#monk hvitserk

[procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics]

ch. 6 – tyr (to teach)

summary: life apart

warnings: pregnancy stuff, angst (really? omg that's so crazy)

tagged: @levithestripper @demon-of-the-ancient-world

general masterlist | series masterlist

Athelstan

“Women are as fickle as the moon.” Ragnar had told him, clapping a hand on his shoulder and smiling sympathetically. Athelstan had wanted to protest. What did Ragnar know of Alethia?

When Alethia had not come to the encampment of the Northmen, Bjorn, Rollo, Lagertha, Torstein - even Floki - had offered their sympathies, said a few kind words and assured him that it was not his fault.

Athelstan knew it was. He did not know why Alethia had not come after him, had perhaps chosen to stay in Wessex, with Ecbert, but he did know that he had left her behind, left in a rush to be reunited with his friends.

His family.

He would not blame her if she did not forgive him. Athelstan thought he could have, but he was Athelstan. There were not many people who thought like him, and Alethia had anger written into her very bones.

She would never forgive him.

The return to Kattegat felt flat without her. For months, Athelstan had thought of what to do here with Alethia, after showing her around and introducing her to everyone. He knew she would have gotten along well with Hvitserk and Ubbe, taking her time to play with them when Aslaug could not and Ragnar was too busy to. She would have known some remedy or another to soothe Ivar. 

He could have shown her his longhouse, the sketches he kept hidden away. She would have understood. Perhaps Athelstan could have shown Alethia the forests, climbed the cliffs surrounding the bay. He knew she would have liked to swim at the shores, to ride out into the lands surrounding Kattegat, to spend a few days doing nothing at all.

Perhaps he would have spent some of them kissing her. 

Absentmindedly, Athelstan held a hand out to Lagertha, helping her onto the docks. She only gave him another pitied smile.

“That girl has no idea what she was giving up.” She said quietly.

“I should have stayed.” Athelstan replied, voice thick. “She never would have… She is loyal, like you.”

“I left as well.” Lagertha reminded.

“That was different.”

“It was.” She nodded. “Perhaps your… perhaps she was simply afraid.”

“Then I should have given her courage!” Athelstan protested. He felt like a child, like he always did with Lagertha. 

“There will be another.”

Athelstan stayed quiet for a moment, anger making his skin burn. You know that is not true, Lagertha. You of all people.

He watched her leave, with her shieldmaidens, watched as the men carried the spoils of war to the great hall, watched the celebrations and numbly drank from his cup. Being a monk should have protected him from this. It was precisely why he had sworn a vow. So something like this would not happen.

Then again, when had his vow ever saved him from anything?

Athelstan was about to stand and leave when Aslaug sat down next to him, away from the music and the loud crowd. She gave him a rare smile.

“Princess.” Athelstan said quickly.

“Priest.” Aslaug mused, carefully adjusting Ivar in her arms. Athelstan had never told her how he admired her for her strength, for saving Ivar from the forest and the foxes. Alethia would have said that it was simply a mother’s love, and smiled at him for not understanding that kind of courage. Athelstan stayed quiet because he did not think it was his place.

“You are sad.” Aslaug observed. “About your woman.”

“How fast word spreads.”

“So it is true.” Aslaug replied. “I did not hear it from the mouth of Ragnar.”

“Who then?” Athelstan asked.

“The Gods. I dreamt of her, you know.” Aslaug told him. Athelstan paused, setting down his mead.

“Truly?”

“A girl in a dark forest.” Aslaug mused. “A shieldmaiden on a battlefield, surrounded by the dead. Her friends, her children, her lover. She is the storm, priest, and you the lone sailor. She deals in absolutes, in death and life. They are the only two things she can give. But you are willing to take both from her, aren’t you?”

The silence between them was uncomfortably quiet, but then, Aslaug laughed. “But since when do you believe in the Gods, priest?”

When it came to Alethia, Athelstan was ready to believe just about anything.

He only gave Aslaug a forced smile, and took another sip of his mead, until his world began to spin.

In the months to come, Aslaug was not the only one haunted by Alethia. Athelstan dreamt of her, the night he returned and many others.

It was always the same, even after more than half a year of his return, in the deepest of winters.

Athelstan opened his eyes to sunlight streaming through the cracks in the walls. It was warm, and specks of dust danced in the light. Gone were the heavy furs of winter, gone the cold. 

Summer had returned to Kattegat. He was not sure why he had not left with the others to raid, only that it was right he had remained.

He turned to his right, and there was his wife, still peacefully sleeping. Athelstan smiled, slipping out of bed quietly so that he would not wake her. From the longhouse, it was only a few steps to the shore of their hidden bay, where she loved to swim.

Athelstan had chosen the house for Alethia the day they’d returned to Kattegat together. He thought that she knew, the information hidden in her teasing smiles.

He prayed for her happiness that morning, just like every other, before he thanked God for his. 

The songbirds chirped, and somewhere in the distance, a rooster crowed. One of Alethia’s cats brushed by his legs, and Athelstan petted it absentmindedly. It purred, languishing in the rising sun and under his touch, and Athelstan picked it up, setting it down in his lap.

“You’re getting fat.” he mused under his breath, and the cat purred in agreement. “My wife is much too kind to you. You know what she said? She said that you are our health insurance, and that is why she spoils you so. Though I am not sure how you’ll hunt rats when all you do is beg for pets all day.”

Alethia had named the cat ‘Garfield’, a word which Athelstan could barely pronounce, but as the ginger tabby grew more and more spoilt, Alethia’s grin over its name grew wider and wider, which was reason enough for Athelstan to keep to the name.

Eventually, Athelstan returned to the longhouse, washing his hands before he slipped back under the covers.

Alethia complained in her sleep, but still rolled right into his arms. Automatically, his hands went to the small but growing bump on her stomach, and Athelstan smiled.

Right. That was why he’d stayed.

“Husband.” Alethia mumbled teasingly, sleep thickening her voice. “Can’t let your poor wife sleep, huh?”

“Do you wish to lounge in bed all day?” Athelstan asked in return. “You know my conscience does not allow it.”

“Workaholic.” Alethia replied, and Athelstan remembered precisely how she’d taught him the word when she’d first come to England. He knew those months as if they had been yesterday, even if, now, they were years behind.

Gently, he cupped her face, kissing her. Alethia returned the kiss with a fervor that still made Athelstan blush like a monk, languid and slow, throwing her leg over his waist and trying to get impossibly close to him.

“How is the little one?” he asked after a while.

“Wonderful, I’d say. Its mother however… she could use some care.” Alethia replied jokingly, and Athelstan pressed a few light kisses against her neck, to which Alethia giggled like a girl. His hands combed through her hair gently, scratching her scalp until Alethia was practically purring like their cat.

“Gyda will be complaining that she has to come back home. She likes sleeping over with Sigurd and Ivar far too much.” Alethia mumbled.

“Gyda also loves Garfield.” Athelstan reminded. “She is the reason the poor cat has to take baths.”

“One day, she’ll realise that cats don’t like water.” Alethia laughed, and Athelstan joined her. The thought of their daughter reminded him that there were reasons to get out of bed after all.

He threw the covers back, starting to get dressed. Alethia was still in bed, eyes closed and hair splayed out like a halo. A small smile was playing on her lips. Athelstan turned his back, washing his hands again before he grabbed his jacket from the cabinet.

Suddenly, Alethia caught his wrist.

“What is-” Athelstan began.

“You left me behind.” Alethia said, eyes filling with tears. “You left me behind!”

“I know. I’m sorry. God, Alethia, my love, I am so sorry.”

“Find me. Swear you’ll find me!”

Athelstan nodded, pulling her into his arms. She smelled of lavender and soap, and a hint of rain, like always, but to his horror, the smell was already beginning to fade. He held her tighter, as if that would stop her from disappearing. She was slipping through his fingers. He needed to- 

“Find me.” Alethia whispered. “Find me, or all your sins will have been for nothing.”

Athelstan awoke with a start, a pounding headache beginning to drill his head, and the screams of Ivar doing nothing to soothe the pain. His heart was pounding in his chest, as if he had just come out of battle, and his mouth was so dry he swore ha hadn’t had anything to drink in months.

With a groan, Athelstan pulled himself up from the edge of the table in search of water. Not long after he found it, Ragnar found him, staring at Athelstan with a smirk so amused that Athelstan would have liked to wipe it off of him very much.

“What?” Athelstan groaned, his world still spinning a little. Foggily, he began to remember that Torstein had challenged him to a drinking game and Athelstan had, for unknown reasons, accepted.

“You look like one of us.”

“Like a Viking?”

“Like a lovesick, hungover fool.”

“I am not lovesick, nor am I hungover.” Athelstan lied.

“The headache will pass,” Ragnar observed in that acutely unnerving manner he possessed. “The ailment of your heart will not.”

Little shit.

“Thank you, Ragnar. Helpful, as always.” Athelstan chewed out, and he swore his jaw clicked each time he spoke. 

“Come, we must train.” Ragnar said, and Athelstan let out a groan louder than he had intended.

“Do you not want to?” Ragnar asked.

“It is cold.” Athelstan pointed out.

“Ah, yes, the cold. But how else are you going to steal your bride in the coming summer?” Ragnar prodded. Athelstan could only stare blankly, before a somewhat smart thought came to mind.

“She’s not a woman that can be stolen.” Athelstan replied rather quietly, and he knew that it was true. For one, he could not steal Alethia because she was simply more skilled than him. And then, Athelstan knew that it was gentleness and love which she craved, not strength. Ragnar would not understand, for it had been the reason he had lost Lagertha.

“Then let us hope she does not loosen a bear on you.” Ragnar replied, clapping Athelstan on the back. Still, Ragnar dragged him into the cold. Athelstan heard Ivar wail again, the feeling that Ragnar was leaving the hall because of his child creeping up on him uncomfortably. Athelstan promised himself that he would help Ivar with his pains when he returned to the Great Hall.

Surely there was something Alethia had once mentioned in passign that could help. Were she here, she would have tried.

Alethia

Eadith’s labor began during a blizzard so terrible that one of the grain stores had broken under the pressure of the snow and wind. Still, Alethia had pulled herself from the humble abode she shared with a few other unmarried women and dragged herself through half the village, until, finally, a panting Heahmund raised his fist to knock on the door next to her.

It was Finnian who ripped open the door, face pale and hands shaking with fear. Eadith’s  groans of pains were to be heard from the background, and Alethia pushed her meagre supplies into Finnian’s hands.

Women squat in fucking fields to have babies and survive. she told herself, but it was a sorry excuse for not having the right medicine for Eadith. It was the middle of winter, and yet, Alethia could not help but feel that she had not done enough.

“Eadith?” Alethia asked, crossing the room. Heahmund was pressed against the door uncomfortably, but Alethia had no time to take care of a soldier uncomfortable with life. 

There was a groan from the back end of the house, where Eadith had lied down. Alethia pushed past a nervous, fidgeting Finnian, dropping her things at Eadith’s side.

“Breathe.” Alethia huffed, and Eadith nodded, vigorously trying to follow her advice through the pain. Alethia waved over Finnian, who stepped towards his wife gingerly.

“Hold her hand.” Alethia said.

Finnian paused. “It is not-“

“What? Common? Who cares, get over here and comfort your wife for Christ’s sake.” Alethia replied, cutting him off. Finnian hesitantly looked over to Heahmund, before he seemingly made a choice and sat on Eadith’s other side, grabbing her hand gently. 

“Am I alright?” Eadith asked nervously. A sheen layer of sweet covered her forehead, and she was somewhat pale, but other than that…

“What do you think?” Alethia replied gently, shuffling through her supplies and pulling out a small piece of leather.

“Well, it hurts but…” Eadith groaned. “God, it hurts so much.”

“I know. Well, there’s a baby wanting to come into the world, so it will hurt, but I promise you, you are doing just fine. Amazingly, for a woman whose contractions are so close together.” Alethia assured.

“How many babies have you delivered, Hagar?” Eadith asked.

“Many.” Alethia lied smoothly, and that seemed to soothe Eadith’s nerves. Truth was, Alethia was the only one who came close to knowing how to help Eadith, apart from the older women in the village.

Alethia turned to Heahmund. “Go get Ethelfleda.” She snapped, referring to Eadith’s aunt, and the woman with the most children in the village. Carefully, she helped Eadith lean back, before she checked for dilation.

“You’re doing good.” Alethia assured, and Eadith nodded, her face red as she concentrated on her breathing. Alethia took her hand almost automatically. Eadith was barely a year younger than her, and yet, they were immature in such different ways.

Alethia wished she could take her pain away. Eadith did not deserve it, not when she was so good, so kind. But, Alethia supposed, this was part of what Eadith wanted. She shuddered at the thought of going through it herself.

Almost, she would have had to.

Ethelfleda burst into the house with a sharp gust of cold wind, snow still dancing outside. Heahmund pressed himself back into the wall by the entrance, but to his credit, the young priest stayed. 

Alethia moved to make space for Ethelfleda, who gave her an acknowledging nod. The older woman’s look at Alethia’s supplies told her that they were satisfactory.

Like Alethia, Ethelfleda checked for dilation, before she helped Eadith count her contractions.

“You need to push.” Ethelfleda finally announced, and Alethia swallowed her fear. Eadith was going to be alright.

“Here.” Alethia said, offering Eadith a helping hand while Ethelfleda went through her supplies, pushing a thick band of leather into Eadith’s mouth. It was meant to keep men from biting off their tongues during amputations, but Alethia supposed it would suffice.

She let Eadith squeeze her wrist until Alethia was sure there was no blood left, and prayed, prayed to the God Eadith believed in that she would stay alive.

Hours later, the child was finally there. Alethia smiled at Eadith, then Ethelfleda, who did not return the expression, instead focusing on Eadith.

“There is another. You have to push again.” Ethelfleda told Eadith.

“I can’t.” Eadith cried, tear-tracks on her face, hair stuck to her skin in exhaustion.

“You have to.” Alethia said, taking the baby from Ethelfleda’s arms. She gave it to Eadith, who smiled.

“A boy.” She whispered, her face lighting up. Alethia let her bask in the moment for a few seconds, before she forced her out of it again.

“There is another.” She said, echoing Ethelfleda. Eadith shook her head.

“I’m so tired.”

“I know.” Alethia said. Carefully, she took the boy out of Eadith’s hands, who tried to struggle against Alethia. Alethia handed Finnian the baby, helping him hold his son for the first time. There was a beaming look of pride on Finnian’s face as he held the baby, unable to say anything.

Alethia’s heart ached.

She returned to Eadith’s side.

“Listen to me. I know you’re tired, Eadith, but you have to fight that now. There is another baby, just as beautiful as your son. You have to push.”

“I’ll die. It hurts so much.” Eadith replied, her hands struggling to hold onto Alethia.

“God is good. You’ll live, so will your son.” Alethia said.

“What else is there?” Eadith whispered. “If there is only God, I am still afraid. He is a man, and I am not.”

“We are women, and this is your battlefield.” Alethia replied. “Behind you, there is an army. All of them have survived what you survived. They are your sisters, your mothers, your daughters. In front of you is the darkness. Do you see it, Eadith?”

“Yes.” Eadith pressed out.

“Does it scare you?”

“Like nothing else.”

“Good. You must face that now. Go through the darkness, and come out on the other side. Fight. We are all here for you.” Alethia told her. To her right, Ethelfleda smiled up at Eadith, before squeezing her ankle in encouragement. Eadith seemed to consider Alethia’s words for a moment, before she nodded.

“Alright.” She said. 

“Push.” Ethelfleda encouraged again, and in that moment, Alethia knew she could have commanded an army. It was enough to give Eadith strength.

The second child came more quickly, and again, Alethia handed him to Eadith.

“Two sons!” Eadith exclaimed happily as both of them lied in her arms. She was pale, but as Alethia checked her again, she was not bleeding profusely, nor were there any worrying tears.

“She’s alright. Healthy.” Ethelfleda said, relieved. “She deserves it.”

It is not about deserving. Alethia thought to herself, but she only nodded.

“What shall we name them?” Finnian asked Eadith.

“Jon.” Alethia blurted out before she could stop herself. 

Eadith smiled. “John and Godwin.” She whispered. Heahmund, who had stayed closeby for the entire process stepped closer, quickly christening the children.

It was winter, and from the way Ethelfleda’s lips pressed together, Alethia knew the older woman did not think the two boys would make it very far.

…

By Easter, both boys were alive. Alethia helped Eadith where she could, when she did not attend to Baldwin’s bad leg or Clothilda, the little girl that was slowly losing her vision. Ethelfleda thought that she would die, too, but Alethia refused to accept that.

Her days were spent between Eadith’s house, and Clothilda’s, where she tried her best to find something the girl could do blind. She knew trying to have her work in the fields would only end in futility, and so would most of the other menial tasks in the village.

Which was how Alethia found herself speaking with Heahmund.

She had avoided the priest for a reason. He was unnerving, dangerous, and Alethia thought that he knew she did not truly believe in God.

“A nunnery?” Heahmund asked, his brows drawing together.

“Somewhere in the country where she’ll be safe from the Mercian war and the raids of the Northmen. Clothilda will never be able to work a field or herd sheep or know her way around cows properly. For all her life, the people around her will have to help her to find things, make sure she will not injure herself. What if a famine befalls the land? She’ll be the first they set out.” Alethia replied. 

“Is that what you think?”

“She is the oldest of five, but she is a girl. Her father sees her as a burden. But, Clothilda is a smart girl. She’s seven years old and understands far more of the world than her peers. In a nunnery, she could find her place. You know it, and you could find her a new home.”

“What do her parents think of it?” Heahmund asked, sharpening the blade of his sword carefully.

“I have not asked them.” Alethia admitted. “I have only spoken to Clothilda.”

“I see what you do here.” Heahmund replied.

“And what is that?”

“You try to save everyone. God will save us all, you do know that, right?” 

“At some point, yes.” Alethia replied rather dryly. “But he’s a little busy right now. So many poor Mercian souls.”

A smile tugged at Heahmund’s mouth as he heard her joke. Then, he regained control. 

“I shall consider your words.” He promised.

“Good.”

“In return, you have to teach me.”

“Teach you what?” Alethia asked.

“That which you have kept from us. I know you have secrets. I would like to know whatever you are hiding. Did your late husband gift you that pretty knife of yours, or did you steal that yourself?”

“Are you calling me a thief?” Alethia snapped.

“Only a liar.” Heahmund replied calmly. He was right, Alethia knew that, but she could not admit it plainly.

“I’ll teach you.” She promised.

“Good. We will begin after Easter.” Heahmund said. “Good day, Hagar.”

Her late husband. She thought.

Jon. Athelstan.

One was her true late husband, the other a man she had lied to and about.

Alethia felt the guilt creep in like the cold, slowly but no less uncomfortable. It was then that she was forced to think about just how evilly she’d betrayed Jon. How long had it been after he died? Half a year? A year, perhaps? She’d already moved on, had not even forced herself to mourn. 

She shook her head. No, she had mourned. She thought she still did. Jon was gone and Athelstan… he would not believed it had she told him, but he was easy to fall in love with. He was in Kattegat now, where he was free of Ecbert and the guilt of his God that haunted him here. Alethia hoped he was happy there. A part of her hoped that he would fall in love with some other woman, one that could love him as he deserved, and not one that was torn between people, times and worlds. 

But it would have been wrong to tell herself that she did not hope he would come back. Of course she did. Eadith, Clothilda, Finnian, even Ethelfleda, they were all a sort of family here. These people in the village, they had taken her in, as the widow of a good Christian man. 

Alethia had told them that she would leave, time and time again. None of them were thinking about that now. They were relying on her, with their aches and pains and bad legs and sore throats, and none of them were thinking about her leaving. Summer would come in a few months, and Alethia would go South. Her hair had grown back, her shoulder had healed, her scars had become more stark against her tan skin. She knew she looked even older than she had before.

Ecbert would recognize her if she shaved her head and disfigured her mouth. So would Athelstan. There was no use. Alethia knew she had to return to the villa, to Wessex, if she wanted to find the Northmen. 

She loved the people in this village, there was no doubting that. But this was not her place. Alethia was meant for something bigger, and she did not think that because she was confident in her ability of fulfilling fate, but because she had been thrown around in some multiversal chaos she never otherwise would have believed in. 

Alethia twirled her knife in her hands, looking back to where Heahmund had been. From the edge of the village, she could see Eadith and Finnian walking towards the fountain, and Ethelfleda guiding her children towards the church. The bells rung, and Alethia drew up her shoulders.

It was time for Easter mass.

***

Singapore was loud, hot and humid, the air heavy enough that if you came back home from holiday, you could have told you were home the moment you stepped into the airport. There was something about Alethia’s home that made it distinguishable from the rest of the world, a smell that told her just where she was.

But God, Singapore was busy as well. Alethia had gotten stuck somewhere near Orchard, on a Saturday, in a mall, and she swore that there were so many people she could barely breathe, let alone move. From the food court behind her, the smell of food made her stomach rumble, and yet, Alethia turned away, towards the escalators rolling into oblivion.

Now that she looked at them, they were kind of silly. Who came up with something like that? 

Regardless, Alethia stepped onto the moving stairs, letting them transport her up until she made it to the next level.  There’s a french café to her right. 

‘Paul’s’, Alethia thought, the name dim in the back of her mind. ‘The place is called Paul’s. I used to go there with my mom. She bought me one of those overpriced croissants, but at least they were crispy like they’re supposed to be, and not soggy and full of grease. Once, I got a nutella crepe. 

Alethia wasn’t sure why there was a lump in her throat. She just kept walking, and the brown logo over the doorway faded away. A few more turns, another hallway, and then, she stepped outside.

The street was buzzing, and Alethia was quick to cross it at a traffic light. A taxi driver stopped for her at the second road, and she raised her hand in a quick ‘thank you’ gesture. By the time she stood before the gates of the Botanical Gardens, sweat beaded her forehead.

Alethia plucked at the coat she was wearing. Why a coat? This was Singapore, not some cold, icy hellscape like the Wall, or, God forbid, Wessex in the winter.

She made a few more steps before she froze. Wessex. Singapore. The Wall. Alethia looked back up, and with a panic, she realized that the smell of home was gone. The heat was still there, and so was the greenery so typical to Botanical Gardens, but something wasn’t…

“Alethia?”

She turned around, and there stood Athelstan.

…right.

“Athelstan.” she breathed out. Each step she took towards him, the scenery changed. 

Athelstan was gone again, but Alethia stood in front of a church, and she knew who waited inside. Behind her, there was a hearttree, the weeping face of an Old God carved into its bark.

The choice was simple. The Old Gods, or God. The North or Earth. Jon or Athelstan.

But the Hearttree was dying, it was so simple to see from the mold that climbed its roots. Sansa had turned out to be like that, and Jon was already dead. The church stood tall, and Athelstan was inside.

Alethia slipped into the cool dark. It was safe there, though the cross loomed from the altar.

“Child, why have you come here?” a voice asked. It belonged to Athelstan. 

“I am not a child.”

“You are. A sweet summer child, a crone beyond her years.” Athelstan replied.

“I have come to… I have come to make a choice.”

“What choice?”

“I choose you, Athelstan. I am sorry.” Alethia whispered. Her words floated through the cool air, delicate whisps of nothing. The wind washed them away, and Alethia knew that they were meaningless. Athelstan wasn’t really there. There was nothing to truly confess.

Alethia walked towards the altar, too impatient to wait for Athelstan to appear. 

“I am here.” Athelstan said, and Alethia turned. There he was, right in the first row, dressed in the robe of a priest with pious, folded hands. Even from where she stood, Alethia could see the scars of his crucifixion.

She touched his hands gently, like always. “I choose you.” she repeated, and Athelstan smiled.

“I knew you would.”

“You’re not real.”

“Then I am you.” Athelstan said. “Which means you always knew your answer, too.”

[fantasybewritten]

Fandoms and Characters I write for:

The Vampire Diaries/The Originals

Mira Salvatore (OC)

Klaus Mikaelson

Elijah Mikaelson

Kol Mikaelson

Davina Claire

Stefan Salvatore

Damon Salvatore

Caroline Forbes

Enzo St. James

Bonnie Bennett

The Borgias

Cesare Borgia

Juan Borgia

Lucrezia Borgia

Maddalena de Medici (OC)

The Medici

Clarice Orsini

Lorenzo the Magnificent

Giuliano de Medici

Cosimo de Medici

Contessina de Bardi

Francesco Pazzi

Cursed

Nimue

The Weeping Monk

Arthur

Petra (OC)

Gawain

Fear The Walking Dead

Laurel Hall (OC)

Serena Otto

House of the Dragon

Rhaenyra Targaryen

Dameon Targaryen

Helaena Targaryen

Alicent Hightower

Laena Velaryon

Jacaerys Velaryon

The Last Kingdom

Sihtric

Finan

Osferth

Petra (OC)

Uhtred

Brida

Ragnar

Skade

Aethelflaed

Gisela

Vikings

Idrin (OC)

Ubbe Ragnarsson

Hvitserk Ragnarsson

Ivar Ragnarsson

Princess Snaefrid

Thorunn

Bjorn Ironside

Lagertha

Margarthe

[melodicwitchlight]

arcaneprophesied ☀️ ivar the boneless :

During the entire 'transaction', Ivar watched the expressions on Athena’s face. The fear and distrust pulled a smile from the crippled king, who was known for his bouts of cruelty and unchecked anger. He wonders which stories have made their way to the Vestmenn - the Irish - which tales of battle have they heard? Or perhaps some version of Sigurd's death floats in their mind now.

When the deal is struck and the woman leaves, Ivar looks to Athena with a smirk. Boneless doesn't know the Celtic language spoken by the Vestmenn, though he knows English and his morsmål- given that the deal had been finalized in English, he wonders if Athena knows any Norsk. "Sitte," comes Ivar's command, gesturing to a seat nearby. "Snakker du Norsk?" He asks and before even gaining a response, he continues. "Mitt navn er Ivar den Beinløse og Jeg er din nye konge."

“If you do not speak our tongue, you will learn,” he warns.

she is in the village, finding herself by the seashore where she had seen the waves in. where am i? she thinks. as water is trickling through her face, as she touches her skin.

as she wanders, her feet digging into the grains of sand ( as she had no shoes or slippers ), she sees the houses, thatched straw roofs ( wheat for chocolate biscuits ). she nodded in thought, closing her eyes briefly and sighing in tiredness ; an inclination of nervous tick.

she then sees a boy, pensive and looking through a book. he had found her bible, fluttering away to wind, and he grasped the delicate crumbling object, so as to not lose it to thor. he was looking for answers, amidst his drug haze. he said his name was hvitserk during their conversation, she noting he looked ill or suffering tremendously, and saying ‘ please take care of your health ‘ ; a sirach passage.

as athena entered the house, a man is talking to a person called baldur who said he was a norse god and they had discussed business of trade. baldur had on a black suit with white buttoned blouse. he himself, of course was one. as encouraged by freydis, when he had thought he was a crippled monster. she sits next to him on her own throne, blond braided hair and wearing a dress. she was very beautiful, he and her attending ballroom dances. he had once seen a blonde male there looking out the window, with blood dripping down his chin -- or was it wine?

after business concluded with baldur, ivar looked at the next person in line. she says, ‘ hi, earl ragnarsson,‘ to him and bowing in respect. she is holding her bible ; hearing him say he worshiped norse religion to baldur. she remembered deutoronomy had abhorred norse, there being a passage where thiago demolished karou and akiva’s pagan shrine.

she starts to say a starting passage from it, ‘ when you cross the jordan to search and occupy mount gerizim and e’bal, you shall bless it….’ as she is used to reading the bible, and it weaving in conversations with others.

ivar had gestured for her to continue, she beginning to say something about adventure, as he liked stories, interested in what people had to say, his mother aslaug spoke stories to sing he and his brothers to sleep. intrigue in his blue eyes, as he leaned on forward in chair. she was an newcomer to kattegat, he thought, as he hadn’t seen her before. she was likely a foreigner from the far isles, as there was a fishing dock nearby.

yet she realised during, ‘ you must demolish completely all the places, search out and destroy that do not serve our god…’ he looked quite scary and remembering she was in pagan land, and paused. she is quiet and blinked nervously. in the monastery, father cuthbert had been quite mean when he was performing her monk duties, when she was a male. he did not even listen to her, she working to the bone, and he saying, ‘ sit down or shut up. ‘ ivar’s expression slowly changes to one of suspicion, during this time, wondering who or what she was saying and planning of demolishing, and he glares.

her eyes widen at hearing him say he owned her, at her silence, ‘ perhaps you are to be a thrall since you have lost your tongue, ‘ and she is startled. she didn’t want to continue on the passage, as he might kill her!

he is angry she wasn’t responding after a long time ( perhaps she is an enemy ), as she looked like she was judging him. he recalled killing when he was a child with his little axe, the other children teasing him. and his mother aslaug had soothed him, saying it’s all okay. he had many angry rages, yet thinking he may endure being boneless, despite the mocking words around him that he was not a man. he had endured much. he slides down from the chair ; the coils of a snake 🐍 slithering to the ground and held his crutches next to him to calmly walk to her. ‘ you must surrender to me!!’

she thinks he is about to strike her, slithering in for the kill, and shrieks, backing away. she wishes for a prince to carry her in her arms, not kill or harm her in any way.

‘ brother! ‘ hvitserk rushes to where ivar was, and says, ‘ let’s try to understand her strange runes. ‘ ivar stares at his brother, and says, ‘ alright, alright, ‘ he calms down, anger shadowing in his chest.

‘ this is my house. you must remember. so sit, ‘ he gestures to a seat across from him, gesturing at her hesitancy, and she sits down. he himself makes his way back to his throne, walking on his cane. ‘ do you speak norse? my name is ivar the boneless and I do not speak your tongue. I understand a little of what you say, from our travels to england. ‘ and there was sinric, the translator whom was not with them right now. ‘ yet why do you stop in your story, hmm? ‘ they could have found some way to continue communicating in the heart of all the noise and confusion. ‘ now, what were you saying of destroying? ‘

hvitserk gave her some bread, as she is shaking, she thanking him. he said, 'this is your house too, only yours.' he looking at her with his blue eyes, trying to see if she understood that. it was a french delicacy that they brought from france 🇫🇷 during their raid there ; brioche bread. as she chews, she thinks on what to say. she looks at where she left the story off in her bible. the fragrant incense of beauty calmed her a little, she looking briefly around her, and seeing ivar was seated next to her, with no more indication of real insidious intention nor that her speaking in the bible didn’t make god strike her when she stood. ‘ I wasn’t thinking of destroying anything. it is a passage from my bible, ‘ as she holds her bible tightly, yet in unison of the pages in beautiful calming thought.

[niishiki]

@youbloodymadgenius

@apenas-mais-uma-pessoa​

[castielsangelsx]

Oh My (Ivar x Christian!Reader)

A.N: done for @maggiescarborough​‘s follower celebration writing challenge!! Hope its okay, just getting back into the gears of writing. following the prompt: character gets hurt

Summary: despite your tense arranged relationship with Ivar, his injury did not prevent you from showing affection which even brings you two closer. 

-------------------------------

It all was a rush. With anxious sweaty palms, you stood by the calamity as the raid just outside the hall threatened your safety. You stood amongst the other Viking women who tended to the wounded and cared for the shield maiden’s children as they fought for Kattegat.

You rarely had the chance in England to work in the ways of war. Yet, your title as Queen of Kattegat pushed you headfirst in the battle. There was no time for hesitation as you continued to press into the wound of a Viking, whose beard was stained with blood. Which was becoming an all too familiar sight.

The cheers of victory soon rang through the hall and onto the relieved expressions of the women around you. It was a mutual appreciation for peace that meant we had won. With a thankful smile, the anxiety and worry you had for your husband grew. Rubbing your bloody hands onto your dress before getting up off the floor. The man clutched his arm and gave you a thankful but hesitant smile and nod as you got up off the floor from your kneeling position.

Your marriage is but only a few months old, which meant the romance you had expected to have grow was all but a nightly dream. But that didn't cause you to worry any less, as he was still the man who ensured your safety and place by his side.

"Has Ivar returned?" You asked one of the thralls who attended a man whose chest required stitches. She shook her head, but before she could even answer you, Hvitserk appears at the doorway, grasping onto Ivar, as Ivar's arm is latched on him for support. You rush over to him in pure worry and concern, noticing the giant gash running from his cheek to the side of his mouth, his left eye bloodshot, and a large bloodstain at his stomach. Which you assumed was not his own blood.

"Oh my." He almost looks ashamed. The gash looked painful, and that's all you could think about. How much he was in pain. You grab onto the other side of Ivar to support him. Ivar lets you help him, but he doesn't say anything to you.

"Help me take him to our quarters," you instruct Hvitserk. Hvitserk does so without question. Noticing the exhaustion on Hvitserks frame, you assist him onto your shared bed before you smile at Hvitserk warmly. "Thank you." You grab onto his elbow and nod. "Go rest," Hvitserk does as you say and gives you a smile before he heads off. Thralls rush in with bowls of warm water and cloth, herbal smells begin to emanate in the room.

"Are you in pain, Ivar?" You ask, examining his face closer. He doesn't say anything to you. You ignore it and don't let it affect your feeling of concern. Rinsing the cloth with the herbal water, you use your free hand to softly hold his chin as you dab the cloth softly onto the scar. He flinches and hisses, almost pushing you away in the process.

"Ivar, it's okay, let me clean it, please? It will get infected if I do not clean it."

Continuing to dab at his face, wiping away the blood, Ivar let you willingly clean the wound.

"You were very brave Ivar, I am very proud. You managed to defend Kattegat from an attack without warning." Ivar looks you in the eyes, almost with a shocked expression. You smile warmly, your faces being so close to one another you feel his warm breath fan against the side of your face. You were relieved. This sudden appreciation for your husband grew.

"You think so?" He asks. His body shifts forward slightly as you continue to clean his nose from any blood. You nod enthusiastically in response. "I think so, and besides, after this, you'll be able to threaten and scare off more Christian monks with the clean scar." You smile widely, and the corner of his mouth lifts up in amusement.

"Do I scare you?" His question shocked you, but you shake your head. "No, Ivar." He nods, but you continue, "not anymore." The water was a milky red, and noticing the further stains of blood on his jaw, you attempt to call for more thralls, but Ivar grasps your hand before you could walk away. He holds your hand in his own, and you look to him with wide eyes.

"Ivar."

VIKINGS TAGLIST: @youbloodymadgenius @gruffle1​ @pomegranates-and-blood​

[peaceisadirtyword]

Heathen III (Ivar/Edlynn)

A/N: Hello!♥️ Sorry for being inactive this week :( I posted an explanation yesterday but for some reason Tumblr flagged my post (?) but anyway: I got an scholarship to do a summer course on European Geopolitics at uni (not my uni tho) and I had to move to another town for some days. It’s an intensive so I have like three lectures every day and I get home very late😭 

This chapter is a bit long... Too long maybe (?) I hope y’all like it though🥺 I hope I'm not rushing things too much or ruining everything... Thank you for reading and enjoy it🥰

Btw if you have seen The Last Kingdom maybe you’ll recognize one of the scenes in this chapter👀

Warnings: mentions of nudity, violence, Ivar, they’re vikings, my writing :(

Words: 4748 (I'm so sorry)

Heathen Masterlist 

gif belongs to @therealcalicali​

Ivar the Boneless wasn't as bad as Edlynn had thought. The only thing she knew about him was that he was a ruthless pagan, who killed people for pleasure, with no respect for God or for any christian. They said he killed children, some fearful people talked about how he ate the flesh of the ones he killed. The massacre he did in York was still too recent in the memory of her countrymen. But even if she had been living in his camp for days, Edlynn hadn't seen him do any terrible things everyone accused him of. 

Instead, she had seen a normal man, one that sat to drink, eat and laugh with his men, who studied maps and parchments he had stolen from the churches of the villages they had raided. She had seen him frowning at those parchments, staring at them in confusion and sometimes getting angry with them, so Edlynn realized he couldn't read latin. She wondered if the northmen could read or write at all, she had seen them carving those strange symbols, but never saw them writing or painting on parchments like the monks of the monasteries did. 

But she didn't dare ask either. 

During her long days being captive, and even if both Ivar and the blonde viking that was always with him -Edlynn thought they could be brothers-  could understand and speak her language, she refused to talk, and usually would just turn her back to them whenever they entered the tent. 

Edlynn only talked to the slave that came to bring her food and water and tend to the wounds she had. She had said she came from a land north of Northumbria, and her name was Brianna. It was comforting to have someone around who wasn't a viking.

Ivar came to see her every day, and sometimes Hvitserk would accompany him. Both seemed to find amusing how she'd look away and turn her back at them whenever they entered the tent. Then they'd snicker and laugh when she ignored their questions. 

It made Edlynn mad. Ivar seemed interested on Alfred, on how many men he had at the camp, his plans, his weaknesses... But she wasn't going to say a thing. 

Sometimes he'd let her take a walk around the camp, followed by at least five guards and with her wrists tied together. She'd look around then, trying to remember the possible ways out of the camp, and every time her heart would sink when she realized there were too many guards, and a saxon girl with a ripped dress trying to sneak out would catch everyone's attention. 

Her only hope now was that king Alfred agreed to negotiate. 

That day Edlynn was feeling particularly restless. The guards were busy and she wasn't allowed to go on a walk. She had spent the entire morning pacing around the tent, trying to find something to entertain herself before her own mind started imagining what would happen if the king decided to reject Ivar's demands. Those heathens didn't look as scary as the stories portrayed them, but they were still intimidating. 

When Ivar entered the tent, after Brianna brought Edlynn's food, she looked surprised. Usually, Ivar wouldn't visit her until the sunset, when he had finished his meetings with King Harald and his obligations around the camp as the strategist, just before he'd go to eat some dinner and retire to his tent, rest his legs. 

That morning, though, King Harald had gone hunting with some of his men, and as Hvitserk was busy training, Ivar found himself all alone, bored and not wanting to keep trying to understand those stupid rolls he had stolen from a church. So he went to do what he liked the most; to torment the christian girl who shrank involuntarily whenever he was close. 

Edlynn widened her eyes when she saw him entering. He was early, and she wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing, but suddenly she wasn't feeling that hungry anymore. She pushed the plate away, tensing up. 

Ivar smirked, bowing his head mockingly and making her frown. 

"Good morning, princess" he seemed satisfied with her reaction "I hope you slept well" 

Edlynn turned her head to look away. She didn't have enough courage to stand up to him, so tried to ignore every single comment of his, even that dark chuckle that made her shudder. 

"I'm going to send a messenger today" Ivar leant against the table, looking at her with his head tilted "To your king and your family"

His words made Edlynn raise her head. Ivar hummed. 

"I have two options" he shrugged "I can either tell them you're fine, unharmed, warm in your own tent and eating twice a day, which is the truth" his heavy accent made it harder for Edlynn to understand him clearly "Or I can tell them you're in my own tent, warming my bed and only eating my leftovers... It's your choice"

Edlynn blinked, confused. Her choice? She didn't even understand why he would lie like that.

"Why?"

It was the first time in days she spoke. Ivar smirked again, it was like he knew exactly what to do and say to startle her. 

"How's your... Personal relationship with the king?" he raised an eyebrow, his piercing blue eyes seemed to read her thoughts. 

"I beg your pardon?" Edlynn blinked a couple of times. Was he... Was he implying what she thought he was implying?

"You said you're close to the king" a smirk danced on Ivar's lips, as Edlynn blushed furiously but tried to calm down "How close, exactly? You'd be of much greater help if you were the king's... Concubine" he hesitated a bit, trying to find the correct word. 

"I..." she was lost at words. Never in her life had anyone insulted her in that way "I'm not" she took a deep breath "King Alfred and I grew up together, and my father is close to him as he was close to his grandfather, but nothing else" she glared at him "I never had... Inappropriate contact with the king" 

Ivar sighed, nodding his head with a mocking pout on his lips.

"A pity"

Edlynn glared at him. Does this heathen not have any manners? It was obvious he enjoyed taunting her, he seemed to be having the time of his life, amused by how she looked horrified at what he was implying. The saxons were funny to deal with, Ivar still remembered how Heahmund reacted whenever he talked about his religion or his God, almost like Ivar had just murdered his entire family in front of him. Edlynn was even better, as he was sure she hadn't had that much contact with a man that wasn't from her family in her life. 

"Well, then" Ivar stood up, startling her "I will tell you when my messenger comes back, princess" he bowed his head "I hope they treat him well and that we can reach an... Agreement over you, because if we don't..." he raised an eyebrow and Edlynn felt her blood run cold when his lips curved on a devious smile "If I were you, I'd pray to your God"

Ivar had no interest on killing her, because he was almost sure that she'd be enough to negotiate, he knew Alfred and that was his weakness. 

As soon as he turned around, ready to leave the tent, Edlynn stood up from her seat, her fingers fiddling with her ripped dress nervously as she cleared her throat. Ivar stopped then, and with an annoyed roll of his pretty eyes, turned around again to face her. 

"Can I ask for something?" Edlynn tried to sound as brave as she could. Ivar had to admit he didn't expect that, and he tilted his head with curiosity as his eyes fixed on hers. She had pretty eyes, warm and soft... Too soft, in his opinion, but different from what he was used to see, from the blue and green shades that were more common in Kattegat "I would like to have a bath"

Ivar was confused. He knew for a fact that she had asked to bathe a couple of times, and he remembered Hvitserk and Harald laughed at that, saying that maybe she had asked because she wanted him to join her in a bathtub. He nearly rolled his eyes at the memory. 

"Fine, I'll tell the slaves to prepare you..."

"No" Edlynn interrupted him "I would prefer to bathe in the river" she bit her lip, her eyes almost pleading "If I'm not mistaken, it's near the camp, down the..."

"I know where the river is" Ivar interrupted her again, clenching his jaw "Do you take me for a fool, princess?" his mocking stare had turned into an annoyed glare that Edlynn didn't like at all "Do you think I'd send you all alone with a slave all the way down to the river so you can escape, huh?" 

"I... Didn't think you'd let me go all alone" she frowned "I'm fine with you sending some guards to... Make sure I won't escape" 

Ivar opened his mouth to tell her to stop whining and bothering him when she interrupted him again. She had widened her eyes a bit and her pouty lips were nearly trembling. 

"Please, I... I've been inside this tent for days, I only went out to walk around the camp and I would just like to bathe in the river once and change these clothes" Edlynn looked at her destroyed dress, sighing "I promise I won't try to escape, I will not ask for anything else ever again, I promise" 

Ivar looked away when he felt his expression soften. At first, he was determined to say no, she was a prisoner, his prisoner, and he wouldn't prescind of men in the middle of a war to make her feel more comfortable. But then again, she hadn't really asked for anything since they caught her, and had been calm and obedient, even if she refused to answer his questions. 

"Fine" he said with a shrug "Tomorrow morning, I'll go with you, and also another five men, if you try anything stupid, princess, you know what will happen, don't you?" Ivar raised an eyebrow, his free hand touched the dagger he carried on his belt, the one Edlynn remembered very well, as she could still feel the cold, sharp edge against the skin of her neck. 

She nodded quickly, the relief softening her expression. Ivar looked at her up and down again before turning around and leaving the tent, trying to ignore the quiet 'thank you' she muttered and the urge to smile he felt when he heard it. 

______________________________________________

Hvitserk knew his brother too well. He could say, with pride, that he was probably the person who understood him the most. It had taken him years, but finally he managed to learn how to understand Ivar. Sometimes, he would have loved to sink a knife into his chest, but then, when he had had the opportunity to end his life, avenge Sigurd, Thora, Margrethe... Everyone who had suffered under Ivar's tyranny, he couldn't do it. He was his little brother, the same kid he played with on the streets of Kattegat, the one that laughed sitting on that small cart Floki made for him as Ubbe and Hvitserk pulled it, screaming 'faster, faster!'. Until they'd reach the Great Hall, where their mother would scold them for pulling Ivar's cart too fast, and they'd promise they would go slower the next day, even if they never did. 

The same child that some days couldn't even get out of bed, the one he sat next to the entire day whenever Ubbe said, with a worried face, that Ivar had very blue eyes that day. Ivar would stay quiet then, with tears rolling down his face, sometimes crying out loud when the medicines stopped working, only calmed down by the sound of music Sigurd played on the Hall or by the stories about the Gods Floki told them out loud. Hvitserk would sometimes stay the entire night with him too, letting his brother squeeze his hand whenever he was in too much pain. 

'Not today, Ivar' he used to say, with a frown, whenever the healer left the room. He didn't like to see the pain and the fear on his eyes, how his lower lip trembled. Sometimes he got angry at the Gods, not understanding why they put his little brother through that. 

So that day in Kiev, when he had had the chance to end Ivar's life after so much pain and suffering, he saw his little brother in pain, he remembered how he had welcomed him back after his betrayal, when even Ubbe, the brother he had always loved the most, had turned his back to him. He had forgiven Ivar, knowing he had also lost everything, and even if they never talked about it, the both of them made peace with each other. Since then, they were inseparable, Hvitserk noticed how much Ivar had changed, he could barely recognize his own brother sometimes, but he was more mature now, he had learnt to use his own strengths in his favor, now it was easier to be with him. But still, he was the same Ivar that played with him. 

He had seen Ivar staring at the saxon girl they had caught, he had seen his expression the first time he saw her, and noticed how he changed the topic whenever someone commented on her looks. He lost focus anytime she wandered around the camp, followed by a few men and with her wrists tied, and he went to see her everyday. Hvitserk didn't say anything, but recognized that look in his brother's eyes. 

Now he waited next to the entrance to her tent. Ivar had arranged for her to bathe in the river, and Hvitserk agreed to go with him and some other men to make sure she didn't escape. Besides, he had made sure to bring clean clothes for her, some dresses they had found between the things they stole from one of the saxon villages. Would Ivar have done the same for any other prisoner? Hvitserk wouldn't say it out loud, but he doubted it. 

When Edlynn stepped out of the tent, she blushed deeply. She was excited to get away from that horrible camp for a while, maybe when she felt the cold water around her she would be able to forget that nightmare even if it was just a few moments. She could pretend she was just going to the river with Mildrith. 

But the idea of being naked in front of all those men didn't sound as appealing. 

"Are you ready, princess?" Ivar sounded annoyed, but Hvitserk had seen him raise his head quickly when he heard her stepping out of the tent. Edlynn didn't even have time to nod when Ivar started walking. 

She followed him shyly, the slave going after her with the clean dresses on her arms. Hvitserk winked at them and walked by their side, holding back a laugh when he felt Edlynn tense and look at him a bit wary. 

Ivar must admit, the river looked quite nice. The weak sunlight managed to get through the tall trees and reach the riverside. He watched Edlynn as she approached the water with the slave next to her, her face had lightened up when she realized she could leave the men's side. Then she hesitated, looking at Brianna next to her and then to the group of men watching her movements quietly. Getting naked in front of men she didn't even know? She gulped, and asked God to forgive her. He'd understand, right?

Brianna stepped between her and the men, with a small smile on her lips, almost like she had read her mind. Edlynn smiled back at her, thankful, even if her thin body did little to hide her. But tried to ignore it and looked down to start unbuttoning the shredded dress. 

Ivar tried to look away, he tried as hard as he could, even turned around... Just to see five pairs of eyes focusing hungrily on the woman undressing next to the river. He could nearly hear their thoughts, and it disgusted him. 

"What are you looking at?" his voice sounded more annoyed than he intended. He cleared his throat when they turned to look at him "Haven't you seen a naked woman in your life?" he scowled "Turn around, she's a noble woman, show some respect" 

He knew it didn't make sense. Ivar himself had looked at women as they washed in Kattegat, when he was younger, most viking women didn't have a problem with being seen naked, and most men had done it. But for some reason it angered him to see them so focused on her, especially knowing she didn't feel comfortable with it. 

The men had obviously agreed to accompany them in hopes of looking at a naked woman. Even his brother Hvitserk didn't hide his interest, until Ivar barked the order to them. A few moments later, they had turned around, muttering something Ivar didn't hear nor cared about. 

Why do you even care?, he thought to himself, bothered by both the stares of the men and his own reaction. 

Edlynn only raised her head when the dress was completely unclasped. It fell down her body, and she gulped before turning to look at the group she had left behind, parting her lips in surprise when she saw they had turned around. Her eyes lingered on Ivar's strong back for a few moments before Brianna moved to help her into the water. 

Ivar turned his head slowly, convincing himself that he was only making sure she didn't try to do anything stupid, but licking his lips nervously when he saw the clothes on the ground. His eyes saw her legs then, and travelled up her body slowly, almost studying her. Her body didn't look as sculpted and muscular as the ones he was used to see, which usually belonged to shieldmaidens. It was softer, with more curves, but Ivar liked it. He liked the curve of her ass, her thighs, her waist... He knew Edlynn was beautiful, he wasn't blind, but now he realized she was even more beautiful than he thought. His heart started beating faster, and he barely blinked as she walked into the river slowly, enjoying the cold water around her. 

"Close that mouth, little brother" Hvitserk chuckled next to him, nudging him softly. Startled, Ivar cleared his throat and teared his eyes off of her, feeling his face burn as he looked away "What happened to the innocent, whiny christian?" 

Ivar glared at him, but his blushed cheeks made Hvitserk laugh even more. 

Edlynn could feel those intense eyes on her as she washed quickly. They felt warm and nearly burnt her back. Was Ivar looking at her? She had never had men looking at her in that way, and it felt... Not as shameful as she thought. After a quick glance over her shoulder, during which she saw his face turned to her, with his lips parted, Edlynn surprised herself arching her back softly, enjoying that strange feeling that warmed her body from the inside. Suddenly, she didn't feel nervous and ashamed... And would give anything to know what was going through Ivar's mind. 

____________________________________

The memory of her body haunted Ivar. That night he had woken up in the middle of the night, panting, sweating and with a different kind of pain between his legs than the one he was used to. He had been staring at it for a while, frowning. Even if he had discovered that he could definitely have sex, back in Kiev, he hadn't tried to do it since then. In fact, he hadn't had the need of doing it, he had more important things on his mind. 

The second night he couldn't even sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, that damned christian appeared, so he had to drink a few horns of ale to pass out when the sun was already rising. 

Of course, he hadn't gone to see her since then. Instead, he sent Hvitserk to check on her. And then he stopped doing it when he saw Edlynn smiling softly at his brother once. 

That night he was too tired, finishing a plate of food after a long day studying maps and trying to think about an strategy while he waited for Alfred's reply. He had to consider every possible scenario; in case his plan didn't work or Alfred decided to attack them anyway. He watched the flames of the fire in front of him, ignoring the laughs and the conversations of the men that ate next to him. King Harald was with them, and sometimes Ivar could feel him looking his way. He had offered him more drink, but Ivar needed to have a clear mind in order to think about an strategy. 

When he felt full, he left the plate aside, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Next to him, Hvitserk eyed the rest of the food as he talked to another soldier, with whom he had raided the south of Hispania years ago. 

"Hvitserk" Ivar whispered, turning his head to look at him "I'm going to take a look around the camp, do you want to come?" 

Years earlier, he wouldn't have even thought about asking Hvitserk to help him build an strategy, he was sure his brother was a very good warrior, and sometimes he could be useful, but he wasn't smart. Now, he realized he had been wrong, and tried to always include Hvitserk in his plans. 

His brother nodded, and stood up before helping him patting his shoulder before they walked away from the bonfire. 

______________________________________

Edlynn knew she should have planned it much better. She trembled as she crawled behind the tent.

She didn't choose a good time, either, because that night the full moon illuminated the entire camp, and even if it allowed her to see where she was going, it also made it easier to see her. 

Ivar hadn't stepped into her tent for days. Instead, his brother Hvitserk had been going to see her. At first, she ignored him, but he wasn't that bad. There was something about that northman that reminded her to Mildrith, and even if it made her miss her friend even more, it also felt good. Those vikings weren't as bad as she thought. 

In any case, she was escaping. 

Edlynn had hesitated, when she kneeled next to the bed and tried to sink the small knife she had stolen from one of the guards when they had untied her wrists in the thick fabric. She saw the opportunity, when the knife had touched her hand, and took it. Ivar treated her well, but she was still captive, and wanted to go back to her family, even if their silence troubled her. 

They still hadn't replied to Ivar's message, had they decided she was not worth saving? Did they think Ivar asked too much for her? Had they given up? And most importantly... What would happen to her if they didn't accept Ivar's terms? He had said terrible things, but the playfulness in his eyes convinced her he was joking. In some way, she knew Ivar wouldn't harm her. Edlynn still remembered the warmth of his eyes on her, the light blush that adorned his face when they walked back to the camp... He wasn't the monster everyone believed him to be, not to her at least. But, at the same time, he was a ruthless man that liked to get what he wanted. 

After ripping a hole on the side of the tent, when everyone was eating and drinking next to the fires and no one paid attention, when the noises of the men drowned the sound of the fabric being shred, she had sneaked out of it. 

Now she could see the end of the camp. She didn't even know where she was and how far was the King's camp, but once she was away from the enemy camp, she would be able to move faster. 

But just when Edlynn reached the last tents, she heard voices. She froze, covering her mouth to muffle the sound of her breathing and closing her eyes tightly. She knew that voice. 

Ivar's voice sounded deeper and more like a whisper when he spoke his language. Even if Edlynn couldn't understand a thing, she actually liked the sound of it, more deep and sharp than her own language. 

She closed her eyes tightly, feeling stupid for not making sure everyone was still eating and drinking by the fire before trying to escape. He was with his brother, Hvitserk, so even if she could run fast enough to leave Ivar behind, he could reach her easily. Her only chance was to try and sneak out without being seen but... How?

____________________________________

Ivar clenched his jaw and gripped his leg. Lately, his legs had been hurting too much the past days, but he couldn't waste an entire day resting in bed. 

"What are you planning, Ivar?" 

Hvitserk had been surprisingly quiet during their short walk. Ivar thought it was maybe because he was tired, but as soon as he asked the question out loud, he understood. 

"Me?" he feigned an innocent tone, widening his eyes at his brother "Nothing, just how to invade Wessex" he shrugged, but Hvitserk rolled his eyes and kept staring at him. 

"What are your plans for Harald?"

Ivar tried to hide the smile that curved his lips. 

"I think we need him, for now" he raised an eyebrow "But he might die in battle" 

Both brothers smiled at each other. 

"Maybe" Hvitserk shrugged "And what about the saxon girl?"

Ivar's smile faded. 

"I plan on exchanging her as soon as I can"

"Harald mentioned we should kill her if they refuse the terms" 

Ivar raised an eyebrow. It had been his plan and she was his prisoner, not Harald's. 

"Well, I think she's more useful alive" Ivar scoffed "We still don't know if they will accept or not, so I say we should wait"

Hvitserk smirked at his little brother, but Ivar was too busy trying not to trip with the roots and rocks he found on his path. 

"It would be a shame if we had to kill her" said Hvitserk softly, chuckling "She's pretty" 

Ivar sighed.

"You've said that five times" 

"It's the truth" his brother shrugged "I know you noticed, Ivar"

"I suppose she is" he rolled his eyes again. Of course he had noticed, but she was just another pretty girl, nothing special, right? "But she could be the reincarnation of Freya, I wouldn't care"

"Sure" Hvitserk seemed to be having the time of his life "That's why you send one of your Ivar glares whenever the men look at her"

"I just don't want her harmed, I need her, she is important"

"Alright, I believe you" he laughed, elbowing him "But if she agrees, will you let me have some fun?"

Ivar tried his best to avoid rolling his eyes and clenching his jaw.

"She's a christian, a saxon woman, she won't agree"

And just when his brother was about to reply, a noise startled the both of them. It came from one of the bushes next to them, and Hvitserk immediately grabbed the handle of his sword, and would have attacked if Ivar hadn't grabbed his arm before leaving his crutch on the ground and crawling to the bush. 

Edlynn didn't dare to even breath. They were closer to her than she had realized, but it had been too late and they obviously had heard her, because they had stopped talking. She stayed there, trembling and as quiet as she could, until she heard something behind her, and suddenly someone grabbed her neck, and she felt the already familiar coldness of the dagger against her skin. Ivar was nearly trembling in rage, and he panted furiously next to her ear.

"Hello, princess" he growled "Where do you think you're going?"

_____________________________________

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[fuchsiagrasshopper]

Contending the Flame III

Author’s Note: Chapter Three is here, and it is my favorite so far. Thanks again for all the interacting with this story guys/gals, I’m glad I decided to post it after sitting on it for so long.

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Word count: 1633

Warnings: Language, master/servant dynamic

Ivar didn't know why he had decided to keep the nun as a thrall, but when Hvitserk had spoken in his ear about Ubbe off hiding with a Christian, anger was the first thing he had felt. He had got the idea in his head that maybe his oldest brother was softening towards the enemy or worse would take a second wife. Nothing could be worse than Margrethe, except a Christian.

Something had changed when you had been discovered fleeing from Ubbe's protection. It was the first time a woman hadn't fallen for one of his brother's charms. Let them know how he felt. Always women would fall in love with the sons of Ragnar, but never Ivar. His mother would whisper promises that his time would come, but as he grew older her empty words were cold comfort. Women did not want a cripple, but he would be so much more. He was touched by the Gods, and soon everyone would know his name.

When he first looked upon the Christian he held a strong sense of hostility that had been instilled by Floki. Their heavy garb and their gaudy crosses were everything he learned to hate. The Priest had suffered at his hands, and you would serve at his feet.

He found his way back to his makeshift chambers. It was a large storeroom that he had occupied until something more permanent could be established. They had only just finished securing York, but Ivar didn't favor the idea of lingering long, not when there were other places waiting to be conquered. 

As he entered his room, your large eyes found him before the door could shut. His men had left you tied to the post by the pile of furs in the center of the room, and at your feet was a bundle of new garments for you to change into. 

Ivar started towards you, and he felt a sudden thrill when you didn't flinch back. A brave front, but he would get it to crack. The sound of his crutches clattering against the stone floor carried with each step until he stood but a breath away from you. He was glad to be tall when standing, you seemed so insignificant next to him.

"Take off those clothes. You will no longer need them," He told you, waiting for a reaction. 

"How am I supposed to do that?" Your voice was soft. You raised your bound hands between your close bodies, before dropping your arms in defeat.

Ivar brandished a knife from his side, taking pleasure in the small gasp that you emitted when the cold metal touched the skin of your wrist. He sawed through the rope, and you were quick to rub at the sore spots that had been burned raw.

"There, all better," He quipped, but you made no move to disrobe, and his patience was growing thin. 

He grabbed at the veil on your head, wrenching it back to your shoulders. You threw a nasty look at him for the curt treatment, and that would have earned you a smack to the mouth if he had not been distracted by the oddness of your hair. There was little to be seen as if it had been sheared recently and had now only begun to grow back in short little seedlings. 

"Why is your hair like this? It's ugly." 

"I have no need for the frivolities of vanity."

Ivar studied your face scrupulously. Though he could speak your language, some of the meanings of the words you'd just used were lost on him. You did not seem slighted that he had just insulted your lack of beauty. 

"Were you punished?" He wondered aloud while letting his fingers graze over the soft sprouts of your hair. He hadn't worn his own that short since he was a boy, and likely never would again.

You flinched back from his petting. "No, it is something all the sisters have done. What need have I of hair?"

"A husband would appreciate a beautiful wife," Ivar japed.

"I am a Bride of Christ. I will never take a husband."

"Bride of Christ?" He found the title to be funny on his tongue, and he grinned at you. "It's true then, that you nuns don't fuck."

Your face lit up bright like the embers of a dying fire. "W-we are celibate, yes. Is that what you want from me. Are you going to rape me then?"

At the mere mention of the act, Ivar's face hardened, and he took a step back enough to let you breathe. "No. If I had wanted that I would have left you to my men. Now get rid of the rest of those clothes before I burn them off of you."

He started towards the makeshift bed, already tired of maneuvering on his crutches when it wasn't even midday yet. The blistering and the chaffing was a hindrance, but he had plans drawn up for something new to aid in his mobility. Together with the capable hands of a blacksmith, he would have his prize soon.

Leaving the crutches to stand against the wall, Ivar eased himself down onto the furs, adjusting his legs before himself as he faced to watch his thrall. You had knelt to grab the woolen gown that had been left for you, a lender from one of their women. These Christians had such a staunch sense of prudishness, so Ivar was astonished when you began to disrobe before him. Your white frock pooled heavily at your feet, and you took a dainty step out from the fabric. You kept your head down, but you did not blush like a virgin. Ivar did. His eyes couldn't seem to keep up with his thoughts. Only Margrethe had ever presented herself to him in such a way,  and he had forgotten how beautiful a naked woman could be.

Your skin was like milk, not loved by the sun or weathered from the wind and sea. You did not carry enough weight in the hips, and he judged you to be of low standing. On your left ankle, a small cut had scabbed over. It was the mark from when you had escaped from Ubbe. While Margrethe had held herself in a confidence that was tantalizing, you were shy. Every move was hurried to put some cover between you and his prying eyes.

"Stop," Ivar commanded.

The new dress was in your hands, but you halted in place. Your head tilted up, and you wore an agonized expression. "What is it?"

"You've forgotten something," He tutted, indicating the wooden cross that rested between your breasts.

You clutched it as if to shield it from him. "No."

"No? You forget your place, Bride of Christ," Ivar said, and he started to pull himself towards you on the ground. 

You grew startled, unsure of what you were seeing, and he took advantage of your hesitation by wrapping a hand around your leg and knocking you to the ground. With you stunned, Ivar crawled over you, trapping you between the floor and his upper body.

"I am not a man you can say 'no' to. You are my slave, I claimed you, and until I release you from my service, you will obey." He held himself above you, balancing on one forearm while with his other hand he reached for your cross. The cord snapped with one forced tug, and you tried in vain to pry it out of his hand. Ivar laughed. "Your god is no longer with you."

"God is always with me," You gazed up at him with a conviction that was captivating. "Whatever tortures await me from this day, you will never shake me of my faith."

With his clothed body draped over your bare one, they appeared locked in a lover’s embrace. Ivar was settled between your legs, but his broken lower half did not respond to your warmth and softness, and he resented the reminder. He wrapped his large hand around your jaw, tilting your head away to speak in your ear.

"What will you do, Bride of Christ?"

"Don't call me that, heathen," You spat. "I am Sister Mary Catharine."

Ivar eased his hold, but he did not relent. "I will never call you that meaningless title. What is your real name?"

"My old name is irrelevant. It is my past, and it was a path I chose to abandon."

"I figured you would say something of that nature." 

Ivar rolled off of you, and you were quick to snatch up the dress that had fallen to your feet. You now looked stricken with panic. So much for that strong front. But you continued to surprise him when you sought out his face once more.

"You never told me your name," You said, and he wondered if you were curious to learn more about him. It was a rousing thought.

"Ivar," He responded. As he observed you with this new knowledge, he decided on a new name for you. "And you are Ólaug."

You frowned, not comprehending a word of his language "What are you saying?"

Ivar grinned, and let out a laugh at your expense. He decided he liked the nun, even though he couldn't parade you around for your beauty like Ubbe with Margrethe. You would not be permitted to cut your hair again, and he would see to it that you were properly fed. If his father could foster a friendship with a Christian monk, then he could do the same with a nun. For Ivar, it was another sign from the Gods that he was fated to be the next ruler, the greatest of Ragnar's sons. Odin had smiled down on him that day, and he would not fail.

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[the-girl-in-the-box]

Not Today IX

A/N:  Apparently I don't know when to stop writing, as this is a whole twelve pages in Microsoft Word. But! We have FINALLY gotten to the stuff we're all here for- that is, Ivar! I played around a little with ending this chapter before she actually comes to see Ivar, but decided not to be too cruel and tease you all with that. As a disclaimer, any Old Norse in this chapter is from a translator on lingojam. I cannot guarantee that it is accurate. So, that in mind, I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and the moment we've all been waiting for! Skål!

Summary:  When Ivar takes the throne of Kattegat, Lagertha flees to Wessex along with Björn, Ubbe, Torvi, and the Bishop Heahmund. There, they seek the aid of King Alfred. This aid comes in the form of his sister, Aethelind, who agrees to travel to Kattegat and try to reason Ivar, who she spent some time with during their youth, when her grandfather King Ecbert hosted Ragnar Lothbrok in their castle. Now, she is the only hope for Lagertha and her supporters to retake Kattegat from Ivar the Boneless.

Masterlist

--

No one in Kattegat was expecting a ship to sail in. The town had been in utter disarray when the English ship came, and as such, no one knew quite what to do with its arrival. There was only one ship, so it wasn't an attack, but that didn’t mean they had any idea what to think of it. Being in the aftermath of the loss of their Seer, the most revered figure in their community- aside from their King himself- only meant they were even less ready for this.

Ivar the Boneless was trying to arrange the investigation of the Ancient One’s sudden and mysterious passing, when the news of the lone ship was brought to him. Having not expected anything, he sent someone to investigate. Fortunately for him, it was someone he did not want around at the moment.

So, when Aethelind arrived in Kattegat, she was greeted by the sight of a lone man on the docks, his arms crossed as he watched the ship reach its destination. He was armed, watching her suspiciously, but it was clear from his expression that he had not expected the passenger on this ship to be a woman- nor a finely dressed one, at that. Her eyes quickly assessed him, the dark blond hair that fell long down his back in a braid, the bit of facial hair- not quite a full beard, but certainly more than either of her brothers, or even Ubbe or Björn had worn.

Still, there was a lightness in his blue eyes that made her think he would be one of the nicer people she would meet in this place, especially as he stepped forward once the boat had docked to offer his hand and help her off. Upon a closer look, something clicked for her. “Hvitserk Ragnarsson?” she questioned, tilting her head slightly.

The look of shock on his face was priceless. Clearly, of all the things he’d been expecting from her, his name had not been one of them. He blinked a few times, then nodded. Hvitserk tried to hide it as he internally shook off the shock, but Aethelind could read it in his eyes, how he was trying to process that. Once he’d seemingly cleared his mind, he asked, “How did you know?”

This brought a small chuckle from the woman, and she answered, “I have my ways.” This did nothing to soothe his mind, and he shook his head a little. “I am Princess Aethelind, of Wessex. My brother has sent me to negotiate with yours.”

Hvitserk decided today was simply meant to be full of surprises. Not only had a ship come unexpectedly from England, but said ship carried the Princess, the girl Ivar had seemed infatuated with (and rightfully so, now Hvitserk was seeing her for himself) when he returned from England himself, and she had used his name without any introduction. He wondered if the gods weren’t somehow messing with him. Letting out a slow breath, the Prince nodded.

“Well, Ivar will certainly want to see you,” he said. “I’ll have-” He paused when he saw the single trunk that accompanied her, surprised at the lack of baggage she had brought with her. “You only have one trunk?”

She gave a small shrug, smiling sheepishly. “I left on rather short notice,” she confessed. “But, with a letter from my brother, King Alfred, which I’m meant to deliver into King Ivar’s hands alone.”

Hvitserk nodded a little. “Then let’s get you up to him,” he said. “Follow me.” He swallowed, and asked in such a way that Aethelind couldn’t quite tell if he was joking or serious, “Or, do you already know where we’re going?” She gave him a playful smile, and he groaned a little.

“I see why Ivar liked you,” he almost grumbled. This earned a small giggle from Aethelind, who shook her head.

They began the walk through the town, with the people in the streets stopping to look at the young woman at their Prince’s side. They could tell just from her appearance that she was a Saxon woman, and a high up one at that. Her hair fell down below her back, dark black waves that were pinned behind her head in a very delicate style. The silky fabrics of her dress, the length of it, also added to the fact she had to be wealthy. She walked at Hvitserk’s side, not trailing behind him, with her head held high, shoulders back, and hands folded neatly in front of herself. If they had to guess, they’d say she was a Princess. And, of course, they’d be right.

When Hvitserk led her up to the Great Hall, she felt her heart pounding. She hadn’t seen Ivar in years, not since they were both far younger than they were now. Before they went in, she stopped Hvitserk. “Has he… changed, overly much?” she asked, looking up at him. Hvitserk was, again, caught off guard. He was getting tired of that. This must have shown on his face, as Aethelind was suddenly adding to her question, “I only spent a few days with him, but I can’t help but feel my brother wouldn’t have warned me so much about him, had he not changed since I last knew him.”

Hvitserk thought back to when Ivar would have been in England, and he grimaced. Ivar hadn’t seen Aethelind since before the death of Ragnar Lothbrok. Chances were, he would have changed quite a bit from how she last knew him. So, he nodded. “The last time you saw Ivar, our father had not been killed just yet. Nor had our mother. And now, without our parents… yes, Ivar is a changed man.”

Aethelind nodded a little, and Hvitserk was surprised to see something akin to compassion on her face. He hadn’t expected the granddaughter of the Kings Aelle and Ecbert to have any compassion for the sons of Ragnar, not after they had killed both her grandfathers. “I lost the man who was a father to me not overly long ago,” she confessed. “King Aethelwulf. I still have my mother, and so I cannot imagine the pain you must feel at having lost yours, but I can offer you my sincerest condolences, and my comfort for your loss.”

Well… if the surprise was going to be a good one, Hvitserk supposed he shouldn’t be so upset with it.

He blinked a few times. “You- you do realize we killed your grandfathers as revenge for the death of our father?” he pointed out to her, and she nodded.

“Of course I do,” she said. “It was kept from me until just recently, before I came to Kattegat, but… Were I able to face the man who killed my father, I would gladly do so, and… I can’t say it would be with forgiveness.” Hvitserk started to speak, but couldn’t quite before she finished by saying, “That is to say, I cannot blame you for your actions, Prince Hvitserk.”

It was official. Hvitserk quite liked this Saxon Princess.

He cracked a small smile, and nodded a little. “You are nothing like I would have expected,” he confessed. “Even from what Ivar told me of you. But, that is not a bad thing.” When she smiled at him, he decided to let curiosity get the better of him, and he questioned, “And, if you do not mind, what… what did happen to your father?”

Not knowing her father’s true identity, he believed he was asking about Aethelwulf. Her wording had been strange, yes, but then she had mentioned her father being killed. That must have been who she meant, for Hvitserk couldn’t think of anyone else.

“He was murdered by a Viking,” she said honestly, drawing Hvitserk’s attention to her with wide eyes. “One called… Is it Loki?”

“Loki is the Trickster God,” Hvitserk said. “I… highly doubt it was he who ended your father's life. Do you mean Floki?”

“Yes!” Aethelind said. “That’s the one.”

Hvitserk let out a slow breath, his eyes wide. “I- I never heard- how could Floki have killed King Aethelwulf? I don’t recall your father passing while Floki was last there.”

Aethelind immediately recognized the misunderstanding, and shook her head. “Wrong father,” she corrected. “Floki killed my true father, the monk Athelstan, here in Kattegat.”

Before Hvitserk could even begin to respond to what had just been revealed to him, the doors to the Great Hall opened as someone exited, and Aethelind took that as her cue to walk inside. He was dumbfounded as he followed her, his eyes wide.

Six winters had barely passed in Hvitserk's life when Athelstan had been murdered. That didn’t mean Hvitserk didn’t remember him at all, though. And now, looking at Aethelind as she walked, following after her, he realized he could almost see the kind monk in her. She had his eyes, Hvitserk thought, and the shape of his brow. The rest of her appearance must have come from her mother. Ivar was probably too young to remember Athelstan, he figured, and he’d grown up too close to Floki to remember the monk fondly anyway.

Part of Hvitserk wondered if that would affect how Ivar would see Aethelind, now. If he learned who her father was, thought back to how Floki felt about that man… He didn’t imagine that would be a very pleasing though to the King of Kattegat.

The walk from the door to the thrones in the Great Hall wasn’t a long one, and the hall itself was full of people trying to speak with their King as he held court. As such, no one really noticed the Saxon Princess trying to work her way through the crowd. In fact, most were paying attention to the man who was pleading with Ivar for something. Hvitserk grimaced slightly, knowing that things weren’t going very well for him. But, he ended up unable to hold back the slight chuckle as Aethelind very politely worked her way through the people- not that a majority of them understood how polite she was being, as she was asking their pardon in the language of the Saxons. So, realizing that, he began relaying that message for her to the people who were growing confused by her words and presence.

Ivar began to answer the man, and Hvitserk could see the way Aethelind perked up. She recognized his voice, all these years later, and her eyes widened. The Princess walked a little faster, and Hvitserk picked up his pace with her, trying to catch up to her by the time she broke through the crowd.

He didn’t quite, coming out right behind her, and he watched silently as his brother’s words died on his lips.

Ivar the Boneless froze, looking down at this woman with wide eyes. His mouth began to form silent words, words that he never gave voice to, and he blinked a few times. He sat forward in his throne, brows creasing slightly, and he lifted a hand. With just a word, a wave of the hand he’d lifted, he dismissed the man who was speaking. The man tried to protest, but then Ivar took his crutch, and got to his feet. As soon as the King stood, the woman in the throne to his left began to straighten up.

She didn’t know anything about this woman who had caught Ivar’s attention so raptly, where she had come from, why he was so suddenly rendered speechless. The meaning of this woman’s unannounced appearance was lost on her, as she watched the two stare at each other. The Queen turned a confused gaze to Hvitserk, who was too busy watching the reunion he only partially understood to meet her eye.

And, for Ivar and Aethelind, time seemed to stop. She stood silent, her stature perfectly poised as a Saxon Princess was expected to be. Ivar slowly made his way to her, the hall having gone silent. The only sound that could be heard was the thud of his crutch, stabbing into the ground as he moved across the room. When he finally reached her, he brought his hand up, and his fingers grazed over her cheek. The Princess’s cheeks turned a slight shade of pink under his intense gaze, but she still smiled softly up at him.

“You are real?” he questioned, the words spoken in the Saxon tongue surprising all but Hvitserk in the room. She nodded, her smile only growing at the language she knew. He let out a soft breath, and blinked a few times. “Hello, Princess.”

“Hello, Ivar,” she greeted.

Her words weren’t understood by a majority of those who were in the room, but they could tell it was a greeting, a familiar one. She spoke his name.

Without any other words, he suddenly stood straighter, not taking his hand away from her, and he called out to the people, “Allthingrinn er yfir.  Líðheimar!”

There was a confused and shocked murmur that went through the crowd. For some reason, this woman’s arrival was enough to cause their King to stop the Althing, send his people home. They immediately began to wonder what was going on, why he was so entranced by her. However, they did as he commanded, and before long, Aethelind was left alone with Ivar, Hvitserk, and the woman behind him Ivar she didn’t know.

Ivar’s attention turned back to her, his eyes searching hers for something she couldn’t guess. “You are here,” he eventually said, and she nodded. His eyes looked up to Hvitserk. “Hon er hí?” Hvitserk nodded, chuckling. “Takfreydisr.  Ek munu mæli til hanaloner.”

Hvitserk nodded again, and moved toward the woman, who stood and walked to meet him. “Hverr er hon?” she asked Hvitserk, who chuckled a little as he gestured toward an exit.

“Einn gamall vinr,” Hvitserk answered, and they left the hall.

The sound of the door shutting was heavy, echoed through the room, and Aethelind realized she hadn’t yet really… come to terms with her current circumstances. For a long while, they were both silent, and then Aethelind did something neither of them had really expected. She wrapped her arms around him tightly, and let out a quiet laugh.

It took Ivar a moment to register what she’d just done, to process it, before he was wrapping his free arm around her, and smiling slightly despite himself. There was a time he’d have questioned her arrival, thought it was just another way the gods were taunting him, putting something so good in front of him, only to somehow take it from him, betray his trust with it. But he knew the truth now, that not only did he have their favour, but he was one himself. To have Aethelind come to see him, this was just a gift from his family, the proof that he was doing things well and right. The Æsir were pleased.

When the two pulled away from each other, they finally began to actually take a look, their hands grasping at the other’s arm as if they may disappear should they fully let go. He was the first to speak.

“You have grown,” he commented.

This brought forth a chuckle from the Princess, who replied, “As have you. You look well, Ivar.”

He nodded, and smiled. “I am well,” he confirmed. “And you? You seem to be very happy, hm?” Aethelind nodded to confirm this, as if the grin on her face weren’t confirmation enough.

“I am,” she said. “In all my life, I didn’t expect to end up here, reunited with you. But I can say, it brings me great joy to see your face once more, my friend.”

Ivar smiled at her, and then gestured for her to walk with him. He led her over to a table, where he sat, resting his crutch at his side as he watched her take the seat at his right. “You were a constant source of surprise, in my youth,” he said. “And I see you are yet a source of surprise. But not, I think, a source of bad surprises, are you? I am glad to see you.”

“I see you have learned the Saxon tongue since I saw you last,” she commented, and he gave a nod.

“Certain things are necessary, to open more doors than would be open to you without those things,” he replied vaguely. “But, it allows me to speak with you, and so I see yet another door opens that would have been closed to me otherwise. Knowledge… again, does nothing but serve.”

Aethelind nodded her agreement with his wise statement, leaning on the table a bit. “You’re right,” she said. “Lord, I’ve missed you. How many years has it been, do you think?”

Ivar let out a short breath before replying, “Too many. We will have a feast tonight to celebrate your arrival, hm? I imagine you have made… quite a stir, already.”

“It seems to be so,” she answered. “But I am honored you wish to have a feast simply because I have come.”

“Of course we will feast for this,” Ivar said, waving a hand as if it were obvious. “I will tell the people that you are here as our guest, and celebrate your coming. We could use a good thing, with the way things have been lately, and it seems the gods heard our prayers for this.”

“You believe so?” she questioned. Aethelind tilted her head slightly as she heard his words. “How have things been? You seem well, Kattegat seems prosperous, I cannot imagine…”

Ivar sighed, and she fell silent, knowing he was about to begin his explanation. “We have been in turmoil,” he began. “First, we lost my father, Ragnar Lothbrok, who you must remember, hm?” She nodded. “I returned home to find my mother had also been murdered, by a woman called Lagertha.” Aethelind kept her expression schooled into one of compassion, not once betraying she was well aware of his mother’s death at Lagertha’s hand. “She usurped the throne of Kattegat, and my brothers Ubbe and Björn joined her. This left myself and Hvitserk to fight her for the throne, but with the aid of my uncle, Rollo, and King Harald Finehair, we were able to take Kattegat back.”

King Harald. Aethelind knew this name, knew he was the one who was likely attacking Wessex as they spoke. Her heart gave an extra hard thud in her chest, as she wondered how things were going for the Vikings and her brothers, Heahmund as well, back home. She didn’t mention this just yet, instead letting Ivar continue his story.

“And now, on the heels of this occasion, I find it is not without a price. We have lost an important figure, murdered under our noses, likely by a supporter of Lagertha’s,” he said. When Aethelind seemed about to ask who this was, he spoke first, saying, “The Seer was murdered in his own home, and we do not know who has done such a thing. But I can only believe it was someone who wanted to cripple my authority, by taking out the one man who could support my rule, and win those who did not support me to our side.”

He watched how the Princess’s eyes widened, and it seemed to him that she believed his stories entirely. This was a good thing. Ivar didn’t exactly want Aethelind to know that he had killed the Seer. He didn’t know if she may slip up, tell Hvitserk of what had occurred. His brother already suspected, and that was enough for extreme caution on Ivar’s end. So, the official story was what she would be told.

“Ivar…” she said softly. He turned to catch her gaze, gentle and concerned, as Aethelind put her hand on his arm. “I am… so sorry for your losses, and you have my comforts for them.” Even if she knew parts of his story were not true, based off what she knew of Lagertha and the others, she knew that the deaths of King Ragnar and Queen Aslaug had devastated him, and her heart ached for him. He could sense the genuine pain she felt for him, and so he gave her a tight-lipped smile, nodding a little.

“And I thank you for them,” he said. “I try to live up to the legacies they have left, and in time, I will become more famous than my father.”

Aethelind recognized this as her first chance to try and work on Ivar. So, she began her work. “You can be your own person, Ivar,” she said gently, her hand moving around to his back. Of all the things he’d expected, her counsel hadn’t been one of them. Just as he’d said before, she was a source of surprises. But with the sincerity in her eyes and tone, he found himself listening. “Learn from their lessons and their wisdom, yes, but… Don’t lose yourself to who they were. You are not Ragnar Lothbrok, nor yet Queen Aslaug. You are Ivar.” Her free hand tapped his chest lightly, right over his heart, and she gave him a small smile. “Be Ivar.”

He gave a small chuckle, and shrugged. “Perhaps Ivar is the legacy of Ragnar Lothbrok, hm? What then?”

Aethelind gave him a look that said she didn’t believe that. “As his son, you are his legacy,” she conceded. “But you’re still your own person. I may be the legacy of King Ecbert, but I wouldn’t make his choices. I am also the legacy of King Aelle. I really wouldn’t make his choices.” The way she said those words, it was clear she had no love for her maternal grandfather, and this brought forth a small chuckle from Ivar. “I am my mother’s legacy, and my father’s, purely by way of being their descendant. But I am not them, and I won’t hold myself to that standard. You haven’t asked my advice, so… feel free to ignore it.” She paused to let out a breathy chuckle at her words. “But if you feel so inclined, I hope you’ll at least take it into consideration.”

He did ponder her words, she saw as much as she watched him, and he eventually nodded slowly. “I will… do as you request,” he eventually said, and she smiled. “Perhaps I will come to a different conclusion, perhaps I will come to agree, but I will not leave your words to fade from my memory, hm?”

Aethelind chuckled a little, and nodded. “That’s good enough for me,” she said. “Now, I hate to break up this lovely heart-to-heart we’re having, but I do have something for you.”

She began to pull a letter from… somewhere in her dress, Ivar had no clue where it came from- truthfully, he got the idea Saxon clothing would confuse him if he considered it too long. When she handed it to him, Ivar lifted it, looked at it, and immediately recognized the seal of the Bretwalda, the King of all England. He grimaced. “From your father?” he asked.

“My brother,” she corrected. “King Aethelwulf has passed.” Ivar regarded her with as close to a compassionate look as he’d ever regarded anyone, and nodded. “Alfred is King now.”

Ivar’s eyes widened just a touch at this. “Alfred?” he questioned. “You had an older brother, I believed, hm? His name sounded... more like yours.”

“Aethelred, yes,” she confirmed. “But… he declined the throne, and nominated Alfred for it. So Alfred is now Bretwalda, and Aethelred the next in line.”

Ivar nodded as he took in this information, and looked back to the letter. He seemed to be thinking for a few moments as he watched it, then sighed. “I will… look over this tomorrow. Tonight, we celebrate your arrival, and your presence here. Business can be handled in the morning.”

Aethelind chuckled a little and nodded. “I don’t blame you,” she said. “And, I’ll look forward to having the night to eat and rest. It’s been a long journey.”

“A long journey?” Ivar asked. “It is a few days. How long-?”

“You and your people are used to sea travel!” she pointed out, laughing. “That’s the first real sea travel I’ve ever experienced, and I am tired.”

He chuckled a little with her, and nodded. “Then come along,” he said. “I will introduce you to Freydis, my wife. She will help you settle in, and help you prepare for the feast tonight, if you would like.”

Aethelind nodded, though surprised to hear he was married, and smiled. “I’d love to meet her,” she said. Ivar smiled happily and nodded, standing.

“You will like Freydis, I think. She reminds me of you.”

He didn’t quite realize just what he’d let slip, that he had married a woman who reminded him of Aethelind. But Aethelind caught it, and her cheeks turned slightly pink at the insinuation.

Ivar led her out into the halls of the longhouse the Great Hall was in, and he led her back toward the chambers he shared with his wife. He found her in there getting ready for dinner, when he knocked and opened the door. “My love?” he called to her, speaking in the language of the Saxons for Aethelind’s sake. He had taught the language to his wife, never sure when it would be beneficial for her to know it. It appeared now was that time.

Freydis perked up when she heard her husband’s voice, and she smiled, standing and walking over to him. He opened the door a little wider, revealing Aethelind. A warm smile spread on the Queen’s face when she saw her now, having had the explanation from Hvitserk. The older Ragnarsson had, specifically, left out how infatuated with her Ivar had seemed when he first returned from Wessex.

“You are the Princess, hm?” she said, offering her hands to Aethelind. The older woman smiled sweetly, and took her hands.

“I am,” she confirmed. “And you must be Ivar’s wife?”

“Yes,” she answered. “My name is Freydis.”

Aethelind nodded, and said, “As he said. You have a lovely name, Your Highness.”

Freydis shook her head a little. “You have been a good friend to my husband, and are familiar with him. There is no need to be so formal with me. A friend of his will be a friend of mine.”

“Well, then let me greet you properly,” Aethelind halfway teased, and then wrapped her arms around Freydis. The Queen laughed lightly, and returned the Princess’s embrace.

When the women separated, Freydis kept her hands on Aethelind’s arms. “You must be tired and hungry, hm? Ivar,” she turned to look at her husband. “What plans do we need to make for our guest?”

“I am ordering a feast to celebrate her arrival, and otherwise, she will need chambers here. She can stay in our longhouse, as our personal guest. Can you arrange that?” Ivar asked, tilting his head a bit, and Freydis nodded.

“Of course,” she said. She turned back to Aethelind, and asked, “My dear, did you bring much in way of baggage? We will send Hvitserk and a few men down to collect it.”

Aethelind smiled a little. “I’ve only brought one trunk,” she said. “I left on a… bit of a short notice, if you will. There wasn’t much time to pack a lot.”

Freydis nodded, immediately seeming to become concerned. “Well, you can tell me about that as we prepare you for a feast tonight, hm? Ivar, go have Hvitserk get that trunk, and she and I will begin preparations.”

Ivar chuckled at how quickly Freydis was taking over, and taking Aethelind under her arm. It made him happy to see the two women- those who still lived- who were so important to him getting along so well. “Alright, alright,” he said, chuckling a little. “You are chasing me out, hm? I will go, do not worry.” Aethelind and Freydis giggled a little, standing together as they watched him start to go. Ivar left the room, leaving the women behind, Freydis giving an affectionate shake of her head.

“Come,” she said to Aethelind. “Let’s start getting you ready, hm?”

Aethelind gave a small nod, looking to the door Ivar had just shut behind himself. In a way, she thought the warnings were right. He wasn’t quite the same person she’d known years ago. And yet, she hadn’t decided entirely if the changes were good or bad. All she knew so far was that Ivar the Boneless was back in her life, and she couldn’t be happier about that.

--

Translations:

Allthingrinn er yfir.  Líðheimar! - The Althing is over. Go home! Hon er hí? - She is here? Takfreydisr.  Ek munu mæli til hanaloner. - Take Freydis. I would speak to her alone. Hverr er hon? - Who is she? Einn gamall vinr. - An old friend.

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius, @wilhelmyna, @katfett, @fangirl-nonsense, @zuzus-sun, @heavenly1927

If you want to be added to the taglist, feel free to reach out either by commenting, reblogging, DMing me, or sending an ask, and I’ll be more than happy to add you!

[lisinfleur]

[VPR to Hvitserk] So dear Hvitserk or should I say... Athelstan...

Although you converted I don't believe you will be a good Christian, so do you want to commit a sin for your next confessional?

Go ahead, Athelstan... Answer the girl. Ivar teases him and Hvitserk rolls his eyes.

This shit of a name will chase me to the end of the world, won't it? he complains.

You should be glad I didn't shave the top of your head when I've heard it the first time, brother. Björn mocks. You know... To fit better with the name. He says, giggling and moving his hand over his head to remember Athelstan's bald monk's hairstyle.

Hahaha, pretty funny, Björn. Hvitserk pretends to laugh, rolling his eyes and looking at you. I agree with you: I would be a terrible Christian. The confession of my sins would be a whole Sermon on the Mount, but if you wanna know the truth, I wouldn't mind adding some lines with your name to this speech. He winks, licking his lips suggestively.

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[procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics]

Vikings + sleeping habits

Summary: what i think these characters sleeping habits are, from positions to the amount of sleep they need to some random wildcards.

Beginning Notes: this is such a fun prompt!!! for everyone reading unexpected, i'm almost done with part 2, and starting to plot a miniseries. feeling in the mood for happy endings, so no one has to worry.

Taglist: @bragisrunes, @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie, @punkrocknpearls, @demon-of-the-ancient-world, @alicedopey

Masterlist | based on this request | requests are OPEN!

Ragnar

Ragnar does not sleep

Like, ever

Every time you wake up and go to the kitchen/hall to have drink, he’ll be there

When he does sleep, he’s an extremely light sleeper

He definitely needs weed to fall asleep in later seasons

Lagertha

She’s a pretty regular sleeper

Doesn’t need too much, maybe 6-7 hours are enough for her

However, she falls into a coma after battles

12 hours of sleep straight

Doesn’t get grumpy when deprived of sleep

Light sleeper, she’s gotta keep an eye out for Selena Aslaug

Aslaug

This queen needs her beauty sleep

At least 8 hours

If she has visions during her sleep, they leave her very drained

She gets snappy quickly the day after

She doesn’t nap though

Back sleeper, looks kind of possessed too

Bjorn

No sleep schedule

Sometimes he gets four hours, sometimes he gets 13

Grumpy when he gets too little, but he refuses to acknowledge that

Falls asleep very quickly

Starfish position

Ubbe

If he’s in safe surroundings, an extremely heavy sleeper

He’s got a light snore too

Sleeps on his back and his kids/brothers pile around him

Once, Ivar dragged himself over Ubbe to punch Sigurd, and he slept through it

Cannot sleep around, needs a human teddybear (Amma or Hvitserk mostly)

Hvitserk

Can sleep in any position

The kid that falls asleep lying across two chairs in the middle of a sacrifice

Later, when he gets more nightmares, he starts sleeping curled up

Also often slept next to Ubbe or Ivar as a kid

Will never forgive Ragnar for dropping him while he was sleeping, that shit disturbed one of his best dreams ever

Sigurd

Sleeps on his stomach

He’s a light sleeper for obvious reasons (Ivar)

However he can fall asleep with any amount of noise or movement going on around him

Early bird, much to his brother’s annoyance

Does not sleep in ever

Ivar

Does not admit it, but he needs at least 8 hours too

Sleeps between mountains of pillows (or brothers)

Likes it when someone puts his legs up while he’s asleep (not while he’s falling asleep!!!)

Extremely light sleeper, and sometimes has slightly prophetic nightmares

Often wakes up bc of his pain

Grumpy when that happens too often

Floki

Possibly sleeps in trees

Athelstan

Needs his diffuser, sleep mask, melatonin gummies and maybe some weed from Ragnar

Five pillows

Curled up fetus position, we already know

Uses silk pillows for luscious monk curls too

Best sleeping game out there, Lagertha tries his routine once and rises with clear skin and silky hair

[conaionaru]

Honor and Blood (Ivar the Boneless)

The stupid, the proud

Synopsis: Name day gifts and the baby comes.

Warning: Ivar, Silas, toxic family, fluff, birth, angst, blood, gore, murder, drowning

Tags:

@didiintheblog @youbloodymadgenius @shannygoatgruff @xbellaxcarolinax @lol-haha-joke @heavenly1927 @queenbeeta​

I don’t own the gifs. Also, thank you for your support. I really appreciate it. If you want to be tagged please write me<3

The celebration of Vanya's name day took place when the sun went down. Her back and feet hurt, and the babe was restless. She was exhausted and wanted to rest, but she sat down and pretended to be happy for the sake of the people.

Many people from the village came to give her gifts, flowers, jewelry, children gave her toys, and healers gave her potions to recover quicker from birthing her child. Ale and music flowed through the busy hall as she sat next to Ivar, a hand on her stomach, hoping the child would calm down soon.

Her husband kept whispering pretty words to her and kissing her knuckles, but Vanya still felt nervous. "Alright, now it's time to give you our gifts, Sister," Hvitserk exclaimed, raising his cup of mead high into the air as everybody cheered with him.

Aslaug smiled from her position on Ivar's left as thralls carried in a box to Vanya's feet. They opened the heavy wooden chest to reveal a dagger with a golden handle and engraving on the steel. "It has protection runes on it. You keep it near you during birth, and both you and the child will survive. I had it with me during every delivery, just like my ancestors before me. Every mother passes it onto her daughter. And now it's yours, Vanya."

The ginger looked at Aslaug with tears in her eyes and hugged the kind woman. The Queen acknowledged her as her daughter in front of whole Kattegat; she was a Lothbrok now not only through marriage. The next to give her a gift was Ubbe. He put a small item into her hands wrapped in fabric. When Vanya revealed the present, she couldn't help but gasp.

The oldest son of Aslaug smiled down at her cheekily and nodded towards the butterfly pin in her hands. "You said you had a necklace like that once. So I thought it would be nice to give you something to remind you of it, Lillemor (Little mother)."

"Thank you, Ubbe. I love it." She grinned at him as he squeezed her tightly and kissed her forehead. The tall Ragnarsson also mussed Ivar's hair as the crippled boy glared at him for the affection his wife gave him.

"Jewelry, Ubbe? Really? How unoriginal. You make it too easy. I got you a better gift, Vanya!" Hvitserk boasted, passing her another wrapped item. This one was heavier and square. "I had one of the Saxon thralls write it down for you. It's stories about the gods and the greatest warriors to ever live. Father is in there, and mothers' parents as well. You said you wanted to learn everything. Floki also wrote some runes in there for you to learn."

Vanya thanked the giddy Viking and trailed her fingers over the hand cover of the book Hvitserk had made for her. It looked just like the ones the monks carried around the church. She had a feeling the one who wrote the stories was a monk too, and the book might have been either bought blank or had the pages remade. Whatever it was, she felt a little bit sorry for the author of the book. The slave learned how to write to eternalize God's word, and now he writes stories of foreign gods and warriors.

"And this is my gift. Much better then Hvitserks, I am sure." Sigurd jumped in with his oud in hand. It turns out the reason why the Ragnarsson tuned his instrument next to Vanya was to get it ready for a song he wrote for her. The music was beautiful; it started on a sad note that grew fiercer with every note, ending in a happy symphony. Everyone clapped the pretty song, and it's creator.

Floki and Helga gave Vanya their gifts as well, white Bjorn and Torvi gifted her with new furs. The last one to provide her with a gift was Ivar. His present was wrapped in fabric and heavy. "I made it myself. It's Jörmungandr. I already gave you Fenrir, so it would only be fair if you had his sibling as well."

The metal necklace was perfect despite the origin of the creature it held. Ivar had Thor's hammer; it would only be fair if she had something powerful too. And a snake that binds all the seas is truly brilliant. All the storms that Thor creates make the snake rage in the waters. "Thank you, Ivar. It's perfect."

The two shared a kiss while the babe inside her raged on. Maybe it would be like Jörmungandr, circling around her belly, waiting for it's time to escape. She just hoped it wouldn't be as disastrous as what will follow the serpent's escape. The Princess was in no mood for Ragnarok.

"I want to give you a gift as well, sister," Silas announced proudly, walking towards the sitting redhead. The item he gave her was heavy and bought in by two knights. Whatever was inside the ornamented chest, was a bad omen. Vanya could feel it in her aching bones; the gift wasn't made in good faith. "A reminder as well, just like another one of your gifts."

Ivar ordered Margrethe to open the chest, inside was a golden cross. It was large and ornamented with jewels. Everyone stared at the heavy rood that their father used to have in his study. It always stood on his desk before him when he thought of war, to remind him that God is on his side and should like it. But Silas didn't give it to her to remember Osmond; he gave it as a warning.

"I chose it, and Mother agreed it to be a good gift. You can melt it down and have jewelry made out of it, or give it to the orphans as treasure. Whatever you chose, dear little sister. The choice is yours."

Vanya kept staring at the Christian symbol, not knowing what to think or say. Her eyes slowly lifted to look at Silas, as Ivar fumed next to her. The Ragnarssons looked at the cross with disgust while Aslaug watched Silas, to find out his motive. "Why Father's cross?"

"It's not like he needs it anymore. And we have enough back at home; one missing won't do any damage, I hope. And I wanted to finish what we started when we were children. When Father discussed the Viking problem with the council, you wanted peace. And isn't it funny that you were the thing that bought it? Like you were destined to do it. Do you remember what you said?" He smirked at her mocking her comment during a council when she was eight. He didn't forget and maybe only offered her to Bjorn as revenge.

"We could give them something and ask them to leave us alone,"  Vanya repeated the words she said nearly nine years ago.

Silas chuckled and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, ignoring the agitated heathens around him. "I offered you, and they agreed. And now you are a pagan yourself with a child on the way, funny how you everything comes full circle. Father was right, I could have given them all our money, treasures, and crosses, yet they wouldn't be satisfied. Giving them you was a different story. They like you, adore you even, some think of you as one of their gods. This shall remind you you are nothing but one of God's sheep, no matter how misguided you are in your beliefs now."

Vanya swallowed the dry tasted in her mouth as her stomach knotted with dread. Sweat gathered on her brow as pain coursed withing her body. Something was wrong, very, very wrong.

"Blessed are the meek Vanya. Remember that; you may think that you have it all now, but you are the same stupid little girl you always were. Just fatter and stupider. Happy seventeenth name day."

"Vanya, are you alright?" Helga called out, seeing the girls state. The Princess opened her mouth to answer, but all that came out was a scream as the pain grew unbearable. Aslaug and Helga run to her side to check on her as her tights became slick. "The child is coming."

Aslaug's shocked words echoed around the tense hall as everybody sprang into action. Ubbe picked the ginger up and carried her to her and Ivar's hut with Helga, Aslaug, Ivar, and healers in tow. Silas watched them go with anger in his eyes. He wanted to see her reaction to his words, not the concern everyone showed at her pained whimpers.

Ubbe laid his panting sister in law on the bed as healers hoarded the room, throwing him out before he could say anything. The only man in the chambers was the child's father that crawled next to her, holding her clammy hand as Aslaug whipped her brow with a wet towel. The healers stripped Vanya off her black dress and put her into a baggy white one instead. They helped her up and made her stand as they removed the bedding until the only remaining was the wooden frame.

Aslaug stood next to Vanya as the girl leaned against the dresser grinding her teeth together, breathing thought the pain. She regretted ever wanting children; she should have stayed with dolls and not slept with Ivar. But it was too late for wishful thinking, the babe was coming, and she wanted to hit something. Maybe Ivar, he was the one who put the child in her after all. How come he did the fun part, and she is huffing and puffing while a little human is making its way out of her?

She unclenched her palms on the top of the dresser, her fingers hitting a solid item. Vanya lifted her heavy head and gazed at the wooden figure of Fenrir, that Ivar gifted her nine months ago. The ginger wrapped her right hand around the carved wolf and tightened her grip around it, swallowing her pained screams.

Images flashed before her closed eyes as she bends lower her forehead resting against the cool wood of the cabinet. She saw frozen water before her as her lungs screamed for air. Her eyes snapped out in fright till the next contraction hit, and another vision overtook her.

This time she saw arrows flying in the sky, aiming for something in the distance. With a deep exhale, Vanya forced her eyes open again, her hallucinations not making any sense to her.

Ivar watched from the bedside, Vanya's hunched trembling body covered in a thin layer of sweat as his mother and Helga stood on each side of her.  "Vanya? Do you hear me? Love, we need to move again. Vanya?" His wife was deaf to his mother's calls, staring blankly at the floor with wide eyes.

"What is wrong with her?" Ivar called out, biting his nails and running his hand through his hair, reminding himself not to pull on it, or he might rip it out in worry.

The answer came from a healer who finished the bed so she could lay down on it to rest her feet. "The pain must be making her delusional. It would be better to move her before her give out under her."

Vanya saw splatters of blood fly her way as the axe swung up again, a spray of blood flying behind it. "Don't drown, Vanya." She regained her senses with a gasp, the eerie words the cloaked stranger spoke in her dream repeating in her head.

"What's wrong, Vanya. Talk to me." Aslaug's soft hand on her cheek made her look up to see the worried look in the Queen's eyes. She needed to tell her, Aslaug would know what to do.

"I am going to die. Please, you can't let me die. I have to protect my child!" She explained in a rush, her eyes wide and filled with desperation.

Yet the Queen of Kattegat only shook her head and stroked her cheek. "You aren't dying. You will be alright. You are in good hands, Vanya, the Gods are with you. Freyja, Frigg, and Freyr are all with you. You and the child will not die." Vanya hung onto every word her mother in law whispered to her, praying to each god that she was right.

They led her back to the bed, Fenrir still in her hand. A stabbing pain ripped through her, a scream leaving her lips as three women and Ivar crowded around her, trying to help. Ivar wrapped his hand around hers only to feel the carved toy he made her. Confused, he turned her fist towards him, his eyes wide at what he saw. Some of the sharper edges must have dug into her soft skin and broke it, as blood flowed from the wounds and down her wrist. Everyone was too focused on her bleeding crotch than her hand.

"Let go, Min elskede (My beloved). You are hurting yourself." He carefully pried the object from her hand and put his palm in its place. "Grip it as tightly as you need."

Vanya screamed again, her head thrown back in agony as Aslaug wiped her forehead again, Helga and the healer held her legs and waited for the head to show.  The redhead looked at the calm Queen and begged her to listen to her and save her child. "I didn't see your or its death. You will be alright."

"But I saw it. Please, you have to promise me."

"Vanya, nothing is wrong."

"Please, promise me, Mother. Don't let my child die." Aslaug saw the desperation and pain in her eyes, so she nodded and promised to keep them both safe no matter what.

The healer lifted her head from where she looked between Vanya's legs. "Push, just a few, and the head will be out."

Vanya bore down, praying for the pain to be over and the child alive. Ivar squeezed her hand back, biting on his nails, looking as in pain as her. With every sob, scream, and whimper she let out, he felt worse and worse.  "Ivar." Her eyes shone with tears as more sweat coated her pale skin.

"What is it, Min elskede (My beloved). Tell me." He pleaded back as she laid there is pain, sweat, and blood. For eight hours, she suffered to bear his child, who knows how long she felt the ache while they celebrated. Ivar prayed to the gods to let her torment end, and their child to cry out as it took its first breath.

Vanya stared into his glassy eyes, weakling glaring at him. "Fuck...You." She whispered as he laughed at her words—the total opposite of what she hoped to achieve.

"Fair enough. It's my fault, after all. I hope you will forgive me." Ivar whispered back, kissing her white knuckles and keeping her weak hand near his lips.

Outside the hut, people prayed as the princesses screams echoed over Kattegat. The Ragnarsson stood together, muttering between themselves as the torches flickered around them. "Does every child take that long? Or is it as difficult as Ivar?" Sigurd asked, wincing at the next scream tore through the filled streets.

"Some take longer." Torvi answered, holding onto Bjorn's arm, their children huddled around them with their daughter in Bjorn's embrace.

Ubbe grimaced at another scream, a nervous chuckle following after it. "Gods." The others nodded in agreement. 

"One more push, Vanya." Urged Helga as the Princess grew weaker. She fixed her grip on Ivar's hand and, with one last scream pushed her child out. The next cry that followed caused everyone to sigh in relief.

Helga and Aslaug wiped the babe down as the healer helped Vanya deliver the afterbirth. When they bought the child to her, it was wrapped in a blanket. "It's a boy," Aslaug announced, laying the Ivarsson on her chest.

He had a few dark hairs on his head as he frowned at the change of places. Ivar looked at his mother in fear. "Is he?"

"He is healthy, Ivar. He is perfect." She reassured him, showing him the little kicking feet as proof. The child wasn't cripple like his father, and Ivar couldn't be happier that he was spared the same fate as him.

"He is perfect." Vanya agreed lovingly gazing at the face of her newborn son. He looked angry to be there, which reminded her of Ivar in a good way. A son. They had a son now. Finally, the worst part was over.

She nursed the child for the first time in front of everyone present, as the tradition wanted. When the boy was fed, Helga withdrew from the couple, the child lying on his mother's chest, soundly asleep. Aslaug made Ivar leave the tired redhead alone, asking him to inform everyone outside of his son's birth.

Vanya and the child were now the only ones inside the chambers lying on the hard bed as cheers sounded outside the hut. She smiled tiredly, stroking his cheek while the healer wiped her down with a cloth to get rid of the blood. The Saxon needed to sleep, and a staring Ivar asking her if she is alright, wouldn't have helped her. But she wanted him to bask in their son's glory just like she is right now.

"You are glorious, just like Ivar said you would be. You, my son, come from two powerful bloodlines. You are a Lothbrok, grandson of the most powerful man on earth, and a descendant of the House of the Raising Sun. You have dragon's blood in you, red hair or not." She whispered to him affectionately as he slept, content for now. She closed her eyes too as the healer sat by her bed, ready if something went wrong with either of them.

The next time Vanya woke up, it was three hours later, just before dawn. The sounds of the celebration of her son's birth could be heard outside. But that's not what woke her up; instead, it was footsteps and a gurgling sound followed by a thud. Vanya sat up in her bed to meet the silhouettes of an armed man. The healer laid on the ground by the door with her throat slit.

Vanya sprang from the bed and snatched her in furs wrapped child and backed away from the man. Despite being dressed like a farmer, she recognized his faces instantly. The quality steel also gave him away - one of Silas's knights.

With adrenaline running through her veins, Vanya made a dash for the open door narrowly missing the knight's outstretched hand. She jumped over the woman's dead body and ran towards the Great hall.

Another knight cut off her route aiming his sword at her child. She desperately screamed for help, but the music and laughter drowned her sounds from the Great hall. She was too far away to be seen by somebody, especially in the dark.

Changing her direction, she runs towards the only open spot - the sea. Whatever power stood by her, she managed to outrun the three knights following her and reach the shore with the fisherman boats tied there.  She jumped into one of the furthest boats and untied it. Vanya pushed the wooden vessel away and rowed with all her might.

Her son laid on a heap of nets under her, her body shielding him in case a sword got too close. An arrow hit the side of the boat, startling the girl from her concentration. One of the knights was shooting arrows at the ship as it was too far away for them to reach. The others soon drew their bows as well.

Vanya lifted a shield from the side of the ship and covered herself and her child under it. Arrows rained around them as her child fussed in his furs, confused about what was going on. Vanya watched her son with tears in her eyes, fearing for his life more than hers. But she needed to survive as well. With her dead, he would starve out at sea.

An arrow embedded itself into the shield, nearly stabbing her in the face. Vanya stared at the sharp metal panting in fear, her heart ready to jump off her chest at any second. Tears streamed down her cheeks as her arms grew weak from the onslaught of arrows. She couldn't hold out any longer. She lowered her shield slightly to look at the archers. The flying bolts were missing the boat, some too far away to hit. But one of the knights run into the water as far as he could and notched another arrow. The other followed his example.

There was no other way to save their child; her son needed to live. So with her last bit of courage, she lowered the shield and suspended it above her child, making sure it wouldn't get hit. The archer's arrow pierced her shoulder, sending her falling backward over the edge of the boat from the impact. Vanya reached to grab something, but her body fell over the edge, hitting the chilling waters below, rocking the boat with the whimpering babe inside.

The water swallowed her up, her wet dress dragging her down. Water clouded her vision as her lungs begged for air. She reached for the boat over her head, trying not to lose sight of it.

The arrow ceased firing; the knights satisfied when the ginger didn't come back up. They lowered their bows as the knight who shot her climbed from the water. "Get changed and return to the hall. Don't look suspicious." He ordered them and looked back at the floating boat with a lonely newborn in it. "Long live Silas the Great." Stithulf mocked, walking away from the scene satisfied while the other knights cleaned the hut from the blood and got rid of the body.

[xbellaxcarolinax]

Forging A Heart (Ivar the Boneless) 2- The Storm

Pairings: Ivar x Artemis (OFC)

Word Count: 1267

Warnings: None so far!

AN: I swear, Ivar will show up in the next chapter 😅 

1- Taken

...

The bread was stale but she took it eagerly out of the woman's hands. It had been days since the captives were fed, as their food supply was running low. The woman's large blue eyes stared deeply into hers, and she had a smile on her face, as if satisfied.

The woman pushes her long blonde hair behind her shoulder, wrapping herself tighter within her woolen shawl, offering another crust of bread.

"Helga." She says, pointing at herself. The girl swallows the piece of stale bread gratefully, looking up at the kind woman.

"Artemis."

Helga smiled brightly, showing her teeth before patting the top of the younger girl's head and walking back towards the wild man with the kohl lined eyes. They began to speak among themselves, and from the sounds of it, he was reprimanding her, but she merely swatted at his shoulder before snuggling against him with a smile.

She later learned that the wild man was her husband, and his name was Floki.

More days passed and Helga had grown a fondness for the girl as she was the only captive on their boat that was a woman. It continued in that way, Helga offering her small scraps, sometimes even singing a little tune. Other times, she taught her a few words and phrases in the northern tongue.

Quite liking the company of the older woman, Artemis does her best in learning the difficult language. It was a way to pass the time, and no one really stared at her quite so much as before. In turn, she attempts to teach Helga her own language, though the older woman struggled.

Weeks went by, and Artemis found herself accustomed to the sounds the Helga produced, the words not sounding so thick and harsh in her ears as it once did. With their time almost always spent together, the younger of the two was able to recognize simple conversation.

"We are almost home," Helga tells her one morning. The journey to the north had taken months, but to Artemis, it felt like years. She licks her dry lips and burrows as far as she could in her cloak. The closer north they sailed, the colder the winds were.

"Your home, not mine." She replies, bitterly, the foreign words feeling strange on her tongue. Helga ignored her tone, only offering a kind smile.

"Your pronunciations are better. With more practice you will be fluent in no time," Artemis snorts in response. She didn't really care for fluency, in fact, she didn't care about anything at all anymore, but she nods in response if it meant she'd be treated better.

Artemis scans her eyes over the horizon, watching as the clouds turned from a soft white to an angry gray.

"A storm comes." She tells Helga. The woman looks up, causing the others on the boat to notice the change in weather.

"Thor will protect us." Helga simply says, handing Artemis a small ration of salted meat.

"Not our god." Artemis mumbles, making sure she said the words right. She takes a bite of the salted meat while pointing towards the monks. Some slept in their weak state, while others hung their heads low, muttering their prayers. Artemis admired the strong faith the monks had. She felt her devotion could never match theirs.

Helga sighs, annoyed with the simple statement, and looks at Artemis with a stern expression. Helga was never angry.

"Thor will protect us." She says with finality in her tone. Artemis thought she would leave in her anger, but Helga chose to remain beside her, though it was as if her presence wasn't there anymore.

Artemis grumbles, looking towards the angry gray sky with pleading eyes.

If it is your will, Lord, drown us.

...

She didn't know how long she passed out for.

The last thing she remembered was rain, strong rain that encouraged the salty waves to crash down upon their ships with a ferocity she'd never seen before. She remembers hearing Bjorn shouting out orders, as his men huddled all the captives together into one congested mess. She panicked along with the others around her. The sound of the crashing waves was the last thing she rememebered before someone knocked her head against the mast.

Then it was total darkness.

"Is she dead?"

The male voice seemed to rattle inside her head. It was distant, yet so close that it felt like a buzzing in her ear. Despite the ache in her head, she could almost detect the hopeful tone in the voice. It took her a moment to force her eyes open, lurching forward to take in a shuddering breath. She blinks to clear her vision, fighting away the lightheadedness that came with her sudden movements.

She coughs, blinking her eyes a few more times. In her confusion, she didn't fight off the hands that suddenly gripped her cheeks.

"She's alive." Helga cries out, a blurry version of her bright smile coming into view. Floki was kneeling behind her, a clear frown forming on his lips. They were both soaked, as was everyone else on the boat. The storm had caused much damage and disarray. It was awfully quiet.

"Artemis, child, I told you, Thor would protect us." Artemis glances at Helga before looking up towards the clear skies. It was as if a storm never occurred.

Most of the men stood at the head of the boat looking out towards the sea with smiles despite what had happened. They must have been nearing their homeland.

Artemis turns to look at her surroundings, immediately noticing the remaining monks were fewer than before.

"Some willingly jumped off the ship," Helga begins to explain, "Others were washed away." The captive girl sniffs in response. She hadn't known any of the monks personally, but she was saddened by their untimely deaths. Perhaps they had made the right decision.

"Your god has no mercy." Artemis finally speaks, her words coated in sorrow. She struggles to shift her body, her wet cloak feeling like a heavy burden upon her shoulders.

"Thor had no need to protect them," Sneered Floki, "It is a wonder why he even spared you."

"Floki!" Helga scolded, shoving the man away before pushing Artemis's matted hair away from her face in a motherly fashion, "It doesn't matter now, you are safe," Helga was a kind woman, there was no denying it, but Artemis didn't want to be coddled by her. She had a growing resentment for them. She grunts when one of the young men on the boat moves forward to kneel between them, tying fresh rope around her already bruised wrists.

"You're a fighter, aren't you?" He mutters to her, flashing her a toothy grin. She focused on his smiling green eyes as she slowly dissected his words. She didn't think she was a fighter. She thought herself unlucky.

The young man reaches over to pinch her cheek, laughing when she scowls in return.

"Hvitserk, stop your teasing." Helga scolds him, slapping away his hand. The man, Hvitserk, shrugs, smiling again as he winks at Artemis before taking his place beside Bjorn at the head of the boat.

"It's ok child, you are safe." Helga begins to reassure her, ignoring the way her husband sucked his teeth at her gentle ministrations.

"She is meant to be a slave, Helga, you coddle her too much."

Artemis lowers her head in defeat, opting to stare at her bounded wrists. She sniffs again, feeling the tears well up at the rim of her eyes before releasing a shuddering breath.

"I should have drowned."

[katfett]

LITTLE VALKYRIE - PART FOUR

A/Ns: So um, here it is. I’m a little uncertain about this but I’m hoping it holds up to the previous three chapters as it is beginning to get into the trek to York, which I’m stretching out as land travel with a marching army, ain’t happening overnight so we got a nice trek across England coming :) I hope you enjoy!

All mistakes are my own! I’ve edited, but likely missed a lot as it is nearly 2am here and I have work in 4 hours but I refused to stop writing haha

TAGLIST: @peachyboneless @youbloodymadgenius @criminaly-supernatural @heavenly1927 @zuxiezendler @surewhyynot @revolution-starter @punkrocknpearls @oldglitterstory @bloooferladyy @naaladareia @ecarroll1978 @mrsalwayswrite @eveenstar

(If you wish to be added, removed - just lemme know)

SUMMARY: She wasn’t meant to be here, she was on holiday in England and the next thing she knew she was in the middle of a war. Nora needs to survive if she ever hopes of finding her way home, but she wasn’t prepared to run into the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok. She wasn’t prepared for the adventure and trials coming her way.

CHAPTER FOUR

The chariot ride was uncomfortable; it felt every little bump and dip. Her back ached something fierce. She was grateful to not have to walk, given her lack of food or water over the last few days, but it was hard to find a positive beyond that. Nora could feel the start of a dehydration headache creeping in, making the trek ten times worse as the sun hurt her eyes. She tried to sleep the ride out, a near impossible task she was beginning to think.

Leaning her head against the wall of the chariot, ignoring Ivar’s presence, Nora wondered where they were heading. She hadn’t been the best history student, she’d eagerly sit through any movie about it like 300 or Braveheart and so on, even though they weren’t accurate, it was awesome to watch.

Probably should’ve paid more attention she thought drolly to herself. Then she’d be able to work out who these Vikings were, the rough year, and where she might be. This wasn’t how her holiday to England was meant to have gone. It was going to be hard to find her way back to where she’d arrived. There wasn’t a possibility it’d even be her way back. There had to be a reason she came here, right?

Though, it was going to be difficult, her arrival spot wasn’t going to have a neon sign about it to help her out, maybe there would be something that came with her that the English had forgotten, or not found? How was she even supposed to get back?

Nora couldn’t imagine what was happening back home; had she completely disappeared? Had time stopped? Were there people out looking? Was Mike okay? How did someone even rationalize something like this? How did she even explain it to Vikings who believed in a rainbow bridge?

Her eyes flickered to where Ivar sat towering over her. He hadn’t acknowledged her since they’d set out, his attention fixed on wherever they were heading.

What did he even want? Why had he dragged her along?

Would he think her mad if she ever found the ability to communicate what and who she was?

He must’ve felt her staring because after a moment those blue eyes lowered to her, and Nora found herself unable to look away. It was hard to work out what he was thinking as he stared back at her, his head tilted a little.

Those eyes were paralyzing; she couldn’t move when they locked on her. It was haunting to see the lack of emotion in them as he stared at her.

A shout from just ahead and Ivar pulled the chariot to a halt. It rocked as the horse shifted at the sudden lack of free movement. It was the rocking of it that allowed her to look away as she swayed with the movement, bumping into his legs.

He stiffened, she saw it and her wide eyes darted back to his. She didn’t know why she did it, but she quickly mumbled out an apology. It was a useless gesture when he couldn’t fucking understand her. It had been an accident. His eyes weren’t narrowed, but he didn’t look happy.

She leaned further back into the wall of the chariot, holding her hands up in surrender, hoping he understood she didn’t do it intentionally.

She could feel the scratching of that headache permeate through the back of her neck and brow. This was going to be a long day. Reaching up, she massaged her brow with the palm of her hand. If only someone would give her a drink. She didn’t care if they didn’t feed her, but she was dying for a drink.

***

She’d been quiet most of the day. He was thankful she’d stopped struggling with them for the time being. While he’d admired her fight, it would be tiring to drag her behind the chariot the whole way to teach her to behave at the right times. Fighting Harald, he still found the sight of her knocking the man down hilarious. Of all the people, he’d expected Bjorn to do it, but then again, his older brother didn’t really see the threat Harald posed.

To have a woman have Harald’s size do the job, was glorious. Ivar preferred her sitting by his legs, so he knew where she was. Harald had decided to remain with them, he’d been planning to return to Kattegat but had opted not to. Ivar knew why, and he could feel her watching him.

Glancing down, Ivar caught her bright gaze with his. He was still trying to work out how to communicate with her. This wasn’t like when Ragnar found that damnable monk, Athelstan; who’d been able to speak their language and was able to teach him English.

They were making good time, but Ubbe’s call to stop made him pull Fenrir up. The chariot rolled back as Fenrir fought the halt a little, and Nora bumped into his leg.

He stiffened. Embarrassing rolled through him; that rare, but powerful sensation making him freeze. People didn’t touch his legs; his mother had, Harbard had when he’d been smaller, ridding him of a great deal of the pain that had made him scream for hours on end. The jostle didn’t pain him, just made him keenly aware of what his legs felt like, how they looked beneath his clothes. She would feel the lack of muscle there.

She mumbled something through her gag. He didn’t know what she’d said but when she held her hands up in a gesture of surrender, he assumed it wasn’t cruel. She looked worried; like he might hurt her. He didn’t feel that sense of pleasure he’d gotten when he threatened Margrethe. Ivar didn’t want this woman so terrified of him that she’d not interact with him.

He watched her brow furrow and then the way she massaged at her head. Was there something wrong with her? He’d had head pains before, was she suffering from one?

Hvitserk appeared along the rim of the chariot, leaning over to look down at Nora. “I’m surprised she didn’t jump from the chariot halfway out of Wessex.”

Ivar hadn’t been. She seemed intelligent enough to understand there was an army between her and escape. He watched her cringe as Hvitserk’s loud voice startled her. She looked worn out.

“When was the last time she ate? Or had a drink?” he asked, looking at his older brother over Nora’s head.

“Before we caught her?” Hvitserk said with a shrug.

Ivar nodded. She had to be near dead on her feet if she hadn’t eaten or drank in the last few days. It was quite the feat to still be conscious in his opinion. He’d seen prisoners lose their sanity after a day. She had to be feeling the effects of it.

“Can you get her into my tent? Get one of the thralls to bring food, and water as well.”

Hvitserk nodded. He stepped around to the back of the chariot and Ivar felt the way Nora leaned further back into the wall. He frowned. She looked up at him, unsure.

“I don’t think she likes you,” Ivar said, grinning at his older brother who glared back.

“What woman wouldn’t like me?” he replied. Ivar rolled his eyes. Most women did like Hvitserk, because he knew just what to say to them, because he was a son of Ragnar, a non crippled son of Ragnar. Nora refused to move towards Hvitserk, and it made Ivar smile at the stubbornness of her. Even when Hvitserk held his hand out, smiling at her, patient. Ivar watched them, watching one another. He shifted Fenrir’s reins into one hand and reached down, grabbing hold of her upper arm. She stood rigid as he let go of her arm after dragging her up the wall of the chariot.

“Go.”

He pushed her forward to Hvitserk who caught her by the arm. She didn’t struggle as Hvitserk helped her down from the chariot. Ivar glanced up in time to catch Harald nearby, watching. He then noticed most of the people near them were watching; frowning or speaking to one another as they gestured to Nora. He’d need a guard on her.

***

Hvitserk guided her to a tent nearby, his hand clutching her arm firmly. Nora was too exhausted to put up a fight right now. She didn’t want to fight him; he wasn’t hurting her. In fact, he kept her close, half shielding her, and she was a little grateful as she noticed people were staring and pointing at her. Nora knew she stood out; her clothes alone gave her away.

She was glad to be out of the light when Hvitserk pushed her through the tent flap. It was quiet, and uninhabited as Nora’s sore eyes adjusted to the low light of the tent. She took in the bed of furs, the posts holding the tent up, and the low table. This was Ivar’s tent. She turned to look at Hvitserk who was standing in the entryway, holding the flap open as he watched her.

She gestured to the gag and glowered when he grinned, shaking his head. He motioned for her to stay, like one might command a pet with their hands and it would’ve made her growl but in truth, the gestures were their only form of communication.

To show she understood, Nora stepped toward the low table and sat at it, crossing her legs under her, and leaning her still bound arms on the table so she could rest her aching head on them.

Hvitserk didn’t speak and she was a little grateful when he left her, dropping the tent flap back down. Darkness encased her and Nora rolled her shoulders, trying to find a comfortable position. She wasn’t going to consider looking for an escape, just yet. She was too tired. She needed her strength back. To get that, she needed food and water. On queue her stomach grumbled, and she frowned.

If their aim was death by starvation, they were doing a bang-up job of it. Nora stayed where she was and had nearly fallen asleep when the tent flap reopened, letting in the light from outside through.

She glanced up.

A tall man, with white hair, held the flap open as a young, dark-haired woman stepped in. A slave? She gave her the briefest of glances before she stepped to the side and Nora watched Ivar crawl through. It didn’t escape her notice the way the slave girl recoiled at his presence.

Were people that repulsed by him? Was he a monster of a warlord?

Nora didn’t bother with them; she went back to resting her head on her arms. The sound of a crackling fire soon filled the tent and she listened as they spoke quietly to one another. She heard the shuffling of feet and Nora shivered as she felt Ivar come up alongside her.

It was him; she could tell by the way he dragged himself along the ground. How had he survived all these years with his condition? This time didn’t have the science, or the medicine hers did. What was he suffering from?

Nora startled a little as a hand scooped her hair back from where it covered her face. She looked up at Ivar. Her eyes went wide as she saw the knife in his hand. The slave girl had disappeared, as had the white-haired man. The fire lit the space, bathing them in a warm glow.

In fright, she tried to recoil but his hand twisted in her hair by her scalp, holding her still and she flinched but stayed put. Ivar’s face was passive and unreadable as he held her. Time felt like it froze as he brought the dagger up and slipped the blade beneath the cloth of her gag on her cheek. She held her breath.

With one firm pull, the dagger cut through the cloth and tight pressure eased. Nora couldn’t move, surprised and a little uncertain. Ivar set the knife down on the table and then, as though dealing with a wounded animal before him, slowly reached up and pulled the gag from her mouth.

She licked her dry, cracked lips and winced as it stung. He watched her, those eyes intent on her every little move. Oh, this wasn’t good. The tent flap opened and broke whatever hold Ivar had on her.

The slave girl reappeared and stopped in the doorway as she took them in. Nora didn’t move, but her eyes left Ivar’s face to watch hers. His fingers tightened in her hand, reminding her she was still held firm in his grip.

He glanced over his shoulder, speaking to the girl who jostled herself back into action and quickly stepped forward, setting a tray down near Ivar on the table. She hesitated to let go and Ivar snapped at her. Nora felt bad for the girl, but she also wasn’t daring to utter a word while he held her hair in a vice like grip with a knife in reach.

Even though he’d tried to communicate with her, she still didn’t fully trust him. She couldn’t. The girl left, and then they were alone again. Ivar didn’t look back at her straight away and Nora wondered what was going on in his head.

She wished he would let her hair go, give her some space.

Tentatively, Nora reached up, taking hold of his wrist. His head came back to look at her and she slowly wrapped her fingers around his brace covered wrist. She felt his fingers release her hair and as his hand slid out of her hair, she let go of his wrist.

She didn’t move as he reached for the knife, and she didn’t flinch or recoil as he reached out cut the rope around her wrists.

Rubbing her wrists, she nodded her thanks and then turned to face the table. The smell of meat reached her nose, and the heavenly scent made her empty stomach grumble, loudly. She winced and blushed, unable to face Ivar.

She wanted to reach out and take something to eat but she wasn’t sure if she was allowed.

After a moment, Ivar pushed a cup in front of her. He hadn’t moved from where he was resting, though he had moved his legs, so he was more comfortable. Glancing at him, Nora found him leaning an elbow casually against the table, his gaze on the table before them as he twirled the dagger in his hand.

Her mouth was dry, her lips parched, and she wanted whatever was in the cup before her.

He could’ve poisoned it for all she knew, and yet, she would still drink it because after three days without anything, she would take whatever was on offer.

Reaching out with both hands, she grabbed the cup and lifted it to her lips. She skulled the liquid inside. She shouldn’t have but the water tasted sweet. Nora coughed as the liquid slid down her throat and she pulled the cup away to cough into her hand. It was so good to have a taste of water.

She sighed, setting the empty cup down and wishing she could have more, but she needed to remember it could make her sick if she overdid it.

***

Ivar scooped her hair from back from where it covered her face. He knew how to do this, he just needed to get her to trust him a little. The thrall was off getting food and drink, and White Hair was ensuring no one stopped her in her mission. The fire bathed the tent, warming them as the evening air had started to grow cold outside, and the last thing he needed was to get sick.

She startled, trying to recoil but he anticipated it and twisted his fingers into her hair, hard enough to hold her still, not enough to truly hurt her. Her eyes were wide, she was frightened. He palmed the dagger. He needed her mouth free if he was going to try this.

Ivar didn’t need her to fight him. He was careful, unhurried as he lifted the dagger to her cheek, slipping the blade under the cloth. She’d stopped breathing. Ivar, had it been another woman, would’ve chuckled darkly at the sheer terror in her eyes. She wasn’t Margrethe though, and she wasn’t a thrall. No, Nora was something else, something unexpected.

He gave the cloth a firm tug and it sliced through the cloth easily. Hvitserk had gagged her after Ubbe had shown them the deep gouges on his hand from her teeth yesterday but Ivar trusted she was smart enough to know not to dig those teeth into him.

He was quiet as he set the dagger down before reaching up to pull the torn cloth away. His eyes dropped to her lips when her tongue darted out to lick those dry, parched lips and he didn’t fail to see her wince. He’d felt a similar sting was time ago, when the English had ferried him back to Kattegat after Ragnar’s deal.

The tent flap opened. The thrall stopped in the entryway, annoyed that she couldn’t just hurry on and leave, Ivar tightened his fingers in her hand as he watched Nora’s eyes jump to the thrall.

He glanced over his shoulder as he spoke, “Set it down, and go, quickly.”

His tone left no room for tardiness, but he also disliked the girl’s presence. She recoiled at the mere sight of him, and if he could, he’d gouged her eyes out for the venom he saw lingering whenever she looked at him.

He watched her set the tray down, her eyes going to Nora and she hesitated. She was lucky she moved before he could bark at her again. The thrall retreated, leaving them alone again.

Fingers brushed against his wrist, and he looked back at her. Her bound hands were slowly wrapping around his wrist. She was quick to understand that communication was better with slow gestures that gave them time to work out what the other was saying. He would remedy that, sooner rather than later.

He eased his grip on her hair, letting his hand slide from it as she let go of his wrist. She surprised him, a little, by not moving away. He picked his knife back up and freed her hands.

Nora nodded her thanks and then faced away from him.

It was quiet for a moment, peaceful even, he thought and then her stomach grumbled. He saw the red flame her cheeks and smirked. She didn’t reach for the food and water though.

Ivar made himself more comfortable before he grabbed one of the cups and slid it across to her. It was just water. He didn’t want to ply her with mead. He needed her to be able to talk with him.

She scooped up the cup and down the water, quicker than he expected.

He was quiet as he watched her. The English wrote to communicate, he didn’t expect her to be able to read runes, and he wouldn’t be able to understand her writing.

He reached out and took the cup from in front of her.

Small he thought.

He nudged her arm with the empty cup, and grinned when she looked at him, confusion evident. He held the cup up, and like he was speaking to a small child, trying to teach them to speak, he spoke.

“Cup.”

He motioned to it with the knife in his hand. Quiet settled between them. He repeated the word. It must’ve dawned on her what he was doing as she twisted to face him, her legs curled under her as she leaned forward a little, her eyes eager. He shook the cup a little, and pointed the knife at her, waiting.

She gave him the most perplexed look but then she tried to repeat the word, in his language. It was rather rough, and it took every bit of him not to sigh at the way she butchered a simple word with that strange accent of hers.

Then, she surprised him. She reached out and plucked the empty cup from him. Holding it in the palm of her hand, she pointed at it and spoke.

The smug look on her face made the corner of his mouth curve up in a smirk. He fought the urge, just. Rolling his eyes, he nodded, gesturing with his knife to the cup again. She repeated the word in her language.

***

Ivar was intelligent, frighteningly so. When he’d reached out to take the cup, Nora had half hoped he would refill it. Instead, he nudged her with it, like a toddler trying to get her attention. She looked at him, brow furrowed, and tired. She really did want to sleep once she was hydrated and her belly reasonably full.

He held the cup up, gesturing to it as he spoke one word. What? She was so confused. He repeated the word, still gesturing to the cup.

Wait.

Was he – Was he trying to teach what word meant cup in his language? The idea of sleep suddenly vanished. If she learned how to speak basic words in his language, she could ask for things, she would be able to learn more about this place, where they were going.

Twisting to face him fully, Nora leaned forward, wanting to try. Hang Yoda’s suggestion that there was no try, the little green frog didn’t get transported back in time and taken prisoner by Vikings.

Ivar shook the cup a little and then pointed the knife at her. It was quiet, and for a moment she tried to remember how he had pronounced it. She tried to replicate it, though by the look on his face her accent was butchering the simple word.

Two can play this game.

She reached out and took the cup from him, setting it in the palm of her hand and holding it up, pointing to it.

“Cup.”

Let’s see you do it, Mr. Smug she thought, internally chuckling. She saw the corner of his mouth twitch and she felt her heartbeat quicken at the way he rolled his eyes at her, nodding. He gestured to the cup with his knife. Repeat.

She did as he hinted and said the word again. Just as her accent butchered cup in his language, his butchered hers. Nora giggled; she couldn’t help it. She watched him purse his lips and held a hand up as a means of apology. It wasn’t at him, just at how bad their respective accents made this.

He turned and made her flinch when he skewered a piece of meat with his knife. He turned back and held it up. Nora’s stomach growled. The smirk that came to his face made her audibly growl as he pulled it away when she went to reach for it.

Apparently, he could play this better than her.

Once she sat back, waiting, he held the meat back between them. He said a new word. Did this mean meat? He said it slowly the second time. Nora knew what he was doing. If she didn’t pronounce it right, he wasn’t going to give her the meat. Pursing her lips, Nora leaned her elbows on her knees and then her head in her hands as she ran through the word in her mind. She could do this; she would do this.

“Meat.” She said the word slowly, carefully. Hoping her damn accent didn’t lose her brownie points this time. He looked at her past the meat and she narrowed her eyes at him, holding her hand out and making a give it over gesture.

Nora felt her pulse quicken and her cheeks warm as Ivar smiled at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Oh boy, he was handsome up close when he smiled like that. He tipped the point of the knife to her and let her take the meat off it.

Carefully, she chewed on it. It was pork, she gathered. It wasn’t chicken, that was for sure. It was good, whatever it was. She held her last bite up, rubbing her mouth on the back of her sleeve.

“Meat.”

This time she said it in his language, and then hers. He turned and grabbed another piece, holding it out to her. She didn’t even care that he’d grabbed it with his fingers, she devoured the last bit she held and then reached out to take the new piece.

As she took it, she repeated the word in her language. He was watching her, his eyes taking her in, and she was struggling to work out why he was staring at her like he was.

The tent flap opened.

Nora jerked out of her daze, and whatever was going on, to look at their visitor.

Hvitserk stepped in, his gaze searching the tent before landing on the two of them at the table. He grinned, and Nora didn’t miss the way Ivar rolled his eyes as he looked back at her. She covered her mouth with both hands to hide her smile at the lack of utter contempt Ivar seemed to have for their lesson, or whatever being interrupted.

***

“Enjoying yourself in here?” Hvitserk asked as he approached, not waiting for Ivar to offer for him to join them.

He plopped himself down on the opposite side of the table to them, grabbing the second cup and a piece of meat. Ivar slammed the knife he was holding down into the tabletop, stopping Hvitserk and making Nora jump.

“Who said you were invited in?” Ivar looked at Hvitserk, clearly not happy. Realizing that, Hvitserk smirked and ignored his little brother to look at the woman among them.

“You took off the gag,” he said, and his eyes fell to her wrists, “and her bindings. Was that wise?”

Ivar looked back to Nora who was watching them both, still sitting beside him. He jerked his head to Hvitserk. “Fool.”

Hvitserk glared at him.

Nora spoke, trying to repeat the word, she didn’t quite get it. Hvitserk glanced at her, eyes widening. She then held up the cup, and proudly butchered it again. Ivar rolled his eyes, though he was grinning at the absolute confusion on Hvitserk’s face. Nora surprised Ivar though as she moved, getting up onto her knees and leaning across the table alongside of him to reach for a piece of meat. He let her, his eyes following her intently as she came close to him.

Most people kept a healthy distance from him. Nora froze, seeming to realize what she had done. She blushed bright red, and as quickly as she’d moved, she sat back, a piece of meat in her hand. Ivar didn’t know how to respond as she held the meat up to Hvitserk.

“Meat.”

He had to grin. She got that one perfect. He looked at Hvitserk, and his grin faltered as he realized his older brother was watching Nora before his gaze moved to Ivar.

“Why are you teaching her our language?” he asked. Ivar rolled his eyes, and leaned forward, taking the cup from Nora’s hand. He held it up and said the word for it in Nora’s language. He smirked at the way Hvitserk’s eyes bulged. “Why?”

“Why not? We need to communicate with her,” Ivar said, with a shrug as he refilled the cup from the larger pitcher and slid it back towards Nora without glancing at her. He could see from the corner of his eye as she took it. “I want to know who she is, where she comes from, where she got those clothes.”

Hvitserk slowly nodded. “And you’re learning her language, why?”

Ivar grinned. “So, she won’t be able to plan anything behind our backs.”

***

Nora didn’t know what they were saying, but least it gave her a chance to watch how they interacted. She wondered if they were related to one another. They had similar features here, and there, and their smiles had that same upturn at the corner of their mouths.

Who was the older brother?

When Ivar took the cup off her, and refilled it, after shocking their newest addition by saying the word for it in her language, he surprised her by sliding it back to her. She was silently thankful for the kind gesture, though she was careful to sip this time.

After finishing off her food, and water, Nora struggled to fight the yawn that came on. She covered her mouth, looking sheepish. Both men looked at her. They spoke to one another before Hvitserk sighed, clearly not happy but he climbed to his feet and stepped around the table towards the furs. Wait, this was Ivar’s tent, wasn’t it?

She watched as Hvitserk picked up a few of the furs and dropped them unceremoniously near the fire. Nora glanced at Ivar when Hvitserk spoke to him. He looked at her and jerked his head in Hvitserk’s direction.

She climbed to her feet, a little stiffly and made her way towards Hvitserk. He didn’t move as she stepped around him to the furs. She glanced up at him. He was so tall. She smiled a little awkwardly and nodded her thanks. He nodded, and then moved away, back to the table.

Nora unzipped her jacket, shrugging out of it. Her vest followed, she collapsed down onto the furs and unlaced her boots, tugging them off, her socks following. She tucked them into her boots which set beside her jacket and vest. Grabbing one of the furs, she dragged it over legs and glanced across at Ivar and Hvitserk.

She paused.

They were staring at her.

Fisting handfuls of the fur, she waved a little awkwardly before shuffling to curl up on her side under the fur, facing the fire. She wasn’t going to wish them goodnight. It didn’t take long for Nora to fall asleep, exhausted, finally not so starving or thirsty.

[niishiki]

@youbloodymadgenius​

@apenas-mais-uma-pessoa​

[honestsycrets]

Ok I don't mind Hvitserk being a monk or whatever but like shouldn't there have been more of a leadup too it?? I don't understand what happened to make him do that so quickly it seems...HOW DID HE BECOME A PRINCE? DID ALFRED ADOPT HIM WTF I'M SO CONFUSED :( and AETHELSTAN I JUST

I mind Hvitserk being a prince monk and adopted.

[aion-rsa]

Vikings Ending Explained

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

The following contains spoilers for Vikings season 6 part two.

Vikings has always been concerned with legacy: that of the Vikings themselves, and of Ragnar and his sons. It’s clear from the show’s coda – Ubbe and Floki side by side on a distant beach, contemplating existence as the sun glows down upon the endless stretch of ocean before them –  that the two ultimately are inseparable. Bound up in this spider’s web of myth and mayhem, too, is the fate and legacy of the show itself. How will it be remembered now that it is gone? In a word: fondly. 

Creator Michael Hirst has left us a show for the ages, one that transcends the war, blood, and murder that first drew audiences to its story. The closing run of episodes is at turns thrilling, stirring, chilling, harrowing, heart-breaking, savage, sensual and ethereal, and is capped off with a mesmerizing, mytho-philosophical finale that retroactively elevates everything that came before it, all the way back to the moment when Ragnar first asked Floki to help him sail west. So how does it achieve this greatness? And what does it all mean? Let’s break it down. 

Groundhog Deity

One of the central themes of the show is the cycle of violence and bloodshed in which Viking society finds itself mired, and the battle between those who seek to perpetuate it, and those who seek to break free from it. It’s a dichotomy that burns down through the wick of the show, and often rages within its characters, most notably Ragnar, Lagertha, Floki, Bjorn, and Ubbe. Season upon season, each promise of peace is swiftly pounded into the blood-soaked earth by the vengeance, skulduggery or megalomaniacal ambitions of a chaotic individual, faction or rival; the old ways refusing to cede ground to the new. But still the dreamers and visionaries struggle, against themselves, against the furious roar of tradition, again and again. This rise and fall happened so frequently throughout the show’s run that its rhythm caused some sections of the audience to grow weary. This repetition, though, this sense of helplessness, is largely the point (not to mention an accurate portrayal of the brutish life endured by most people in the Dark and Middle Ages), and one that’s made more explicit than ever before in the final stretch of the season. Like the characters themselves, we the audience must feel – truly feel – the suffocating hopelessness of it all before we can begin to appreciate the burst of light at the end. 

All throughout the series the Vikings’ thirst for war and conquest is cloaked in the language of fate, destiny, glory, and the Gods. In a telling sequence half-way through the final ten episodes, these justifications are stripped away to reveal the dark, very mortal truth that lies behind them. Ivar, Hvitserk, and King Harald reunite in a calm and peaceful Kattegat. All three are burnt-out, frazzled, and dissatisfied. There’s a real sense that “the age of the Vikings is gone” and that this is “the twilight of the Gods”. Harald and Ivar admit that there is no pleasure in being a King, despite it being a title both men have dreamed of and longed for, and for which they’ve lied, cheated, betrayed, and killed. In the final analysis, we can see – and finally they can see, however indirectly – that the great cycle in which the Vikings are trapped has been perpetuated not by the Gods – those great scapegoats in the sky – but by bored and angry men seeking in bloodshed distractions from a cold and brutish world whose quotient of misery has only ever been increased by their actions. It is especially sad to see Ivar churned back into this mill given the growth he experienced throughout this season, not only in being a caring, surrogate father to the Rus heir Igor, but in becoming an actual father after his body asserted itself just long enough to plant his seed in Princess Katia’s belly. 

Ivar witnesses two men in a public gathering-place squabbling over a trivial matter, and extrapolates from this that war is a necessary state for the Vikings, because in peace they fight amongst themselves. It’s patently obvious that the lesson Ivar pulls from this incident says more about his pain and psychopathology – his hatred, his emptiness – than it does about society at large. Ultimately, it is he, and Harald, and Hvitserk, and a million other men just like them, who need war. They need external conflict to distract them from their own internal conflicts and inadequacies. Never-the-less, and perhaps unsurprisingly, Ivar’s facile supposition is all that King Harald needs to hear. Before long, the three men and a ready-made army are heading back across the sea to England for a final confrontation with King Alfred and his Christian Saxon soldiers. 

“The Twilight of the Gods”

This climactic confrontation is, on one level, less a battle between two armies and more the continuation of the chess game Ivar and Alfred once played as children, as their fathers – King Ragnar and King Ecbert – cut deals and hatched plots in another room. 

In many ways, Ivar was always marked for monsterhood. He grew up with the fierce love of his mother, Aslaug, which she wrapped around him like a blanket made of steel. By over-compensating for his condition and physical fragility to such a suffocating degree, she left him isolated, conceited and angry. His father, Ragnar, was absent for most of his youth. Though Ivar had Floki to teach and guide him in the ways of the Gods, Ivar didn’t realize quite how much of himself had been missing until Ragnar returned and took him under his wing. Ragnar was one of the few men who seemed to have faith in Ivar’s abilities; who told him that he could be something other than a liability, a cripple, a joke. They journeyed to England together with conquest in mind, but when a storm sank most of their boats, Ragnar swiftly refocused the purpose of their visit, enlisting Ivar’s aid to kill the surviving members of their party (to remove all evidence of their initial intent) and surrender themselves to King Ecbert. 

Ragnar tells Ecbert to deliver him into the hands of King Aelle, so that Ecbert will not be blamed for Ragnar’s death, and the full fury of the Vikings will be directed at their mutual enemy instead. However, Ragnar has instructed Ivar to return home with news of Ecbert’s duplicity, so that both Kings will become the targets of the rage-and-grief-filled Viking horde. Ivar is the perfect capsule for this incendiary message, as Ragnar gambles, quite correctly, that King Ecbert’s sense of fair play, filtered through his Christianity, won’t permit him to harm or imprison a poor, harmless crippled boy. Ragnar thus succeeds in turning the Saxon’s Christian compassion into a fatal weakness, while at the same time teaching his weaponized son that love, violence, deceit, and death are so intimately connected as to be almost indivisible. 

When Aslaug died at Lagertha’s hands, soon after Ragnar’s death, it removed his only other source of love, cloying though it was. He took that love and turned a mutated version of it upon himself, imbuing himself with delusions of Godhood, something his fury at his parents’ deaths only served to magnify.

In the first dramatic round of the final battle against Alfred, Ivar repeats his father’s tactic of weaponizing kindness. He orders traps to be set in the forest with which to painfully ensnare the first line of Alfred’s advancing soldiers. The hope is that Alfred’s Christian compassion will compel him to send the next few lines of soldiers to assist their wailing brothers, allowing the Vikings to ambush them like lambs to the slaughter. And so it proves. Many lives are lost. The fighting is kinetic and savage; the pervading mist and gloom only enlivened by the occasional eruption of fire, like a melding of Valhalla and the Christian conception of Hell. King Harald is killed, finding some solace and peace at last with a dying vision of his brother, Halfdan, whom he’d killed in a previous battle. 

After this, there is a lull in the fighting. Alfred and Ivar meet under a white flag to discuss terms. Alfred will not yield. He will never again reward Ivar for his unprovoked attacks, nor fall into the trap of trusting his word. He tells Ivar to leave his kingdom, leave England, and never return; entreats him to save his people from further pointless bloodshed.  He goes on to declare: “My God is the God of peace and love. Your Gods are savage. They demand sacrifice. They do not know human love.” The final fight that follows is as much the culmination of a struggle between two competing religious and cultural ideologies as it is a battle between Ivar and Alfred; and by the end of this final episode the matter is settled, at least in a thematic sense. 

Alfred and Ivar cleave to their God and Gods on the battlefield, looking to them for guidance and answers. As the situation becomes ever more desperate, both leaders soon find themselves deserted by their Gods, their imagined connection to them severed. 

“What am I supposed to do?” Ivar shouts to his suddenly deaf and mute Gods. “Answer me!”

“Speak to me, please. I’m afraid. Speak!” Alfred beseeches his lord Jesus. 

Stripped of their Gods, both men are forced to acknowledge in whose image they’ve truly been forged: their fathers’. What they do next will decide if history is doomed to repeat itself, and also settle the question of whether it is their own wills or the wills of their fathers that are the stronger. Ultimately, it is love and compassion, in both instances, that proves to be their guiding light, leading Ivar to reject his father’s ways, and Alfred to embrace his father’s – his real father: the monk Athelstan, who was once a friend and confidante of the great Ragnar Lothbrook. 

All You Need is Love

Ivar watches the battle from the side-lines. Hvitserk has long been a tormented, tortured and fractured man, but in combat he’s whole, screeching and roaring through the flames like a mythical demon. But one man can’t best a whole army, and it becomes clear that Hvitserk isn’t long for this world. Ivar’s eyes shine an electric blue, a physical indication known since childhood that his brittle bones are about to break. Ivar knows his actions in the next few minutes will serve as his last will and testament, the means by which the world will remember him. Ivar watches Hvitserk – the brother he’d many times mocked and tormented, whose life he’d tried to ruin, who’d long forsworn to kill him – and charges onto the battlefield to take his place, submitting himself to the same forces of compassion he’d spent a life-time deriding and subverting.  

“I could never kill you,” he tells Hvitserk.

“I love you. I love you brother,” Hvitserk replies tearfully.

“Now go. Go!” hollers Ivar.

Ivar’s rage and defiance seem to shake the very earth around him. He is at one with his army. He fights and lives through them. In the midst of his last stand a young soldier, shaking with fear, approaches him from the mist.

“Don’t be afraid,” says Ivar, an almost Christ-like evocation at this, his moment of sacrifice. The soldier stabs him repeatedly, and, as Ivar falls, his bones snap and break. Hvitserk runs to him and cradles his dying body, while Alfred calls for the fighting to stop. “I am afraid,” Ivar splutters, words no-one thought they would ever hear from Ivar the Boneless. And then there are three more; his final words: “I love you.”   

Ivar has thus broken the cycle. He has sacrificed himself not for hate, as his father once did, but for love. He was finally able to know and to feel human love; and crucially to demonstrate it instead of demanding it, even if it was right at the end of his life, and only for a few moments. Already Ivar had begun to demonstrate humility. On the eve of the battle he told Hvitserk: “Hundreds of years from now, someone will be proud to find my blood is in their body and my spirit is in their soul.” Maybe part of him realized that in becoming a father he’d finally achieved the immortality after which he’d always hungered, and it was enough.  

Hvitserk is carried away on the back of a wagon. We’re given an aerial view of this, lending Hvitserk the appearance of a corpse returning from battle. In many ways he is. Hvitserk is dead, in a sense. The merciful Alfred baptises Hvitserk, allowing him to be reborn with a new name: Athelstan. 

We know from our future vantage point that the loving Christ Hvitserk has now embraced is destined to eventually, and irrevocably, defeat the old Norse Gods. Not only that, but there will be a millennium of distinctly non-loving conquests, wars, decimations, genocides, enslavements and cultural destructions carried out in His name, all of which will make the exploits of the 8th and 9th century Vikings look like the tantrums of naughty children in comparison. But Hvitserk doesn’t know this. All he knows is that he has found peace by rejecting war and embracing love. He has finally found a way to honor his father – or at least the part of his father that loved Athelstan, and came to see Christianity and Paganism as two sides of the same coin. Love and mercy, then, are the instruments that Hvitserk and Alfred use to break free from the ‘endless cycle of suffering and war’.     

Out With The Old

The show’s themes converge, coalesce and crystalize in the New World, too. The journey from Iceland to Greenland to North America is one fraught with danger and death, but characterized by faith and hope and sacrifice. And it is Othere, the Christian wanderer once known as – appropriately enough – Athelstan (no relation), who leads them there. 

 “This is everything [Ragnar] was searching for,” Ubbe tells Othere, in their new land of milk and honey. “And I found it.” Othere cautions Ubbe against behaving in the same ways that he did before – the old ways – lest this land become just like the land he left behind.

They are not alone. The Vikings discover that the land is occupied by a tribe of indigenous peoples they refer to as Skraelings. The tribe welcomes them warmly. Ubbe soon discovers they have a friend in common: Floki, who somehow reached these same shores from Iceland, alone, and now lives on the periphery of the Skraelings’ land as a revered mystic. If it wasn’t for the Skraelings’ kindness, Floki would have died on arrival. They showed him mercy and kindness.

Asked why he left Iceland, Floki says it was because he was ‘imprisoned in sadness’. 

“What made you so sad?”

“I don’t always remember,” he says, with a wistful smile.

Floki here represents the past of the Vikings as we in the modern world have come to know it, a patchwork of tall tales and omissions. Floki embodies how time will continue to wash away both the Vikings’ history and their legend, until there’s little difference between them, and nothing much is left of either. Floki also embodies the idea that the golden age of the Vikings is gone; he remembers that he once was a Viking; he remembers Ragnar, the sons of Ragnar and the people who were important to them, but little else. There was a time when Floki was the greatest soldier of and preacher for the Gods, but he has now let them go, shed them like a dead skin. “I called to them and no longer heard their voices, or they didn’t make sense,” he tells Ubbe. Again, entropy, evolution, death, re-birth, legend, past, future: all suffused. 

The old ways make one last effort to re-assert themselves, even here in this paradise, and Ubbe gets his defining moment – just as Ivar and Hvitserk and Bjorn before him got theirs. One of his party murders the son of the Skraeling’s leader while ransacking the leader’s home for gold. The Skraelings – clearly more civilized than the Vikings ever were – hand this man over to Ubbe to decide his fate. 

This is a pivotal moment for the series. Where once we were encouraged to see Ragnar as the hero, even when he was killing and pillaging his way through innocent peoples, here we perceive this man, this murderer – who has simply acted in accordance with how the Vikings have always acted – as a dangerous savage. We, the audience, have already made a choice about who the Vikings are now, or who they should be – and so has Ubbe.

At first the murderer is to be publically blood-eagled, a particularly savage and painful form of execution that never-the-less guarantees its sufferer entry to Valhalla. At the last moment, Ubbe changes his mind, and slits the man’s throat instead. 

“Valhalla is not for you, my friend,” Ubbe tells him, mere seconds before carrying out his sentence, “Let me put you out of your misery.” Ubbe does not say this to be cruel, to rob the man of his place in the afterlife. He simply doesn’t want to inflict unnecessary pain, and is showing mercy. But it’s deeper than that, too. Valhalla doesn’t seem to matter to him anymore. Ubbe has come to understand that life can be lived without the old ways and their Gods, and be all the better for it. 

On the beach, Ubbe seeks Floki’s advice and counsel. Floki smiles. “You don’t need to know anything. It’s not important. Let it go.”

It’s fitting that Floki is there at the show’s end. Without his innovation as a boat maker, Ragnar would never have sailed west and discovered Saxon lands; would never have met Athelstan. Without Floki, the Vikings would never have discovered Iceland, or Greenland, or the New World on whose shores they now sit. Ragnar is the one who will be immortalized in legend, while the world will slowly forget Floki. He has already started to forget himself. Perhaps that is the point. Warriors live on in legend and infamy, while the people who built the world around them and at their backs fade away. But wasn’t it ever thus? Legends change the world; love saves it. And here we see that love is the more important, and more enduring, force of the two, even if we’re sometimes too proud to acknowledge it, or too blind to see it. 

“I love you, Floki,” says Ubbe, as they stare across the ocean, at their past, at their possible future, at eternity. 

What a beautiful, and truly surprising, sentiment for a show as blood-soaked as Vikings to bow out on.  

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Of course the status quo clings on in Kattegat, and I guess this will be picked up in the spin-off series. Set 100 years after the events of Vikings, Vikings: Valhalla is reportedly coming to Netflix sometime next year.

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