#Human Torch 5a | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pomegranates-and-blood · 3 years

Text

νοσταλγία (Chapter 19)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: This is a retelling/romantization of the Greek myth of Persephone’s abduction with Ivar as Hades and you as Persephone. The Reader character is a Byzantine woman, follower of the Greek Pantheon/Religion, and a devoted follower of Persephone. This takes place after 5A, but the universe of this is a little changed in relation with the series, of course. Thank you for giving it a chance, hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: The usual, human sacrifice, that’s an added one for this chapter

A/N: Hiiii, hope you like this chapter! The wedding is finally here lol, hope it doesn’t dissapoint :)

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927 @toe-vind-ek-jou @xbellaxcarolinax @pieces-by-me @angelofthorr @samsationalwilson

Whatever it takes to escape. Whatever it takes.

You mull over Ubbe’s words as you wait for the thralls to come fetch you, to come wash and dress you, to come drag you down to make you Ivar’s wife.

The soft knock on your door is all the warning you have, before the meek girls slip through the door. You are familiar with them, not only because they’ve been the ones to care for you ever since you were given a place to call your own in this realm of cold, but because since you woke up this morning they’ve been coming and going, preparing your bath and tending to your hair, dutifully flocking around you in a manner you don’t have the heart to tell them is annoying.

Behind them, Freydis walks in, and you meet her gaze with wide eyes.

When the King lowers his guard and loosens what you call chains…

She only smiles calmly at you, greeting you with a slow blink and careful hands crossed over her stomach. The perfect picture of a maiden, and it unsettles you.

“Freydis.” You breathe out, and she bows her head with a murmur of your name in return. Her eyes trace your room, stopping on the planters and the plants you’ve managed to make blossom under your care.

She distracts you with simple topics of conversation while the thralls take care of your skin, of your clothes, of your hair. You feel her blue eyes settle with calculating interest as she watches you stop the girls and refuse to let them braid your hair, but says nothing.

They fasten the elegant red dress -the King’s choice, apparently- on you, and after quickly brushing your hair so it falls loosely down your back, one of the thralls moves to leave the room to fetch something, but Freydis’ voice stops her.

“I’ve got it.”

You turn around and find the blonde holding a delicate wreath of wildflowers in her hands, offering it to you. You blink and the breath leaves your lips as if a giant weight was dropped on your chest.

“W-What is that?”

“A wedding crown.”

You shake your head, stepping back.

“N-No, that’s…that’s…” Your panicked breaths quicken, your eyes find Freydis’ with what you are sure is a plea written in them.

“It means something to you, doesn’t it?”

You laugh bitterly to yourself, lifting your gaze to the wooden ceiling and wondering why you are still surprised Fate manages to be cruel to you.

The Hiereia brushes your hair back with gentle fingers, her bracelets clanking against each other and making crude music against your ears.

As she starts weaving your hair to hold the flower crown, you look into the mirror. For a moment you see a flash of red veiling your features, but when you blink it is gone.

You can remember the first time they put such a crown on you, your mother’s soft touch guiding the girl of barely six years into her first sacrifice.

“You feel Despoina’s touch upon you, don’t you?” Mother asked, a smile in her voice you can remember even today, even ten years later.

“I feel…” You couldn’t find the words, and you can’t now either. “I don’t know, mother.”

“It is her hand reaching for yours,” The Hiereia explains quietly, without any prompting, as if she too can glimpse into a past long gone. And the dried pomegranate branches make rustling sounds on your ears as she fixes the crown. “You wear the crown of flowers worn by the maiden she once was, and after tonight you bear blood to honor the crown of death and iron Lord Hades placed upon her head.”

The weight of memories, of grief, of nostalgia, burdens you more than it should. The woman at your back notices, and puts heavy hands on your shoulders and her mouth by your ear.

“Chosen by Persephone,” Hearing that name still makes a thrill run down your spine, and the title that she invokes hardens your heart but makes your soul sing. “You have nothing to fear.”

You didn’t notice your eyes lowering to your hands, but the Hiereia’s soft touch under your chin, making you lift your gaze to the mirror again, forces you to face the crown they have placed on your head and the thirst for something other than flowers that comes with it.

You look down at yourself, at the hands you are wringing together, and force your lungs to take a deep breath. You are tired of panic, you are tired of wanting to run knowing you can’t, you are tired of struggling.

You are tired, still far from defeated, but tired.

Closing your eyes, you try to center yourself, and trust. Trust in your mother, in her wisdom and in her protection, trust she had a reason for guiding you to Ivar’s side. Trust in her Gods, the Gods that she asked to protect and guide you even if you didn’t worship them, trust their hand in taking you here means there’s a purpose for you at Ivar’s side. Trust in your Gods, trust the deities you dedicated your life to wouldn’t fate it that you are defeated, trust Persephone, trust that she wouldn’t forget you when you haven’t forgotten her.

Trust Ivar, trust he can be a good husband, trust he will not try and silence you like many have before, trust he will never ask that you lower your gaze.

Trust yourself. Trust that all you survived means you can survive this, trust that you can and will fight for what you are owed, trust that no binds and certainly no men can keep you from the victories you are owed.

You take it from Freydis’ hands, and put the crown on your head yourself, raising your chin and straightening your back.

The view outside the small window shows you the kingdom you are to call our own now, but beyond it the horizon lays, the place where the skies meet the sea, and you allow yourself to feel at ease as you are escorted by Freydis to wherever it is she will take you.

____

A part of you that doesn’t hold a pit of dread growing in your chest, would have no qualms in saying the opening where they arranged for the wedding to take place is beautiful. Foreign, intimidating, Viking, but beautiful.

The sky has started to darken, and there’s carefully placed torches granting light to the ample circle where the people there to witness the union and the Völva stand.

They don’t need to tell you or guide you, you know you are supposed to walk towards the man you are supposed to marry, who stands before the witch in formal but still imposing clothes.

Leave it to him to get married in the closest thing possible to armor.

You bite down a manic smile at your own observation, and with a deep breath and a straightening of your back, you move to stand in front of him, with the officiant to your side.

A young girl is walked to the woman, and with no hesitation she signals for the women that assist her to tie the girl to a pillar behind her, a pillar you just now notice holds a container underneath, like the vessels you used back home.

The girl doesn’t squirm, doesn’t shake, doesn’t cry. She looks at Ivar, looks at you, and closes her eyes.

She does scream when she dies, when the Völva pierces her skin with the odd-looking blade, but her pain, you hope, is short-lived, and the blood of the sacrifice is collected and, you assume, that part of the ritual is over, judging by the dimming of the beat of the drums somewhere at your back.

The witch turns back towards you, dress proudly stained with blood, and says some words about Freyja and Frigg, about Odin and Fenrir, about what we are all here for: a binding before the Gods themselves, of a woman and man.

Without hesitation, and frankly startling you a bit, the woman reaches up and grabs Ivar’s face between her hands, looking into his eyes.

“Do you swear before the Gods you want to marry this woman?”

Ivar’s eyes stay on yours, burning like Greek Fire.

“I swear.”

The woman grabs your face between her rough hands, forces your eyes to meet hers,

“Do you swear before the Gods you want to marry this man?”

Your lips have breathed an answer before your mind can remember the words you should want to say.

“I swear, before your Gods and mine.”

She smiles then, pleased and warm, and releases you. You waver in the place where you stand, and a tremor makes its way past your parted lips.

This just might be the choice, the title, the name, that breaks you; you think to yourself. Everything would be easier if he could make you hate him, if he could make you see only the man that captured you and forced you to be at his side. Everything would be easier if you hadn’t realized this isn’t a captor you will grow to resent, if your foolish heart couldn’t latch on to the glimpses of the man you met in Aneridge that you still see in Ivar.

Because you wish you could tell yourself the captivating and enticing man you met in that old Saxon city was a mirage, a deceit by the cunning King of Kattegat. You wish, for it would make everything easier.

It would make marrying him only the blindly followed orders of an arrangement your mother made, and not a choice you could see yourself making. It would make marrying him in the eyes of the Gods what makes you swear loyalty to him and trusting in him, and not your loyalty and trust what makes you swear to be his wife before the Gods.

You are to be his wife. You are his wife.

In the eyes of his people, in the eyes of his Gods, in the eyes of yours. In his eyes.

Just as in your eyes, he is your husband.

You meet the eyes of the man before you, and a tremulous smile starts to curve at your lips. It is a bit broken, a bit mad; but there’s rush of freedom in finding yourself with no binds in that brief instant where you say yes.

You accept the title, not because Sieghild made the arrangement, not because Ivar wanted you to, not because ten thousand Greeks laid their hands over their hearts and kneeled, not because your legacy asked you to.

Because you wanted to.

Ivar takes his hand on yours and puts a bloodied ring the Völva hands him on your fourth finger. The woman hums a pleased sound, and you watch as she dips a small bouquet of branches into the sacrifice’s blood.

With a precise movement of her arm she specks Ivar’s face with the blood, and his eyes close. When she turns to you, she hesitates and considers you for a moment.

You meet her eyes, a new kind of fear in your stomach, and the witch raises her hand over your head.

The drops of blood fall on the flower crown on your head, and she smiles, she smiles like she knows a secret you don’t, she smiles like she knows every secret you’ve kept.

Another sharp movement of her wrist and your face is speckled in blood as well, but you feel the weight of those few drops on the crown on your head as if they were as heavy as iron.

“Before the Gods you are now married.”

The people clap and cheer, the drums beat louder and so does your heart.

Your husband’s eyes open and meet yours, and you cannot hear anything else.

You will tell yourself later that it was the pressure of the eyes of so many of the people of Kattegat on you, you will tell yourself later that it was the knowledge of what a bride’s duty is, you will tell yourself later whatever it is that can make the burden lighter.

But now you just stand on the balls of your feet, close your eyes and sink into the kiss Ivar breathes over your lips. You let him steal the breath from your lungs as his lips move tentatively against your own, and the steadiness from your hand as you raise it and let it cup his jaw and guide his mouth to press harder into yours.

You will tell yourself later that his hand is rough and forceful as he grips at the back of your head, you will tell yourself later you do not feel tenderness when his fingers run through the tresses of your hair as his hand moves to your lower back.

But now you just enjoy the touch of his lips on yours, the feeling of thrill that goes all the way down your spine, the heat that pools low in your stomach.

And no crown, no title, no kingdom, could make you feel as powerful as you do when you part from the kiss and have Ivar chase the touch of your lips, swaying forward, as if entranced.

Your eyes follow the red streak your hand now adorned with a ring leaves on his cheek and jaw, a path downwards to leave your hand on his chest, the delicate ring still shining with the red of the blood.

You ride a chariot -his chariot- all the way back to the main hall, reminded starkly of your own people’s traditions and realizing once again the Fates truly toy with us all.

Before long, the doors are opened by smiling warriors, and a feast awaits. You cannot take your eyes off the two identical thrones that await you where there used to be one.

Ivar guides you to them, and turning to his -yours too now, you suppose- people, and with his hand still holding onto yours, he turns his head to look at you, what you could swear is pride and satisfaction written all over his expression and his posture as he seems to stand taller, before raising his voice and announcing to the crowded room, to the kingdom now laid before you,

“Everyone! My wife, and Queen of Kattegat!”

When you walk outside of the tent aided by Galla’s firm hands, you find that the elders, the families, the soldiers and farmers, they all greet you with warm eyes, with kind and relieved smiles.

It feels like home and yet all there is around you is unfamiliar woods, it feels like peace even if your home burns at your backs, it feels

“Everyone’s been waiting to see you,” Galla whispers with the smile that hasn’t left her voice or her face since you awoke, weeks into your escape from Eleusis’ flames. “You know, they are going to need a leader, someone that can be their guide, someone they can love and admire.”

“Galla, wh-…”

“Someone that follows our Gods, someone that is willing to bleed and die for us, someone that when Attica is ours again rules our home.” She says, and when you turn to face her, she presses her forehead to yours, a gesture of affection and trust since you were but children.

Galla pulls back, black eyes looking into your own and even if the weariness of weeks on the road, of nights spent in the woods as sentinel, set on her dark skin like an unshakeable mark of pain and loss; when she smiles you cannot help but return the gesture, tremulous as yours is.

The Carthaginian straightens, and with a certain and proud movement, brings her fist to her heart before bending the knee. You accept her pledge, and all those that follow as the people surrounding you repeat the gesture.

“Anassa of Attica. May the Gods bless and guide you.”

You look at all those expectant faces, you face all your failures and your victories, you bear the burden your legacy earned you. And you cannot help but think if your body wasn’t burnt and broken you would have run away by now.

The Vikings cheer and raise their voices and their cups, and you find yourself smiling in thanks and in reflection of what seems to be genuine celebration.

You once again sit at Ivar’s side, this time on a throne of your own, and this time you don’t let go of his hand.

____

The feast lives on around you, loud and cheerful and chaotic, and you toy with the still-bloodied ring that now adorns your left hand, trying to make out the subtle design underneath the blood.

“You’ve been staring at it for a long time,” Ivar interrupts, and you lift your head to find him looking at you with his head cocked to the side, “Do you not exchange rings in Greece?”

Your right hand clasps at the place where you always keep your mother’s old pendant hanging from your neck, before dropping it once you realize tonight you wear some fancy jewels you don’t care much for. When Ivar’s eyes follow the movement of your hand before lifting to meet your own, you realize he may know without you telling him what it means to be given a piece of jewelry at your wedding day.

“No, it is not our custom. I…Sieghild never told me, she never…she never talked about these things.”

“And what did you make of it?”

You wear the crown of flowers worn by the maiden she once was, and after tonight you bear blood to honor the crown of blood and iron Lord Hades placed upon her head.

“It was all…familiar,” You reply honestly, clearing your throat to dispel the hoarseness that plagued it as you spoke past the memories and the stories they try to tell you. “They told me you ordered for my dress to be red.”

“I like red,” Ivar replies, shrugging one shoulder, before bowing his head to you, “And you look good in it.”

“It is a bride’s color to my people,” You reply with a rueful smile, before chuckling to yourself, “The Gods entertain themselves with this, you know.”

Ivar only smiles, tranquil and honest, but doesn’t argue, and returns his gaze ahead.

Whatever it is you are about to say is interrupted by the approaching figure. You turn your head and straighten in the throne as Freydis bows before the two of you.

You only watch with wide eyes, and she raises her head and meets Ivar’s eyes.

“My King,” She smiles calmly, innocently, “Congratulations on your marriage. May the Gods bless and reward you.”

You watch Ivar’s profile, and only because you are looking for the reaction it is that you notice the barely-there change in his posture, the subtle part of his lips, the questions in his pale gaze.

Freydis manic eyes on yours, her hand reaching for yours but it feels like it grasps at your throat, telling you those that endure pain are chosen of the Gods themselves.

Ivar sets new chains upon you and with the certainty of madness whispers that you are the reward for a lifetime of pain.

The realization of who it was that told Ivar those things, that put those ideas in his head, it strikes you and leaves you watching the interaction with wide eyes.

You wonder, like the prideful and arrogant woman the Gods made out of you, what exactly is the story neither of them has told you. You wonder, like the jealous and foolish girl you’ll never admit to being, why it is they haven’t.

Unaware to your thoughts -or pretending to be-, Freydis turns to you and smiles again, but it is truer, freer, hungrier. You don’t know if you should allow yourself to smile back.

But you shake yourself out of those thoughts, telling yourself you have no reason to distrust her. Right?

“I was hoping to steal the Queen from your side, only for a few moments.” The blonde continues, meek and unsettlingly calm.

Ivar considers her with a side smile that says he doesn’t particularly like this game she tries to play, but after exchanging a look with you, he signals with his hand in permission.

You stand from the throne and walk to Freydis’ side with careful steps. Ivar stops you before you can get too far, his hand trapping yours and keeping you close to the throne.

You turn around with an easy smile playing at your lips, because…Gods, you are a fool.

“Wife.”

Priestess.

“Husband.”

Viking.

____

Soooo, hope you liked it! I have a lot a lot of feelings about Norse and Ancient/Byzantine Greek traditions when it comes to weddings. The red is a true thing, and funnily enough the Ancient Greeks had a tradition of having the groom drive a chariot around the home he was gonna live in with his wife (or smth like that, I’ve been slowly bled for all I’m worth in these damn finals so my value as a source is a little off atm), and a lot of lil details like that that if I included would have made thisa 10k monstrosity that no one wnated to read lol

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed and I look forward to hearing your thoughts on this! Also, the wedding celebration/night of course isn’t over, but I try to keep my chapters on less than 5k lol

Thank you, sending you all my love!! <3 <3

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar the boneless #vikings #νοσταλγία masterlist

117 notes · View notes