising thud of his heart, fast and uneven, as if before a battle, but in battle at least he’d know his enemies, know where to strike, how to survive.

Here… he was unarmed… naked.

The silence behind the door stretched until it felt unbearable, pressing against his chest like stone. Sihtric took a shaky breath, his fingers twitching with the urge to knock again, to do something, say something… and then, at last, he heard it – the faint creak of footsteps on stone, slow and unhurried and a moment later, the gate gave a groan and cracked open, just slightly.

The small walled garden behind the monastery where the abbess led Sihtric greeted him with a tender stillness, the sea wind was gentler here, softened by the walls, and the air smelled faintly of thyme and ripening fruit as bees hummed lazily through the air.

You stood beneath an apple tree, simple wool skirts swaying around your ankles, your arms reaching up toward a low-hanging branch. A basket rested at your feet, half-filled with small, red apples. You hadn’t seen him yet.

You were thinner than he remembered, more delicate, even fragile, your movements quiet but gracious. There was something different in your face now, not sadness, not exactly, but more like a calm. Your hair was tucked beneath a linen veil, though a few unruly strands danced in the breeze and the sunlight, filtering through the leaves above you, casted merry, golden flecks across your skin.

He had imagined this moment a thousand times, rehearsed in his mind, and still he was completely unprepared as the sight of you hit him like a storm, too sudden, too beautiful, too real.

“Wait here,” the abbess said, before stepping across the garden toward you, leaving Sihtric frozen where he stood, unable to move, barely able to breathe.

You turned at the sound of the abbess’s voice, your fingers still loosely curled around the apple branch, your other hand was reaching for the next fruit, slow and absent-minded until your gaze slipped past the elderly woman and landed on him.

Sihtric.

Your entire body stilled, breath caught mid-motion and for a heartbeat, you didn’t move, didn’t even blink. Your lips parted slightly, as if the air had become too thick to breathe and your eyes locked on his, while within them visibly flashed chaos of your emotions – disbelief first, then recognition… then something far more complicated… pain, anger or maybe something more fragile, something closer to grief.

Your hand slowly lowered from the branch, fingers curling into your skirts as your chest rose with shallow breaths.

Sihtric made one single step forward, slow and hesitant as if afraid to dispel the vision before him. Your chin lifted a fraction and then, with slow precision, you shook your head as your gaze dropped to the ground. The motion wasn’t angry, it seemed sad, it was worse than anger – it was the quiet refusal of someone who had waited too long, hurt too deeply and lost too much to let in hope again.

And then you turned, not hurriedly, not with drama or flair but with the steady grace of someone who had learned how to walk away with a heart still breaking. Your hand reached down and lifted the basket from the grass, the apples inside shifted gently as you carried them with you, vanishing beneath the ivy-covered archway without another glance.

The abbess returned back to Sihtric, shaking her head as if repeating your message to him.

He didn’t move, he couldn’t. It was it, there was nothing more left for him. It had told him everything – that look on your face as you turned away. You had done exactly what he had hoped you would as he walked away from you. You had made peace with losing him and buried what he’d come to reclaim. It had been foolish to hope for something else.

The candlelight flickered low, casting long shadows on the stone floor, the room was quiet, as you sat near the window, stitching the hem of a worn habit, your needle moving with practiced precision but your mind hovering elsewhere.

The abbess approached without ceremony, she didn’t sit right away, she simply stood beside you, hands folded neatly in front of her, gaze fixed on the rhythm of your stitching.

“This can’t go on,” she said softly.

You didn’t look up.

“It’s been a week.”

Still, you said nothing, your fingers moved steadily, but the needle snagged just slightly.

“He’s still out there, you know. Camped in the rain just beyond the gates. Refuses food. Refuses shelter. Just sits by the wall like some half-drowned penitent, waiting for a sign.”

Your jaw clenched, but you kept sewing, one more stitch, then another.

“He’s not eating, child.”

Your needle paused for a beat, just one, but the abbess saw it.

“He is not a saint,” she went on, gentler now, “but he is a man with sorrow heavy in his bones. And whether you forgive him or not, this silence is almost cruel. It is punishment, for him, and for you.”

You finally looked up, your eyes tired but unwavering. “Yes, it is. He left me, when I needed him most.”

“He did.” The abbess nodded. “And it wounded you. Deeply. I know.”

“I don’t want to need him again.” Your voice was barely more than breath.

The abbess sat beside you now, laying a hand gently over yours.

“Needing someone does not make you weak,” she said. “But holding on to pain for too long can.”

Silence settled again, save for the low hum of prayer from the chapel beyond the corridor, you looked back down at your needlework, but your fingers had gone still.

“Just speak to him,” the abbess urged. “That’s all. You don’t have to forgive. Not yet. But give him the dignity of a voice, if only to close the door with truth, not silence. It might help you, maybe even more than him.”

You swallowed hard. The stitch in your lap remained unfinished.

You sat still, hands folded in your lap, eyes fixed on the wavering candlelight as it cast flickering shadows across the floor, listening to the wind howling faintly from the cliffs.

Another night falling.

Seven days.

Seven days he had waited just beyond the walls.

You had watched from your window once, just once. He had been sitting beneath the old yew tree, soaked to the bone, shoulders hunched as though the weight of everything he’d lost was dragging him into the earth itself. You’d turned away before he could lift his head.

Why had he come? Why now? To claim some imagined right to your son? Only over your dead body.

You owed him nothing. You had nothing to say to him. How dare he invade your life again and demand attention as if he had any right to it. This was what you had told yourself all these days, that had been the story you clung to, the armor you wore.

But now… to your own surprise the edges of your anger were slowly beginning to fray. Not all at once but just enough to make you feel unsteady. And you hated it, hated the weakness of it, the part of you that flinched at the sight of him soaked in rain, eyes hollowed by sleeplessness, the part of you that felt something like… sorrow? Pity? Compassion?

Why?

Where had his compassion been when you were left picking up the shards of your broken heart alone?

You stood slowly, carefully, every movement measured and deliberate, not because you felt calm, but because it was the only way to stop your hands from trembling.

The corridor was cold as you stepped into it, your footsteps silent against the stone as you passed the chapel, the garden, the place where you had last seen him, stunned and unmoving as you walked away.

You didn’t tell anyone, you simply walked out through the side gate, the night air rushing in like a held breath, crisp and sharp with salt. The moon hung low above the sea, its light silvering the path ahead and there, just beyond the outer wall, where the cliff began to slope down to the rocky shore, you saw him.

He was sitting on a fallen log by a dying campfire, hunched forward, cloak pulled tightly around him. His hair was damp, curling against his forehead, and his face looked hollowed out by exhaustion, by waiting, or was it guilt that seemed to clung to him like a second skin?

You stopped several paces away, heart hammering in your chest.

For a moment, he didn’t hear you, then his shoulders tensed, he must have felt you before he saw you.

Slowly, as if afraid to believe it, he turned. You didn’t speak yet and neither did he. Sihtric rose slowly, as if unsure whether the moment would vanish if he moved too quickly.

“You came,” he said at last, voice low and rough from disuse, he didn’t step closer. He didn’t dare. You nodded once, but said nothing. The wind stirred your veil and Sihtric watched it, as if it might tell him what you were feeling.

“In truth I didn’t expect you to,” he added. “Not after… everything.” Still, you said nothing, your eyes never left him, but your expression remained calm and distant. Sihtric swallowed hard, gaze dropping for a moment to the earth beneath your feet.

“I don’t have the right to ask for anything,” he said. “But I need you to hear it. From me, not Hild, not anyone else.”

You folded your arms, but not in defiance, it felt more like a shield, a quiet bracing of yourself. “Then say it,” you replied, as your fingers dug into the fabric of your sleeves. He looked up again.

“I was a coward,” he said simply. “I told myself I was protecting you, sparing you from a life tied to someone the world would never accept, but the truth is – I was protecting myself, from the pain and from the fear that you’d one day wake up beside me and regret everything.”

You didn’t flinch, not visibly, but your throat moved with a swallow.

“And now?” you asked. He breathed out, slow and ragged.

“Now I regret everything instead.”

You looked at him for a long moment, your silence heavier than any scolding, and when you finally spoke, your voice cracked like a fault line. “You left me to bleed alone.”

Sihtric closed his eyes. “I know,” he whispered. “And I will carry that for the rest of my life. I just need you to know that I never stopped loving you. Not for a moment.”

You stood there for a long moment, the fire crackling between you, your gaze lowered, thoughtful, the breeze of the sea tugged at your veil and cloak, but you didn’t seem to notice.

Sihtric stood in silence, waiting, not pushing, not pleading, just… waiting.

Then, slowly, you moved, you walked around the fire carefully, like the earth itself might crack under your weight and lowered yourself on the log beside the fire he had been previously sitting on.

You didn’t look at him, not right away, you sat with your hands folded in your lap, your knees drawn close, the hem of your cloak pooling softly around your ankles.

Sihtric didn’t speak, he barely breathed as he settled near you. You were so close, closer than he’d dared to imagine and yet you felt worlds away.

Still, you were there.

You sat beside him in silence, close enough to share the warmth of the fire, but not touching.

Sihtric didn’t look at you first, he stared into the embers, jaw tight, hands clasped between his knees.

“There’s a place,” he said at last, his voice rough with hesitation. “In Coccham, a house. Uhtred gave it to me.”

You glanced at him, but said nothing.

“It’s quiet there, near the river. The kind of place where no one asks questions, where a child could grow without whispers.” He paused. “Where you could live freely.”

The wind caught the edges of your cloak, lifting it gently as you watched him.

“It’s yours,” he said, turning to you now, eyes steady, vulnerable in their honesty. “If you want it. Everything I have and everything I will ever have is yours. I know it’s not much but I’d do anything it takes to provide for both of you.”

He faltered a moment, then added, more quietly, “If you’ll allow me.”

You stared at him, heart tightening, throat constricting with the weight of words you weren’t ready to say but he didn’t press.

“I know I can’t ask anything of you,” he said, gaze dropping again. “Not forgiveness. Not love. I lost the right to even hope for those.”

He drew a breath, slow and steady, like a man walking willingly into pain. “But if you’d let me just be nearby… or just to see you both now and then, to know you’re safe... ”

The fire cracked between you and a spark drifted upward, lost in the dark.

“That’s all I ask,” he said, softer now. “Only to be allowed to care, from whatever distance you’ll permit.”

You looked at him fully then, really looked. He was thinner, quieter, worn in a way that went deeper than flesh and yet, in his brokenness, he was more honest than you had ever seen him.

You didn’t speak yet but something inside you shifted and for the first time in months, the ache didn’t feel quite so sharp.

It was still there, deep, raw and far from healed, but something in the way he looked at you, in the way he spoke, offering you everything without expecting anything in return, made the pain easier to bear. It didn’t press on your chest the same way anymore, it didn’t feel like drowning.

You turned your gaze back to the fire, letting the silence settle again, not because you had nothing to say, but because you didn’t trust your voice to hold steady.

A few minutes passed, or maybe longer, you weren’t counting, and after a long pause, Sihtric spoke again.

“Is he well?” he asked softly and his voice trembled at the edges. “Our son?”

You looked over at him, your expression sharpening, guarded. You hadn’t expected him to say it, to speak the word “our” like it was something sacred, and yet it wasn’t enough to stop the sudden rise of anger tightening in your chest.

“My son is healthy and strong,” you replied, the edge in your voice unmistakable as you stood abruptly, gathering your cloak around your shoulders.

Sihtric’s breath caught, barely audible, but unmistakable, he stared into the fire, his hands still in his lap. His head bowed, eyes closing for a moment as if bracing himself against a wave and when he looked at you again, the firelight glinted in the tears welling in his eyes.

“Wait, please,” he said quickly, rising halfway to his feet as it suddenly dawned on him. “You think… you think I came to take him away from you?”

You didn’t reply but the shift in your expression was answer enough.

Sihtric took a step forward, careful not to close the space too quickly.

“I would never,” he said. “That was never my intention.”

You stopped, half-turned away, your hands clenching at the edges of your cloak, you didn’t look at him, but he saw the disbelief lingering in the set of your shoulders, the way your breath trembled just slightly in the cool air.

He felt it like a blow.

“I didn’t come here to take anything from you,” he continued. “I came only to offer what little I have left to give.”

And still, you didn’t believe him, not fully.

He saw it in your eyes when you finally turned back to face him, the fear, the weariness, the quiet ache of someone who had been stripped of too much already.

In that moment, something in him broke open and without another word, he dropped to his knees. The motion wasn’t dramatic, it was quiet and honest.

He bowed his head and wrapped both hands tightly around the Thor’s hammer that hung at his chest.

“By Thor, by the gods, by every breath in me, I swear I would never try to take him from you,” he said, voice almost breaking. “Not now. Not ever. No matter what you decide, whether you accept what I’ve offered or send me away and tell me to never come again - he will always be yours.”

His grip tightened on the pendant as he lifted his head slightly, meeting your gaze.

“You don’t owe me kindness. You don’t owe me a place. But please, don’t believe I came to steal because I never could. I love you, I love you both more than my life, more than anything in this world. This is the truth.”

The fire’s light flickered against his face, casting him half in shadow, half in glow, kneeling not as a warrior, not as the man who once left you behind, but as someone stripped down to nothing but guilt and regret.

You stared at him, motionless, and in that shifting light, he looked both utterly broken and fiercely alive.

And you hated that your heart still responded to him, you hated how the sight of him, humbled and trembling, undid you in places you’d tried so hard to fortify.

You cursed yourself for it, for how much your heart still answered his name, for the way your chest tightened just seeing him like this.

You wanted to say something, something sharp, accusing, final.

You opened your mouth to speak but nothing came, nothing except the tightening of your throat and the sting rising behind your eyes. No. You bit down hard, pressing your lips together. You were so tired of crying for him.

But still, the tears came, hot and soundless, slipping down your cheeks no matter how hard you willed them not to. You raised a hand to swipe them away, to salvage what dignity you had left, but your body betrayed you, trembling under the weight of too much grief, too many memories, too much emptiness.

Something inside you simply gave up, you felt the ground shifting and your knees buckled as a choked sound broke from your throat, not a sob, not a scream, just hurt and loss made flesh.

In an instant, Sihtric was there, his arms were around you before you could resist, before you managed to hit the ground, pulling you into him, holding you as if he could shield you from everything, even the pain he’d caused.

You didn’t push him away, you buried your face in his chest, his leather armour cold and damp against your skin, and you hated that it still felt like home.

He held you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapped around your waist. He just held you, and you let him. Because you were tired, because you were broken and because, somewhere beneath the wreckage of your love, there was still a pulse.

“I was so alone,” the words broke from you in a sob, ragged and unstoppable, before you could even decide to speak them.

Sihtric’s eyes locked onto yours, pain tightening his features.

“And I was afraid,” you choked out. “You weren’t there when I couldn’t sleep for fear, when I thought I might die bringing him into this world. You weren’t there when I held him in my arms and didn’t know how to be enough for him.”

“And still, part of me waited,” you whispered. “Even when I hated you, even when I cursed your name.”

You drew in a breath that shook all the way down to your bones.

“I don’t know what this is anymore,” you muttered through the tears. “I don’t know what I still feel and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to trust you again.”

Sihtric wrapped his arms tighter around you, cradling you like a small child.

“You don’t have to,” he whispered. “Not now. Maybe not ever. I didn’t come here hoping to be loved again. I came here because I couldn’t stay away, not when I knew you were carrying all of it alone.”

You closed your eyes, the warmth of him seeping through your skin, settling somewhere deep inside you.

“And I’ll stay,” he whispered. “Always and forever, even if you never let me be closer, even if all I’m allowed is to watch from the edges of your life, I will be there. For him and for you, I swear it, if you’ll let me.”

Slowly, tentatively you leaned into him, letting your hands rest on his, not pulling him closer but not pushing him away.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice breaking on the words. “It’s already more than I deserve.”

The room smelled faintly of woodsmoke, herbs, and broth. You stood quietly in the doorway of the small bedroom, wrapped in your shawl as you watched.

Sihtric sat at the edge of the bed, his broad frame hunched slightly forward, one calloused hand resting protectively beside the small, sleeping frame in the center of the mattress. Your son – your son, his son – had already begun to drift off, his tiny breaths slow and even, his small and thick fingers wrapped around Sihtric’s thumb.

Sihtric gently freed his hand to adjust the edge of the woolen blanket around the boy’s shoulders and his fingers paused at the child’s hairline, brushing back a fine wisp of dark hair. He smiled softly, his lips barely parting, his eyes shining in the low light with something so tender it made your chest ache.

And then he leaned down, so close his nose nearly touched the boy’s temple.

“Sleep well, little warrior,” he whispered, barely audible.

He placed the faintest kiss to the top of the boy’s head, then lingered for a moment, simply watching him as though memorizing the curve of his cheek, the rhythm of his breathing. You saw him reach down, his fingertips grazing the carved wooden horse the boy had taken everywhere for days now - his own making. Sihtric gently moved it closer to the child's hand, easing it into his fingers so he wouldn’t wake up and find it missing.

He rose with care, casting one last look at the child before turning toward the door and then he saw you.

You hadn’t spoken, hadn’t made a sound, but you stood there, watching him, something fragile flickering behind your gaze.

He didn’t smile, not quite, but something in his face warmed, softened, as he stepped closer.

His breath hitched the moment your eyes met.

Sihtric slowed as he approached, when he reached you, he didn’t pass, he paused, standing just beside you, close enough that you could feel the lingering heat of him, smell the faint scent of leather and smoke that clung to his armour.

He didn’t look at you right away, his gaze remained fixed ahead, toward the fire-lit room behind you.

“I’ll come by again in two days,” he said quietly. “I’m riding patrol tomorrow. Up near the old border tracks.”

You didn’t answer at first. You were watching him now – the tired set of his shoulders, the faint weariness that lived in his eyes even through the warmth.

He glanced at you, just briefly.

“Just to check in,” he added quickly, like he needed to explain himself. “To see you’re both well,” but you could hear what he wasn’t saying, that he hated leaving, even for a night, and yet he always did, like he had promised.

Sihtric made to step back, to say his farewell and slip into the night, and that was when your hand reached out, fingers brushing against his.

He froze, the touch was soft, tentative, his eyes dropped to where your fingers rested lightly against the back of his hand, as though not quite believing it. You looked up at him, and your voice came, barely louder than a breath.

“Stay,” you said softly.

He stared at you, stunned, hope flickered then faltered as he furrowed a brow in disbelief as if questioning if he had heard you right.

You held his gaze, you didn’t flinch. “Stay.”

He didn’t speak, just looked at you for a long moment, like a man who had lived a thousand lifetimes in exile and had just now been told he could come home. His hand remained in yours, and you felt the slightest movement, his thumb brushing across the back of your knuckles, slow, tentative.

He stared at your joined hands for a moment, as if trying to decipher the meaning behind your touch before slowly lifting his eyes back to yours.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice low and rough. “You don’t have to… not out of pity. Not because I’ve worn you down.”

You shook your head gently, your fingers tightening around his.

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t.”

Sihtric drew in a shaky breath and stepped closer, close enough that his chest nearly brushed yours, but he still didn’t pull you in, still waiting for something more.

His free hand lifted toward your face, pausing in midair, a silent question trembling at his fingertips but you didn’t flinch, you didn’t turn away. His fingers cupped your cheek, warm and trembling slightly his thumb brushed over your skin.

His lips parted, but you reached up, gently pressing a finger to them.

“Schhh,” you silenced him. “Don’t say anything. Not yet…”

He closed his eyes and leaned in, resting his forehead softly against yours, his breath shaky and uneven.

Sihtric’s thumb brushed slowly across your cheekbone again, then down, just barely grazing the corner of your mouth, a touch so light it might have been imagined. His hand was rough, calloused, yet his touch was anything but.

His breath caught and so did yours.

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you and his eyes searched yours as if asking one last time – are you sure?

You didn’t nod, you didn’t speak, you simply tilted your face up, just slightly, your lips parting with the softest of exhales in an answer he felt rather than heard.

Sihtric leaned in, agonizingly slow, giving you every second to change your mind and then, finally, his lips touched yours, not with hunger, not with fire, with wonder.

His lips were warm, uncertain at first, resting against yours without pressure, testing, waiting.

You kissed him back, gently, slowly.

His mouth moved against yours, deepening the kiss by degrees, careful, tender, every shift of his lips telling you what words never could. His hand slid from your cheek to the curve of your neck, thumb resting at your jaw.

Your fingers curled in the edges of his leather armour, pulling him just a little closer and he responded with a soft moan.

The kiss grew fuller, more certain, more passionate, full of aching sweetness, the kind that says: I remember you. I missed you. I never stopped loving you.

And yet for the first time in what felt like forever, it didn’t feel like looking back, it felt like a beginning.

#sihtric x reader

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sunshinepanic · 2 days ago

Text

Holding On for Dear Life Pt10

Genre: Fan Fiction (Vikings) Pairing: Hvitserk/OFC Warnings: Medical, Illness, Sexual Content Rating: M Length: Multi Chapter Disclaimer: a strict work of fiction, I own nothing except the original characters and the plot line. In no way am I affiliated to any of it.

A/N: It's long, but we learn a bit more about the dysfunctional Lothbroks. And a bonus of sweet, anxious Hvitty.

thank you @flowers-in-your-hayr for the header

Catch Up Here

“Fancy meeting you here,” Gyda wrapped her arms around Emmer's neck, careful not to crush the giant bouquet she was carrying. “I haven't seen you since yesterday.”

“Far too long.” Emmer teased, walking arm in arm to the front door of Ragnar and Aslaug's house. “The game went well?”

“Oh fuck no, they lost terribly, but Leif made sure to let them all know they were still winners in his eyes.” She beamed when she spoke of her new love. “He's so good with those kids.”

“They really seemed to love him.” Emmer smiled, not bothering to knock Gyda opened the front door and the two women sauntered in. “It was fun watching him and Hvits have their little bonding moments.”

“if we're not careful,” Gyda glanced over her shoulder at her brother and boyfriend, slowly following along no doubt still talking about football and the previous day, “they're going to fucking elope.”

'Who is eloping?” Ragnar shouted walking towards the front door, grabbing his daughter and hugging her. “Better not be you.” Pointing at Emmer he smirked. “Or you.”

“Hey dad.” Gyda kissed his cheek. “We were teasing about Hvits and Leif.”

“Right, right.” He nodded glancing around Gyda to see Hvitserk and Leif, lagging behind, arms laden with gift bags and balloons. “Fuck, what'd you do buy out the damn shops?”

“Sig wanted us to pick up a few things, so we picked them up.” Emmer shrugged.

Stepping inside, Hvitserk dropped the bags in his hands, careful not to get clocked by the abundance of balloons that Leif was holding. “Thanks for the help.” He stuck his tongue out at Gyda.

“You're welcome. We opened the door for you.” Gyda chimed, giving Leif a kiss on the cheek as she lightened the balloon load, handing a few of the giant silver decorations to her father. “Thank you, dad.”

“I'm not a pack mule.” Ragnar whined, shaking his head. His own damn kids couldn't even finish their own tasks, what had he raised them to be? “Hey Hvitty. Where the fuck did your hair go?”

“Hi.” Hvitserk's reply was curt, his eyes briefly passing over his father. “Mom home?”

“No, she's out with Helga.” Ragnar sniffed, lowering the balloons to his side. “She'll be out until we have most of the guests here.”

“Okay, well I'm going to find Sigurd.” Stepping forward with his arm load of bags gathered once more, Hvitserk didn't bother to make small talk with Ragnar.

Today was not the day to start a fight. Today was about Aslaug, celebrating her. Sigurd had felt after everything that had been going on, his mother could use a pick me up. Even if it meant his father hanging around the house, pretending to be the world's best husband. Whatever. Hvitserk disappeared out of sight, Gyda instructing Leif to follow him, after a brief introduction with Ragnar.

Shutting the door, Emmer remained silent, the tension between father and son lingered. Clearing her throat, Gyda did her best to feign a genuine smile. “So, dad.”

“He's still mad?” Ignoring Gyda; Ragnar's words were directed to Emmer.

“He's coming around, but he isn't entirely over it.”

Bobbing his head in a nod, Ragnar shrugged, turning with his balloons. “I deserve that. Anyway, ladies, come on in. Make yourself at home. Drinks in the kitchen, food will be soon, people were asked to come for three.”

“Any specific place that I should put these?” Emmer held out the bouquet, she had gifted Aslaug the same one the year before, along with on a few other occasions. Emmer had no idea what any of the pink or purple flowers were, but Aslaug went crazy for them.

“I'll set those up. Go check on Hvits.” Carefully taking the over sized bouquet of flowers from Emmer, Gyda offered a knowing smile. Hvitserk and her father would come around, eventually. Maybe. At least Hvitserk had shown up, Gyda knew that her step-mother would be crushed if one of her boys had missed today.

Whispering her gratitude, Emmer slipped off in the direction that Hvitserk and Leif had last been spotted. The house was far too big, in Emmer's opinion. Although when you had that many children, a bigger house wasn't always a bad thing. Hvitserk had told her that the house they grew up in was four bedroom. Meaning the brothers shared rooms, Gyda, along with his parents getting their own. A smaller house filled with Lothbroks would be way too much.

Checking the living room, out of instinct, Emmer found Sigurd and Leif. Leif was on a ladder while Sigurd handed up streamers and pins. The furniture was rearranged to make room for more people, it looked comfortable enough. The walls lined with photos of the boys and Gyda, from childhood through to their last family photo, taken right before Aslaug's birthday last year. In the corner next to Hvitserk's high school photo was a photo of him and Emmer, the morning he had received his bachelor's degree. There had been so many photos taken that morning, yet this was the one his parents had chosen to display.

“Where's Hvitserk?” Emmer glanced up at Leif, then giving Sigurd a slight nod.

“He was mad at dad, so I sent him to the kitchen to cool off.” Sigurd informed, untangling the golden streamers. “I needed him to put together a few plates. Figured it would keep him occupied and dad is in the office.”

Emmer shoved her hands in her back pockets, pretending to take notice of the new rug. “I don't think we will stay long. If that's okay?”

“That's fine, leave whenever you need to. I wouldn't have asked you to come this early, but I needed the things picked up and I needed help.” Sigurd's admission was sincere. He knew, like everyone in the family, Hvitserk was not on good terms with Ragnar and wouldn't be for a while yet. Whatever his brother needed to do, Sigurd was going to support that.

Stepping forward, Emmer placed a soft kiss on his scruffy cheek. “Thanks, Sig.”

“If you need me to run interference,” Leif grunted trying to hold a streamer in place and pin it, “let me know. I can help. Maybe we can take the kids outside to kick a ball or something. If Hvitserk needs a break.”

“Excellent idea. All of Bjorn's kids are coming and a few more.” Sigurd nodded his approval. “And tell Hvits I need that cream finished ASAP!”

Emmer was happy to have the help. Hvitserk had incredible control over his emotions, usually, but as of late they had been known to boil over. Today was about Aslaug and Hvitserk had promised to do his best, to keep things calm and relaxed.

While getting ready this morning, he had a touch of nerves, nothing that weren't quickly cleared with some reassurance from Emmer.

“I will stay to see mom cut her cake, then I want to go.” Hvitserk whispered, his hand sliding into Emmer's back pocket, his fingers massaging her right cheek through the black trousers. She had been in the bathroom putting on a bit of makeup and doing her hair.

“Okay, I am happy to do whatever you want. I'm here to support you, remember.” She set the mascara down, turning to kiss Hvitserk's pursed lips. “You're in control on this one.”

Her words echoed in her mind.

Emmer watched as Leif got the pin in the streamer, before going to check on Hvitserk. Outside a car pulled into the yard, she could hear the tires on the drive and see the reflection of the sun in the windows, as it hit the vehicle. Whoever it was, there was enough people that Emmer didn't have to worry about the arrival.

“Sigurd wanted to know how that whipped cream for the fruit is coming along.” Emmer strolled into the kitchen. Hvitserk was positioned at the large island in the middle of the kitchen, a set of mixers positioned over a chilled metal bowl, the thick chocolate cream stood proudly in the bowl. Hvitserk turned, a bit of cream on his fingers from where he'd tested the consistency.

“It's almost finished. Just need it to set. Want to taste?”

Innocently, Emmer glanced around, grabbing Hvitserk's hand she raised his cream covered fingers to her mouth. Tentatively she opened her mouth, wrapping it around his cream covered fingers. Her tongue swirled around his fingers, carefully licking the cream from each one. Her eyes locked on his, Hvitserk tried to hide the moan that threatened in the back of his throat. Emmer giggled, before sucking on each finger, her mouth warm and pleasant. If anything was going to take his mind off of being in the same space as Ragnar, well. Emmer had to try.

“Emmer.” Hvitserk hissed, her teeth held his fingers captive for a few second before allowing his hand to drop from her mouth. Where had that come from?

Wiping the corners of her mouth, she giggled again, eyes darting downward. She cleared her throat and motioned for Hvitserk to look. Standing with his hand to the side, fingers wet, he didn't have to look to know that her little performance had left him hard.

“I meant like with a spoon.” He choked. Grimacing, Hvitserk squeezed his eyes shut, unsexy thoughts. Unsexy thoughts! “Ugh. No. You are a bad bad girl.” He half whispered half cried. Fuck what was she doing to him?

“I had to try something to keep your mind busy.” Emmer shrugged, letting go of the front of his jeans.

Just like that she was gone. What the fuck? Hvitserk stood, hard, wanting, and confused.

Outside of the kitchen, Hvitserk could hear Emmer greeting Ivar. Aud must have been earlier than expected. Hvitserk listened as Emmer convinced Ivar to go with her to the dining room, to help Gyda. Giving Hvitserk time to calm down and get things back under control. His fingers sticky, he lifted them to his mouth, licking off the tiny bit of chocolate that Emmer had missed.

Confident enough that he was okay to be seen by the others, Hvitserk grabbed the bowl of whipped cream, ready to put it wherever Sigurd demanded. Carrying it around the corner to where Sigurd was working on displaying food, Hvitserk swore he'd saw a ghost.

Of all days, why was this happening?

“Margrethe?” Hvitserk stopped mid step, his brother's ex-wife standing there like she had never left.

“Hvitserk, hey. It's been a while.” She smiled, awkwardly tipping her glass to her lips. “Ubbe said you are moving in with Emmer?”

Since when had they started talking? This was fucked up. Hvitserk had no issues with Margrethe, she had always been pleasant towards him. Yeah, so she'd cheated with Ubbe's best friend and divorced him, not that Ubbe could say shit. He'd slept with Bjorn's wife, to get over Margrethe divorcing him.

“Uh, yeah.” Nodding, Hvitserk rocked back and forth on his heels. “So, Sigurd invite you?”

Margrethe shook her head, her cropped blonde hair bouncing around her face. “Ubbe did.” Her expression changing instantly. “He didn't tell you?”

A few feet away, Bjorn stood beside Sigurd. The pair had been on their way to grab drinks, when they stumbled across Hvitserk and Margrethe. “You owe me twenty.” Bjorn leaned over to Sigurd, holding out his hand.

“Shh, we don't know anything yet.” slapping Bjorn's hand away, Sigurd stood against the wall waiting.

Behind them, Ivar thumped across the floor, his crutches heavy with each step. Emmer walking beside him, carrying a glass of wine for Aud. She'd been here fifteen minutes and already Ivar's girlfriend was about to get the full on Lothbrok Family experience.

“So, are we playing happy family today? Where's Magnus? Hmm?” Ivar rolled his eyes, shaking his head in disgusted disbelief. Being ignored for his comments was the only way to combat Ivar, when he was in a snarky state.

Leaning into Ivar, a deep sigh rumbling from her chest, Emmer slightly shook her head. “Is this how you want Aud to see you?”

Ivar's smirk was incredulous. Lowering his voice, he leaned further into Emmer. “Want to talk about what you were doing in the kitchen?” Emmer's cheeks flushed and she felt warm. Ivar chuckled, low. “Maybe I'm not the only one who has a magic tongue?”

“You're a dick.” Emmer whispered, playfully pushing his shoulder, Ivar gasped nearly toppling over. Oh she was good!

Leave it to Ubbe to forget a detail such as he was getting back together – on a trial basis – with his ex-wife. Could he not have mentioned that to Hvitserk? They'd been living in the same apartment for nearly a week. Whatever, wishing Margrethe well, Hvitserk bee lined for Sigurd holding up the wall, fishing money out of his pocket and placing it in Bjorn's hand.

“Here.” Hvitserk shoved the bowl at his younger brother.

“So, they're back together?” Sigurd pried taking the chocolate whipped cream.

“Apparently, all I know is what you two heard.” Hvitserk confirmed with a nod.

“I may need to find Ubbe and have a chat.” Bjorn shoved the money in his pocket, earning a look of concern from Hvitserk and Sigurd. “I just want to know what's going on. No punches.”

“I'm going to put this out and find that stash of weed dad hid in the garage.” Sigurd parted ways from his brothers. Truth be told, Ubbe was probably already out there smoking it. If Sigurd was making it through today, he had to get on that before Ubbe and Floki smoked it all.

Hvitserk's day had gone from weird to weirder. Why did he bother to come here? Every time he showed up at his parent's house something fucked up happened. Good grief, he shook the thoughts from his head, no he didn't want to know what was going to happen next.

His watch told him that it was nearly three. Aslaug would be here soon, which meant once she was home, Hvitserk could count down until he got to leave. In the moment his only concern was finding Emmer. The amount of people had tripled since they had arrived. He found her talking to Gyda and the woman he'd seen in Ivar's photos.

“Aud, this is Hvitserk.” Gyda introduced them.

“Aud, it's nice to meet you. Ivar has told me...” Hvitserk shook her hand. Nothing. Ivar had told him nothing. “So much.”

“It's okay,” Aud smiled much too sweetly to be with Ivar. “I know that he's been quiet about me. I know he's shy about some things.”

“Shy?” Hvitserk snorted, Emmer elbowed him in the side.

“Well, he is shy when it comes to relationships.” Gyda added.

“He's told me. I swear I'm not pity dating him or anything.”

“No, no we know.” Emmer offered with a bright smile. “Ivar and I have talked a lot about you, all good I promise. He's really happy and I'm glad.”

“If you tell him any of this, he will deny it and tell you that we're liars.” Gyda smiled comically at Aud.

“Good to know. I mean, I really do like him. He's...Ivar?” laughing, Aud shrugged dramatically.

“That he is.” Hvitserk nodded, gently placing his hand on Emmer's waist. “Can I steal her?”

Whisking Emmer away from Gyda and their new friend, Aud, Hvitserk sighed heavily steering Emmer towards Ragnar's office. Ragnar had been spotted in the living room, meaning the office was clear. He needed five minutes away from people. Five. Shutting the door behind him, he groaned and ran his hands over his face.

“As soon as mom gets here.”

“We can leave, as soon as you say Happy Birthday.” Emmer rubbed his back. Hvitserk was the life of the party, when the party wasn't his family.

“Thank you.” His hands in a prayer motion, he shook them back and forth. Thankful for Emmer and her understanding. “So, Ubbe is back with Margrethe.”

“I have no words, but whatever. I guess if you love someone?”

“Love is weird. I am glad that we are a different kind of weird.” Hvitserk kissed her cheek. “Our own little brand of Hvitserk and Emmer weird.”

“Are you high?”

Hvitserk laughed, shaking his head. “Nope, but I think Sigurd and Ubbe know where dad's stash is. We could get high.”

“I am not getting high at your mother's birthday party.” Emmer snorted. The last time she had let Hvitserk and Gyda convince her to get high, she'd sat on Ragnar and Aslaug's lawn for two hours trying to explain how penguins were superior to ravens – hence why Ivar needed to change the raven tattoo across his chest to a pair of penguins. Ivar had laid on the grass beside her, laughing hysterically, because he was too stoned to sit up.

“Remember when we got high at Bjorn's birthday?” Hvitserk snickered.

“Rollo thought he could show us how to throw an ax.” Emmer wanted to forget some things. The sight of her boss standing in the yard, shirtless, an ax in his hand explaining the science behind ax throwing while Harald tried to keep him from accidentally throwing the ax at anything other than the target. “Gisla was going to cut his balls off with that ax.”

“Maybe we shouldn't do that today.” Hvitserk tapped the tip of her nose. “But we should get back out, I saw Helga's car.” He motioned to the screen on Ragnar's desk, showing camera footage from the front drive.

Hvitserk was always happy to play the smiling son, when needed, even when he would rather be anywhere but in his parents' house. Sigurd welcomed everybody, turning the floor over to his – surprised – mother. Aslaug had known about the party, long before walking in to find family and friends in her home. She wasn't stupid.

Emmer stood in the corner, watching as Hvitserk engaged in conversation about god knows what with Harald and Floki. Floki giggled and Hvitserk shook his head, trying to hide his amusement. Glancing up, his eyes caught Emmer's. Smiling and giving him a nod, she raised her glass. As soon as he gave her the signal, she was happy to leave this behind.

“So, when was Hvitserk going to tell me the news?” Aslaug appeared at her side, an amused grin on her lips. “You and Hvitserk. I'm glad that he's found what he needs. Even if you only got back together, to fuck with Ivar.”

“Originally that was the plan, but I think we've known it would happen sooner or later. It's sort of been a five year relationship.” Emmer tipped her wine glass to take a drink. “I mean hey, if you love somebody?”

“Some days I question love.” Aslaug's voice was hushed. Watching the party around them. “I love my sons, I love Bjorn and Gyda. I love Ragnar, most days. Maybe we aren't supposed to understand it?”

“I try not to analyze it too much. Floki says it makes you crazy.” Emmer offered with a smile.

Aslaug snorted. “Floki would know crazy.” Emmer giggled. “By the way thank you for the flowers. You are the only one who gifts me flowers anymore.” Going in for a hug, Aslaug held the younger woman tightly.

“You are more than welcome. I know how you like to have flowers around.”

Making a mental note, Emmer would tell Hvitserk to start buying his mother flowers more often. Maybe she'd casually hint at it to the others as well. Flowers were a simple, inexpensive, and thoughtful gift.

“Leif, do we like him?” Breaking Emmer's thoughts, Aslaug's gaze followed Gyda and Leif as they walked towards Lagertha on the other side of the room. Aslaug had hardly a chance to meet him.

“We love him! I mean, we all love him. Even Ivar. Leif and Hvits are besties now.” Emmer chuckled. “He's much better than Kalf.”

“Ragnar liked Kalf, because Kalf came with his father's money.” Aslaug wrinkled her nose. “But he never let Gyda be Gyda. She isn't a trophy. No woman is.”

“Agreed.”

“Never let a man treat you like a conquest.” Aslaug advised, draining her glass of rose. “I wish somebody had told me that.”

“Hvitserk would never do that.”

“Out of all my sons, he is certainly the sweetest. He adores you. Never has he asked his father or I for anything. He gets what he wants on his own. He needs to let people take care of him, which is why I am so glad he lets you do that for him.”

“He takes care of me as much as I do him.”

“I know, but you need to let people take care of you, too.” Aslaug nudged Emmer with her elbow. “Women need to be strong, but it is okay to be taken care of when you need it.”

“I know.”

“You always say that, but I still need to remind you.” Smiling, Aslaug wrapped her arm around Emmer, kissing her cheek. “Now go on, get Hvitserk and tell him that it's okay if he leaves. I know he only came because he's a good son.”

“Happy birthday.” Emmer returned the kiss on the cheek. “And thank you.”

“Enough, go on.” With a wave of her hand, Aslaug dismissed Emmer, turning away from the younger woman to speak to another friend that she had seen go by.

Walking into what was soon to be Ubbe's apartment, Hvitserk shut the door and tossed his coat aside. Flicking on the light, he let himself fall onto the couch grabbing Emmer's hand as she passed by, pulling her into his lap. Somehow today had been a success, a little weird that this was how Ubbe decided to tell his family that he was back with his ex-wife, but overall a success. Hvitserk sat with Emmer on his lap, her head resting on his shoulder.

This was how he wanted to end every day, Emmer beside him, the two of them in the stillness. His hands running up her back, cupping the back of her neck he brought her closer. His lips on hers, Emmer sighed. Hvitserk's hand traveled between her thighs, massaging through the fabric of her pants.

“Hvits,” Emmer pushed his head to the side, “I can't. I am exhausted. I'm sorry.”

“Hey,” Hvitserk took his hand back, shaking his head. “you don't need to apologise for not wanting to have sex.”

“I'm so sorry,” she frowned, “I don't know what happened, I just...”

“You're probably tired, because you haven't stopped all week.” Hvitserk kissed her shoulder. “Why don't you get ready for bed, I'll grab some electrolytes and leave them on the night stand.”

Nodding in agreement, Emmer sighed, wiping her eyes she blinked back a few tears. Somewhere around half way home, she could feel her energy levels plummeting. Hvitserk was right, she'd had an extra busy week.

Standing up, Emmer disappeared down the hall. It was fairly early, although that didn't matter. She'd probably lie in bed scrolling on her phone, while Hvitserk read his book. Pushing the bathroom door closed, she took a look in the mirror. Her make up beginning to splotch and her hair losing the soft curls she'd given it this morning. She could hear Hvitserk's footsteps heading for the bedroom, he would strip down and be in bed by the time she got ready. He would have the bed warm because he knew Emmer was always cold when she first got in bed.

Hvitserk left his water bottle on Emmer's side of the bed, as promised. Already he'd sent his boss a message, telling him that tomorrow they would be down a cook. He turned off the alarm on his phone, tomorrow they had no agenda. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he couldn't help himself any longer, he needed to go and Emmer was surely in the shower, as long as she had been taking.

He'd sneak in, do what he had to do, and back out before she knew it. Scratching his chest, he stopped outside the bathroom door, hand on the handle when Emmer gasped.

“Hvitserk, stop.” She called from the bathroom.

“Em?” “Hvits, stay out.” Emmer whined, panic in her tone.

“What's wrong?”

“No, no fuck.” Emmer's voice could be heard outside the door, muttering to herself.

“Emmer?”

“Hvitserk, please just...” She took a deep breath. “I'm fine.”

Shuffling around the bathroom, Emmer grumbled to herself, while Hvitserk stood outside with his head resting against the door. Whatever was going on in there had clearly stressed her out. He wanted to help, yet didn't want to invade her boundaries.

The shower started, Hvitserk perked up. Leaving his post by the door, he went to the living room where he'd put her purse earlier. In her bag would be extra supplies, since she hadn't came with an overnight bag, he knew she would have what she needed in the purse. Knocking on the door, he pushed it open, inside Emmer was behind the frosted glass as steam rolled up around the ceiling.

“Hvitserk?”

“I grabbed your extra supplies, in case you needed it. I knew that you'd have it in your purse.”

“It's not a leak.”

“Oh?”

“No, I was using the bathroom and I had an air bubble. It bubbled up and went all over me and the floor. I cleaned the floor and I'll scrub it when I am done here.” She explained. Hvitserk looked at the tiles around the toilet, everything looked clean to him.

“Emmy,” his voice was soft. “You could have told me.”

“It's actually really embarrassing, I should have let the air out first.”

“You finish in there, I can grab the mop.” Hvitserk instructed, leaving her spare ostomy supplies on the vanity. Grabbing her clothes from the floor, he'd toss them in the washer for her. A few moments later, he returned with the mop and a small bucket of hot water and soap. Scrubbing the floor, he sat the mop and bucket in the corner. Now Emmer wouldn't get her feet dirty when she stepped out.

“Hvits,” Emmer turned the water off, poking her head around the shower barrier. “Can you get me a towel?”

“I will be right back.”

In her haste to get clean, she hadn't noticed the lack of towels on the shelf. Naked, in the shower, she glanced at the mop and bucket in the corner, the mirror across from the shower catching her reflection. Never in seven years had she felt inadequate about her body, it was what carried her through life, even if it had tried to kill her a few times. Covered in scars, the beige bag hanging from her right side, mid abdomen she sighed.

“Towel and a clean shirt.” Hvitserk returned with a bath towel and one of his tshirts. “Em?” He frowned at the sight before him. Standing in the shower, Emmer's bottom lip trembled. Her hair damp, tears on her cheeks as she stood there naked. “Emmy?”

“It was such a stupid mistake.” Emmer's voice trembled. “I know to let the air out, because...”

“Emmer.” Hvitserk's tone was gentle, wrapping the towel around her, he helped her out of the shower. Arm around her shoulder, he guided her back to his bedroom.

“I don't hate my body. I really don't.” She sobbed, allowing Hvitserk to sit her down on his bed. Towel still around her, she stared at her feet. “Eir isn't all that bad.”

“I know.” Hvitserk knelt before her, his hands on her knees. “You are stronger than anybody I know, you don't let any of this hold you back. You deal with this every day and never complain, Ems, you're allowed to be upset and cry.”

Emmer shook her head. “No, because if I cry over it, then I'm letting an illness dictate my feelings.”

“Emmy, crying is healthy. You are allowed to be emotional.”

Pulling the towel tighter around her, Emmer's body shook with sobs. She had to be one of the strongest people Hvitserk knew, seeing her break down was tearing his heart in two. Sitting on the bed beside her, he wrapped his arms around her holding her tight. Allowing her to cry it all out. Emmer had never taken the time to feel sorry for herself, why should she?

Everything in life happened for a reason.

Her car accident.

Ulcerative Colitis.

Even the stitches she'd had in her chin as a child.

Emmer knew that she was lucky to be alive. She was fortunate enough to be strong and healthy. In her mind, she was given the second chances because life still had more for her. Yet here she was. In Hvitserk's embrace, crying her heart out, while he sat whispering in her ear. Words of encouragement and love. She didn't need him to tell her she was gorgeous or that she drove him crazy, not right now. What she needed right now was support. To know it was okay to let go.

Growing up, many nights, Hvitserk had sat in the bedroom he shared with Ivar, reassuring his little brother that he was smart and strong. Despite what Ivar thought, he was more than his disability. If he allowed people to see that side, then he was going to be unstoppable.

As a boy, Hvitserk had never dreamed that one day he'd be sitting in bed, holding the woman he loved, telling her the same words in the same hushed tone that he'd use to soothe Ivar.

It was easy to forget that Emmer had an illness, even for her sometimes. Hvitserk had never seen her disappointed by her fate, in seven years, she had never once made one comment that made him think she was unhappy with the bag at her side.

“We had such a good day.” Emmer whispered, “and I ruined it.”

“You have ruined nothing.” Hvitserk stroked her hair, rocking her back and forth in his arms. “Mom loved her party, we laughed and had fun, you did not ruin anything. You could never ruin anything.”

“Why do you love me?”

The question had been like a ton of bricks to Hvitserk's chest.

“I love you because you're you. Someone, somewhere decided that the day I met you, was the day I found my other half. Emmer, when we're not together it feels like there is a hole that I can't fix. I love you, because you are everything good in my life. You bring me so much joy and happiness.” Hvitserk kissed her temple.

Emmer sobbed, her chest heaving and more tears stained her cheeks. Wiping her tears, Hvitserk's heart ached.

“When I think about my life, all I know is that you're in it. You're my sunstone. You guide me, when I am lost. Which,” Hvitserk sighed, “is a lot.”

“I love you,” Emmer's voice was barely above a whisper. “I can't explain it like you can, but I love you and I don't deserve you.”

“I often think I don't deserve you.” Hvitserk pressed his lips to her temple once more. “You deserve everything good. Everything.”

“Hvits,” whispering, her fingers traced the outline of the black tattoo spanning from his left ribs, onto his chest, across his shoulder, and to his elbow, “can we just stay in bed all day tomorrow?”

Hvitserk's lips turned into a small smile. “I'm already ahead of you, Emmy.”

Snuggling into his body, Emmer sniffled once more. Wiping tears away from her cheeks. Feeling slightly better about her situation, she took heed of Aslaug's advice. It was okay to let Hvitserk take care of her.

Tags: @purplerose291

#hvitserk x reader

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