#siggy my beloved

[viking-chaos]

Sigtryggr Ivarrsson | Eysteinn Sigurðarson The Last Kingdom | 4.09

[adiposesaleswoman]

B-big bee boi

👀👀👀👀👀 biggest bee boy.....he's out there......

[thats-a-weird-warning-sign]

congrats on finishing your exams, may i request a camilith + 20?

20 - A kiss on a scar So full disclosure this got away from me a bit...

Camila has always struggled with patience. There’d bever been the time for it - she’d had too much to do, siblings to care for and a mother to coax through each day. She had a father to mind and a stepfather to avoid. She’d wake with the dawn and be moving through until the darkest part of the night. She had no time for patience, so the convent was a bit of a shock, at the beginning.

It was a shock for more than that, obviously. There was the shock of the gunfight, the shock of the deal-gone-wrong, the shock of seeing your stepfather point a gun at you. There was the shock of cold water; off the bridge to avoid a bullet, wild with fear and half convinced this was all a fever dream.

The shock on her mother’s face was the loudest, hurt the most – when Camila had come home bloodied and bedraggled, clutching a fistful of notes barely cleaner than the river water, pressed her shaking hands to her mother’s, kissed her sisters goodbye and fled.

The shocks started to lose meaning after that. The shock of her father, barely sober enough to drive but parked outside a house he hadn’t laid eyes on in a decade – with the address of the nearest convent already pulled up on an ancient satnav, a grim smile and bloodied knuckles.

A convent was not the way Camila had been planning to reinvent herself, after she got out – but if nothing else, she was resourceful. There’s only so resourceful you can be in a stone building older than the United States of America, however – and it didn’t take long before Camila – novitiate camila – was being transferred to somewhere her skills might be a little better utilised.

It was beautiful to be back in Spain, but it hurt. Camila didn’t expect it to ever stop hurting – but she was resourceful. She learned new skills, swore she’d never again have to plunge into icy water to end a fight, and she never wrote home. She didn’t even think of home, she didn’t think of her sisters or her mother, she didn’t worry if her father was drinking himself to death or if her mother had fallen back into that sad empty stupor.

She forgot her name, she laid it to rest, she’d died in that river.

She had to have died in that river.

She never expected it to stop hurting - those sorts of wounds don’t; they ache forever, and worse in the winter.

The first winter after her death is a quiet one. Spain is cold, as cold as it ever gets. Balmy compared to Caithness, but of course - she’s never lived in Caithness, wouldn’t know the difference - doesn’t miss the wind that makes your face burn.

Instead, she is swallowed entirely by a cathedral that is as beautiful as it is deadly – surrounded by women who have their own hidden, aching wounds. Camila has never been religious, but there is something about the OCS that makes the act of worship - the act of honing a body to a razor edge and sending it out to cut and dress an offering - far more real than stale bread and watery wine.

Camila is adaptable.

Camila is adaptable, and resourceful, and so painfully lonely it has almost stopped hurting. But then, on Christmas eve, or very very early on Christmas morning, long after midnight mass, long after she should have been tucked into her narrow bed, she sits at a piano that sounds like it’s older than the church itself, and she plays. She plays quietly, delicate with the silence thick around her, afraid to shatter it with a duff note. She plays and she hums, and she tries with all that she has not to think of home.

Shannon, Sister Shannon, Warrior Nun and honoured leader of the OCS in spirit and body, finds her sat staring at her hands in silence. She folds her long, lethal body to sit beside Camila at the piano bench, smiles a rueful smile.

They don’t speak of much, but the memory of that conversation – of the sleep hazy chill, sat shoulder to shoulder with a woman who Camila is supposed to believe carries a shard of the divine – that memory sits heavy for a long time.

It sits heavier after Shannon is gone. It sits heavier when Sister Beatrice stands at her shoulder in tight-lipped silence, a wan smile and faint assurance that Camila’s second field mission will go better than the first. It settles into a steady weight after that, a pressure on her bones that makes her creak at the hinges as she hacks into police databases and hijacks security cameras – as she storms strobe lit laboratories and shoots glowing arrows at a demon she can see only in the carnage it leaves behind and the fear in the eyes of the resurrected woman running from her.

The new pain and the old pain burn together for a while, as the weather draws in and the skies darken and the new warrior nun runs from them time and again. Lilith is killed, and Camila sees the weight on Mary’s shoulders double – couldn’t hope to understand the history but recognises the ache in the stoop of strong shoulders.

She’s had scars aplenty, collected them like badges of honour for a while – had them pinned upon her by more hands than she could count. The scars the OCS gives her are a little different, a little deeper. They’re cleaner than the memory of barbed wire that gives texture to the field of poppies that wraps her bicep, or the burn that silvers the swords on her forearm. Camila doesn’t even see them anymore. She’s carried worse, is under no illusion that she will carry worse once again. At least her scars and her aching, burning wounds are of this world. Camila knows her pain, knows its cause and can tell when the weather will turn an aching to a gnawing.

Under fluorescents once again, with an invitation this time – cool glass and air conditioning soothing the weight of cloth and hood, she watches Ava bend the laws of physics and fall into Beatrice’s arms as if her gravity was suddenly greater than earth’s. There are scars there too, she knows, but the two of them together look set to soften each other’s sharp edges.

Camila has never had a scar ripped open again, guards old wounds carefully like any good soldier; the skin is weaker there, aches to bleed once more.

Lilith rends a tear in the skin of the world, falls through a door and a hole in reality, here and alive and raw and as confused as Camila is. They sit together, and Camila chooses to smile, chooses to dress another’s wounds. They sit together for a scant few hours, and Lilith weeps and burns with a pain that Camila can see will break her. Camila has dressed more wounds than she can count, but there is no gauze for this, no salve to ease the fear in Lilith’s eyes.

Camila is not patient, and it is for the best – their days run helter-skelter into chaos, they roam far and wide, they unearth a monster, commit the most brazen act of destruction of property Camila has ever attempted.

They are betrayed.

Camila is not patient. They run again, lose Mary to a sea of clawing hands and screaming. She dresses a deep gash in her own thigh, cleans masonry dust from Beatrice’s grazed forehead, washes the blood from Ava’s knuckles even as the halo sews skin back together.

They run, but at least she’s free of the habit. They run, from the church and the demon they released - and from their own sister.

Camila had seen that Lilith’s pain was too great to bear. Sometimes, she wishes she was wrong about these things – that practice didn’t make perfect.

Ava’s curious hands find the scars on her arms, trace the ink that hides them. Beatrice deftly re-stitches Camila’s thigh when she pushes too hard, when blood soaks her third-hand cargo pants and draws attention that they cannot afford.  

Lilith comes to her, sometimes – in the darkest part of the night. The first time, Camila draws steel against her, has a knife to Lilith’s throat in a half second of adrenaline. Her fear drives the blade into flesh that hisses with fire as it heals, silvered and scaled and whole again. Lilith’s eyes burn too, in the dark – her words burn, acidic, angry – at everything and everyone. She stays just long enough to insult each of her sole surviving sisters, but Camila can hear the grief laying thick behind the fury.

Mother Superion sends them coordinates, sends them into warehouses and factories, sends them after whispers of twisted miracles. She sends them into fistfights, gunfights, fights for their lives. She sends them to fight for the lives of others – Ava learns a hundred ways to tell her sisters of the possessed – shorthand gestures, a change in posture. Camila would swear sometimes that Beatrice reads the thoughts straight out of Ava’s head.

Sometimes, Mother Superion sends them coordinates to slaughterhouses – the fight they anticipate already long over, the remains of their enemies left - bloody afterthoughts, or offerings.

Lilith’s visits track slowly westward, cataloguing the scattered safehouses and motels that mark their journey back to Malaga, to the fluorescent-lit labs and hungry cathedrals that began this. She appears in fire in courtyards, on roofs, in graveyards – never again setting foot in whatever bare space Camila is sleeping in. The first thing Camila sees each time Lilith steps out of the fire and into the light is the delicate silvered scar over her right common carotid – the artery hidden under scales that catch and throw light like cut glass.

Lilith comes bloodied and grim, comes silent, comes roaring her fury, comes weeping her failure. Lilith hunts Mary, haunts those who might have taken her. Camila aches, carries the weight of another loss - wishes she’d named herself Judith as she’d crawled from the river, counts the lost causes as they sit around the breakfast table.

Camila is not patient, but she is observant, and she has learnt the skill of walking diagonally toward something you want so as not to spook it into flight. Camila is not patient, but she is resourceful; she has learned how to be many things to many people, so it is a pleasant surprise to be asked to be no one other than herself. Camila is not patient, but there are some things she is willing to try for.

Lilith comes for the last time in the evening, stumbles from shadows trembling and bleeding. Lilith has never appeared where Beatrice may see her – has not faced Ava since the Vatican, but now she falls to her knees not two steps from the aged sofa they’re resting on. Camila jolts from the table, scatters half-fletched bolts and oiled blades in her hurry to press hands to Lilith’s bleeding wounds. Lilith trembles under her hands, bloodied up to her hairline and gasping for every breath.

She says Mary is gone and the shape of her sprawled here makes sense. She says Mary is gone and Beatrice turns to stone, Ava the only one able to voice her pain.

Mary is gone, Lilith weeps, scaled hands upturned, head bowed in supplication. All of Lilith’s scars are highlighted in silver. Camila runs soft hands over rough-plated shoulders, warmth burning beneath her palms.

Camila isn’t patient, but she has some knowledge of passing through death and having to press on through the other side of it. She has some experience of walking back into a home and finding that all of a sudden it sits wrong in the shoulders and the sleeves are too short and someone has moved the table 3 inches to the left. Camila isn’t patient, but she is sorry.

Later, when Lilith has cried herself out, Camila will coax her upright and cajole a mug of tea into her hands. She will lead her gently by the hand into their dingy bathroom to wipe the blood from her brow, she will press the softest clothes they have into her shaking hands. She will tuck Lilith beneath a pile of blankets and sit with her until exhaustion takes her. Then she will check on the rest of her sisters. Then she will cry.

Now, Lilith weeps into her shoulder, presses her forehead into Camila’s collarbone hard enough to hurt. Camila lets her cry, hushes hands up and down a shivering spine. Camila is not patient, but she understands that a vessel can only contain so much before it spills; before it cracks. Camila cups the back of Lilith’s head and presses her lips to the only place she can reach - the only place she deserves. The scales had looked like glass each time they drew her eye, but they are warm, soft. Beneath her lips Lilith’s pulse runs fast and strong.

Camila isn’t patient, but some things are worth waiting for.

[vyragosa]

i will never not throw up

[ayumitsuu]

Ayu plays FE4 (Gen 1 - Chp. 0-5)

Just some thoughts and screenshots I had while playing. Not necessarily an in-depth story walkthrough.

Prologue: Birth of the Holy Knight

Sigurd = Mega Chad

Alec x Noish = cute <3

Arden is da man

Um, Siggy? Does a 14-year-old really need real war exp?

ETHLYN X QUAN, YES 😍

AZELLE X LEX, YESSSS 💗

Arvis kinda a jerk... thx for the Silver Sword tho

Read more if you wish! Spoilers ahead!

Chapter 1: Girl of the Spirit Forest

Oh no, a bandit. Whatever shall I do? *woe is me*

Oof, aren't you that OP hottie taking all the castles from here to Jungby?

P-pretty lady... *Siggy brain go BRRRR*

Dayum. Love confession on the second meeting? This man clearly has not read any WEBTOONs.

This is titled "baddies reveal evil plot.PNG" Naga, Manfroy talks a lot...

Chapter 2: Disturbance in Agustria

In what world could you ever compete with my gurl Lach? Don't you EVER disrespect her again, you utter buffoon.

Setup to get the Elite Ring on Lachesis while preventing the triplets from ruining all your plans.

This one is titled "Lewyn rizz.PNG" but I think I missed the part I wanted. After this he says something like, "jk, you're the most beautiful just as you are."

"Eldigan is dumb.PNG" This move made absolutely no sense to me and seemed completely against Eldigan's ideals of justice and protecting the common people.

Chapter 3: Eldigan, the Lionheart

"tell him Lach.PNG" Knock some sense into your blockhead (hot) brother.

DESTROY HIM FFFFFFF 🤬

Chapter 4: Dance in the Skies

"one man holding up army.PNG" Sir, can you please MOVE????!!!??

Everyone was blaming themselves but this man was singlehandedly responsible for the tragedy at Silesse.

No thanks, I hate him. Step on a LEGO, Andrei.

Chapter 5: Doors of Destiny

*squints* Navarre...? Is that you?

YOU PROMISED!!! YOU SWORE IT!!!!!

*cries violent projectile tears*

*uncontrollable sobbing*

*deceases*

......no comment, Arvis. SHUT UP, MANFROY.

No, no, no... *Beloved One plays*

Game: *keeps going after Chp. 5*

Me, shooketh, heart shattered to pieces: W-wha... what just happened... *tears flow unbidden*

[timetravelingpenguin1066]

Of Irland, Chapter 17

Chapter 1 \\ Chapter 16 \\ Series Masterlist

Instead of being taken captive in Winchester, Stiorra leaves for Irland with a friend of her father’s. There she meets Sigtryggr, a Dane, the grandson of Ivar the Boneless.

Chapter 17: I am to Die

Chapter warnings: Language, injury Words: 2141 AO3

Days passed and the Irish threat grew greater. While Stiorra wandered around the Great Hall aided by a cane, the warriors prepared for battle. Swords and axes were sharpened, armour repaired. Healing supplies were gathered.

Preparations for a siege were also made. Food was stored and rationed. The walls were strengthened.

Everything was ready for the attack.

A scout came with the news. The Irish were only two miles from the city.

“They’ll attack us tomorrow at dawn,” Sigtryggr stated.

“Then we’ll meet them halfway,” Ivar ordered.

Drifa shook her head. “One mile is too close. We should attack them tonight while they’re still sleeping.”

For once, Ivar did not argue. Either because he was too tired to, or because he knew somewhere deep down that Drifa was right.

After that meeting, Sigtryggr approached Stiorra.

“I need you to look after my sisters,” he said. “Gudrid has nightmares and Aldis is…”

“That sort of age,” she giggled. He nodded. “You’ll come back from this.”

“I know I will. I just need you to look after them while I’m gone.”

Then he left with the rest of the men. Thank the gods Drifa had finished his armour.

Stiorra sat down with Aldis and Gudrid after everyone left. The Great Hall was unusually quiet. There was never a night when there was no noise; Rognvaldr’s bed creaking from the weight of typically more than one woman, Ivar raging at something. Snores and groans from other residents.

She whispered stories into the darkness, tales of the gods and monsters. Whispering them until she fell asleep.

***

Morning dawned with no sign of any returning warriors. Not even the first wounded. The Great Hall was quiet.

The long tables had been pushed against the walls and rows of beds set up in their place. Thora had seated herself at the entrance of the Hall, ready to divide the patients based on the seriousness of their injuries. Stiorra went over to join her.

“I thought you’d gone to the battle,” she inquired. Thora was a shield-maiden and warrior like her husband. Battle was where she should be.

She turned, revealing the slight swell of her belly.

“Drifa will not let me,” she replied. “This is the closest I can get to the battle.”

Stiorra sat by her side, waiting.

“Is it hard?” she asked, breaking the long silence. “Waiting for news of the battle?”

Thora sighed. “Sometimes, but I know Hæfnir will come back, He always does. Usually covered in blood and looking for a hump,” she giggled.

At that moment, Gudrid came running up to the table.

“Is there any news of Siggy yet?” she pleaded.

“Not yet,” Stiorra sighed.

“They’ll be news soon,” Thora added.

“Should there have been something by now?”

“It’s been more than twelve hours since the warriors left. There should already be at least a few wounded.”

So, soon. Soon there would be news.

But soon never came.

Hours still passed. Stiorra tried to distract herself, playing with Alidis and Gudrid. A few others came to the Great Hall, awaiting the tidal flow of wounded, but there was nothing.

Did this mean they were all dead? Perhaps something had gone wrong, and the plan hadn’t worked. Or the Irish were further away than the scout said they were. Two miles wasn’t that far though, Stiorra could walk that distance in not even half an hour.

A wounded man limping could take an hour, perhaps?

In fact, so long passed, Thora started to quietly sob, thinking her beloved Hæfnir was dead.

Then the doors burst open. It wasn’t anyone Stiorra recognised. One man with a bleeding gash on his forehead was supporting a man with half of his leg missing.

Another came in, and another, and another. All with some horrific injury, some so bad Stiorra wondered how they would survive. Then she realised most wouldn’t.

Sigtryggr was not among the wounded. But she hadn’t seen anyone else she knew.

Thora rushed over, her dress already ruined with blood. She was carrying a small basket.

“Take this and treat those with less serious injuries,” she instructed.

“Where’s Drifa?”

“She usually keeps some behind to search for survivors and to sort through wounded on the battlefield. Sigtryggr is likely among them. He’ll come in soon enough.”

Thora’s words were somewhat comforting. It made sense that Drifa would remain, and that some would remain with her. She was too small to carry a large Dane warrior back to Dyflin, even if she was strong enough to lift two.

She went around, treating various people. Mostly smaller cuts. The men would eagerly tell her how they’d received their wounds. Enemy swords, thwacked by a shield somewhere. Some stories were less believable though.

She sat down, still laughing after one man told her how he slipped on horse shit, landing on his arse and took a dozen Irishmen with him.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” the man said, holding his hand to the gash on his cheek.

“I’m not sure you do,” she replied.

“No, I know,” he laughed. “Your Stiorra. I should’ve known. Sigtryggr doesn’t shut up about you.”

“You know Sigtryggr?”

The man guffawed. “What man here doesn’t? I’m his oldest friend, Anlaf.”

“Have you seen him?” she asked, tentatively, unsure of what he would think. Would he report everything back to Sigtryggr?

“I have not since the start of the battle. He probably stayed behind like he always does, looking in the ground for things of value, survivors and other wounded,” he said. “I’ll bet you he’ll come in here carrying three full grown men with bones sticking out and everyone will call him a hero.”

“Or he’ll bust in here carrying Drifa in his arms, and she’ll declare her love for him!” the man next to him joked.

“Shut up, Guðrøðr!” Anlaf laughed. “Drifa loves him like a friend, not like that!”

“You know people say she has a lover, Asvard,” Guðrøðr added in a hushed whisper.

“You are all bastards,” said a voice over her shoulder. She turned. Ingemar.

Thora came up behind him. “Have you seen him?” She meant Hæfnir.

“Last I saw him he was searching for someone.”

“Who?”

“Drifa told me to bring Sigbjorn back, so I didn’t hear who.”

“And Sigtryggr?” Anlaf asked. “Did you see him?”

“I didn’t.”

Stiorra immediately jumped to the worst conclusions. Was Sigtryggr hurt? Dead? Lying in a ditch waiting for the alkyries? Would they even come for him?

Then the doors burst open again.

“Clear the table!”

It was Drifa. Hæfnir and Asvard were there. And they were barely holding onto…

No.

Sigtryggr.

Stiorra did not realise she had moved until she was swiping things off the high table. There was blood all over the place. Drifa took out her knife and began to cut off his armour. And only then did she see where the blood was coming from.

A deep gash in the muscle of his stomach. Something that looked like a rib was poking out of one end.

A hand grasped onto hers. She clutched his hand desperately, as is hoping the contact would keep him there, with her, not letting him fly off to Valhalla.

And then she saw his face.

A bandage covered one side of it, clearly hiding some kind of wound. Another healer, whom Stiorra did not know the name of, pealed the covering off.

His eye was a mess. She couldn’t even tell if it was still there. A deep looking gash ran down the right side of his face, like he’d been hit with a knife.

“Stiorra,” he whispered, bringing Stiorra back to the present. He cried out again as Drifa probed the wound. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “No, no.. You have nothing-”

“I failed you.”

“How can you have failed me?” Sobs were coming now, greeting heaving sobs that made it hard to speak. She took her free hand and stroked the damp, blood-matted hair out of his face.

“I didn’t protect you from them.” The Irish.

“They didn’t hurt me. I’m safe, and you will be too.”

He would be fine, Drifa was the best healer of any of them. She would heal him, she had to.

But he was shaking his head. “No, I am to die.”

“No-”

“I can feel it.”

He raised his free hand and his fingers ghosted across her cheek, smearing her with his blood. “My knife,” he whispered.

His knife, the only thing that would grant him entry to Valhalla.

But it wasn’t time yet.

His hand slackened, the one stroking her cheek fell.

“No.”

“Get him upstairs!” Drifa’s voice seemed to be coming from a long way away.

“No,” she whimpered.

“Now!”

The only thing Stiorra could see were his closed eyes, his peaceful face. He could be sleeping. If it weren’t for the cut on his face.

His hand was tugged out of hers. He was hoisted up onto a stretcher, carried by men she couldn’t see.

She followed them up like a ghost.

The door shut in her face.

The tears that had refused to come now gushed down her face. Stiorra collapsed on the floor, sobbing into her elbows. A kind arm found its way around her, and held her.

But it wasn’t him.

***

Three days.

Three fucking days Drifa worked. She came out covered head to foot in blood.

She seemed exhausted, like she could fall any moment.

Stiorra let out a sob.

It couldn't be true. He couldn’t be…

“He’s not dead. He’ll… survive,” she said. “I’m going to sleep.”

Tears flowed fast down her face. Stiorra couldn’t be sure what she felt. Relief? Drifa said ‘survive’, not live. Did this mean he wouldn’t wake up? Or that he would, and he wouldn’t be the same?

***

Drifa didn’t return from her slumber for a further two days. Thora had taken over Sigtryggr’s care and had not let anyone in so far.

Stiorra sat in the Great Hall surrounded by a few of her friends and Sigtryggr’s, Anlaf and Guðrøðr.

“He’ll pull through,” Analf said, in an attempted gesture of comfort. “He’s pulled through far worse than this.”

“I hope you don’t mean the pig,” Guðrøðr joked.

“Aye, I mean the pig.” Anlaf started laughing then. “The fucking pig,” he spluttered.

He saw Stiorra’s confused face.

“You wouldn’t believe what Sigtryggr was like once. And it was only a few years back.”

Guðrøðr nodded. “Aye, he used to bed any woman within fifty feet of him, provided they let him, of course.”

“And when they wouldn’t,” Analf supplied, “he would do everything in his power to seduce them.”

“And then again, they were usually married.”

Stiorra shook her head. “You’re making him sound like Hæfnir,” she accused.

“But he was like that once,” Anlaf said.

“We all were.”

Drifa joined them at that point, finally having woken from her long slumber.

“I remember the incident well myself,” she began. “You remember the Butt Story.” Stiorra nodded. “Well, it was a few days after that. He ended up with at least three women in his bed. I walked in there and they were all sleeping. I woke up the girls, then with the help of my good friends, we picked him up and dumped him with the pigs.”

“Naked,” Anlaf finished.

The table burst into laughter. It was hard to believe Sigtryggr being anything like that. He always seemed so…

“Like Aethelred,” Ingemar added. “You remember what Erik did.”

“I do, and I enjoyed it,” Drifa said, finishing her drink. “Pig’s arse.”

Anlaf turned to Stiorra. “There is much you don’t know about him, he’s never always been the upright, honest, kind and gentle man you know now.”

Drifa shook her head. “He’s been many things. An idiot, certainly. A drunk, a womaniser. But he doesn’t unnecessarily kill or rape.”

“Well, there was still, what’s-her-name?” Guðrøðr mentioned, struggling to remember. “The first one.”

The change in mood was immediate. Anlaf and Drifa sat up.

“We don’t talk about that,” Anlaf said.

“I know.”

“We all swore an oath,” Drifa said shortly. “ And no, I don’t know anything.”

“I thought you kept up with everything,” Anlaf asked.

“Sigtryggr doesn’t want to know, therefore I don’t ask,” Drifa said by way of answer. “He wanted it to be left in the past for now. One day he’ll see for himself,” she finished, ending the conversation.

So, Sigtryggr had secrets. It was no surprise. But something so serious, an oath had to be sworn? Whatever it was, it had to be terrible. Drifa didn’t swear oaths over nothing.

The remainder of the evening was spent reminiscing about him. It was as if he was already dead.

No, don’t think that. He could still live. He could wake up.

He has to. It’s not his time yet.

[warhammer-fantasy-muses]

“Look, I know I said I could handle a lot of things, but that is not one of them.” // for siggy!

"Mmmmm~~ Oh what's that? The big, silly, scary Khornate is able to subdue and supplicate our Beloved Lord's favored child N'kari, but a tiny ascended human being is suddenly too much? My my, someone must've grown slow with age~ Maybe you'll someday end up like your father; reduced to brooding upon a glorified chair with a blown-out back, all to just glower and grovel over the freedoms you've been robbed of~"

@skxrbrand

[northernxstories]

Author: @northernxstories

Artist: @mrgabel

AO3 Link: HERE

Summary: In this Alternate Universe, women lead and men serve. Thyri Siggasdóttir took on the mantle of the throne in the wake of the passing of her mother, the beloved Queen Siggy. With her advisor and friend, Gyda Lagerthasdóttir, at her side, she is in the process of raising Kattegat from humble village to a key port of trade. Queen Thyri sends Gyda and her family on a journey along the Silk Road to form a permanent trade alliance. There Gyda has to deal with the mad Queen Kwenthrith and the conniving Queen Judith and fulfill the task assigned to her. Will she manage to cut with tongues instead of blades, prevent a war and secure Kattegat’s future? Or has the Queen of Kattegat asked too much?

For those who prefer not to read their fic on AO3, please find the fic under the readmore.

The Queen of Kattegat

The Queen’s Command

It was a blood laced dawn - the sky dipped in red. It poured over the water and the land like a throat wound in the midst of battle. She watched it rise at the edge of the world - Freya’s gift to her children, another day of life. Her back straightened as she leapt from the edge of the dock and into the cool water. It was ice on her skin, the initial shock of it stilling her limbs before surging forward. She breached the surface with a gasp and was about to head back to the shore when a pair of splashes indicated she had company. Warm hands reached for her. 

“I would have thought you still abed given our night.” 

Thyri tossed back her dark hair with a warm laugh. It was true that she did not often have both of her husbands at home to please her and as such their night before had been rather energetic. A soft kiss was applied to her shoulder, the heat of Bjorn’s mouth almost searing compared to the water. She called him her warrior but in fact, Bjorn was her explorer. The world was full of fascinations for a man like him. It aided their marriage that she only required her husband’s sexual fealty at home. Once they crossed the sea, they could do as they pleased, as could she. 

Her youngest daughter had been born from one such dalliance, although Athelstan had been pleased to lay claim to the mantle of father upon his return from some scholarly excursion to the great Paris court, where she had just traded a fine warrior named Rollo, uncle to her Bjorn, to a young queen named Gisla. They did not yet speak the same language but Rollo would learn or be confined to bedroom activities only. She wished Gisla luck with the man, who Thyri found pretty enough but lacking the sort of manners she preferred in her own court. 

Thyri sighed in pleasure as Athelstan, unwilling to be outdone by the younger man, began to apply his own series of kisses, hands warm and wandering on her chilled flesh. “If we are to play,” she scolded, although the laughter threading her words took away any genuine sense of displeasure, “then one of you must wash my hair.” 

Of course Bjorn took the words as literally as always. He broke away from their entwined bodies, still treading in the icy water, and reached up a long limb to hook over the edge of the dock. He hauled himself up and reached for the small bundle of cleaning products she preferred. She could have ordered heated water to their chambers. However, she was a Norsewoman and a Queen. As long as she could bathe in the waters, she would do so. 

By the time they returned inside, even they, with their hot Norse blood, were shaking from the chill. With the assistance of her thrall, she prepared for the day. Her hair was braided into rich coils that were sewn up and dotted with jewels. Her gown, heavy fabric richly embroidered, was tied around her slender frame. It surprised her still, in the fifteenth year of her rule, that she could still feel the strength in herself, in this body that had born six children, four of which still lived. Strong daughters to carry their mother’s name and their fathers’ strength into the world.

The Great Hall was lively with laughter and conversation as the heavy doors separating her personal apartment from the public rooms were tugged open by a pair of guards. The Saxons had a tradition of adorning their household staff and she had done the same, liking the distinction of it. It set her apart from the other Norse queens who ruled up and down the coast. The room fell silent as she stepped through the doors, with her husbands at her side. It was rare enough to be a striking image. The children hurried toward them seeking cuddles and comfort from the men who were often away from home. Thyri brushed a kiss over their fair heads and snuggled their sweet smelling baby cheeks before continuing onward. The woman she had sought an audience with was already here.

“Gyda Lagerthasdottir. I am pleased to see you on this fine day.”

Gyda laughed, her smile bright and welcoming as always. “Only you could call such a cold day fine. The winter’s bite is hard enough to break the skin. It won’t be long before the water is thick with ice and we are all trapped in close quarters.” 

“While I know your words to be true, my thoughts do not linger on the winter ahead. We are blessed this year. Our stores are plentiful and as long as Freya continues to bless us, the spring will arrive soon enough. And it is that arrival I wish to discuss with you this morn.” Thyri responded. Her eyes were serious although a smile played over her lips as she spoke. 

“I confess you caught my curiosity. What will the spring bring us all?”

“An adventure.” Thyri retorted, eyes sparkling with mischief as she spoke.

Gyda’s responding laugh was merry, “Are you quite sure you are speaking to the correct sibling? It is my brother who longs for new sights in his vision and new lands under his feet.” 

The Queen waved a hand toward a table, where a thrall had laid out the morning meal so they could break bread and speak further. Gyda followed the Queen to whom she had pledged her life as a girl of thirteen and never had cause to waver in her loyalty, even when after losing one husband, Thyri claimed Gyda’s brother as his replacement. When the Queen was busy and her brother away, Gyda often had care of the children she called her nieces, teaching them about the land and how to lead a family, lessons taught best in the doing rather than the explaining. 

Gyda waited until Thyri was served before taking her own food. Thyri could see the curiosity on her friend’s face and felt a rush of gratitude for her. She was without parallel - the finest of her ladies in her Queendom. “Well, it is time for Kattegat and our Queendom to take its place in the line of trade. We have much to offer the world and clever people to offer it.”

“Indeed, we are already a presence. As evidenced by your connections to the Norman Queen, Gisla, and the Wessex Queen, Judith.” Gyda replied, proud as always of her people and especially her Queen.

Thyri refrained from pinching her lips together in disapproval. She had a great deal of respect for Queen Gisla but Queen Judith was another matter. It was a relief that Athelstan had only blessed the other Queen with a son. If it had been a daughter, Thyri was uncertain as to whether she could contain her envy. While she prided herself on her lack of petty jealousies, there was something about Judith that made her want to pinch and scratch and claw in a primal sort of rage. They had met often enough that Thyri knew she found the woman intolerable. 

“Indeed.” Thyri responded, trying hard to keep the ice from her voice, “But I want more. I want you to travel the Silk Road.”

Her friend gasped, “Are you quite certain?”

She nodded as she responded, “In particular, I wish for you to travel to the City known as Constantinople. Several Queens will be journeying at the same time. Arrangements have been made for you to travel with Judith of Wessex and Kwenthrith of Mercia. Not on the same ship of course but we are building a fleet. In exchange for several concessions, there will be ships for each. You will be my emissary. To speak for me in this great city, to speak for our people.”

“I…I do not know what to say.” Gyda replied. 

“You have the winter to prepare, time enough I think to set your affairs and arrange care of your farm, since I assume both of your husbands and your daughters will accompany you. Your son may remain in my household, if you wish.” Thyri continued as if Gyda had not spoken. It was not truly a request. It was an order, nicely stated, but an order nonetheless. 

“Why … why would I be going instead of you, my Queen?” her lady stammered out, clearly apprehensive of the request being made. Gyda had travelled only short distances - Paris, Mercia and neighbouring Queendoms. This journey would be like no other and require unexpected sacrifice.

Thyri smiled, “My husbands are far too effective at their task and about the time this journey will depart, I will be nursing yet another daughter or perhaps my first son, a joy for any mother I am sure. Besides, if I spent that long with Queen Judith, I would drown her and spark a war with Wessex that we can ill afford. We are on the cusp of peace, the raids giving way to trade, although Rus shall still have frequent enough taste of our blades. Their Queens continue to be obstinate about striking a peace with us. We hone our warriors for protection and our Shieldmaidens lead our armies most effectively. Bjorn sings their praises.”

“That sounds like my brother.”

The laughter erupted from the women, causing others in the Great Hall to glance over and admire the stunning beauty of two lovely women speaking with such merriment, having no idea what grand adventure their Queen and her Lady were discussing. 

“Your brother enjoys much of the company of the shieldmaidens for many reasons other than their prowess in battle. Still, he enjoys an adventure. He will be joining you on this one, if you wish it. I know that Athelstan has taught your Halfdan to read the maps and he and Bjorn enjoy these adventures together.”

“And Harald?”

“The remainder of the complement to join you would be yours to decide. You should have over a dozen ships to fill if my boatbuilders have told me true.” Thyri replied, her eyes fixed on Gyda, willing her to agree. There was no one else she would trust to lead this journey. 

“As if they would tell you falsehoods. Freya herself would strike them down if they were so foolish.” Gyda replied carefully, a small smile playing over her lips. “Ah Thyri. This idea is a bit thrilling but still I must think. I ask for only a little time, to turn this over in my mind and settle on it.”

Thyri sighed and set down her cup, “I am of two minds. First is the impulse to shake you and oblige you to say yes. And yet, your sense to think and consider is precisely why you are the only one I would consider for this task. You are a worthy emissary, Gyda, and the only one I can trust. You have the balance within and Freya’s wisdom in your heart. If you can manage that wild and ambitious Harald of yours and yet guard Halfdan’s gentle heart and raise babes with those two men and run your farm at once, well there is no doubt that irascible Saxon queens and a conference of women from parts of the world we have never seen, may never see in our lifetime or the next, will be a challenge you can meet.” 

“That is a compliment and a burden all at once.” Gyda retorted sharply and took another bite of her morning meal. Thyri just laughed and continued to eat as well. She knew what Gyda’s decision would be. As Lagertha’s daughter, Gyda was unable to resist an adventure but her practical heart would make sure that each step taken in advance of that adventure would aid in its intended success. 

“Well it is almost time for the council, and today the dispute about the northern shore is to be argued.” 

“A difficult one, no doubt. I wish you Freya’s wisdom today.” Gyda replied as she finished her meal and rose from her seat as Thyri did. Today’s discussion was over but there would be many more over the long winter to come.

A Decision Made

Gyda tugged the cloak around her slender frame and kept her head down as the wind buffeted through the narrow path cut between the buildings. She briefly debated going to the Great Hall but instead she found her feet guiding her toward home. Snow tumbled over the paths despite the efforts to clear it, forcing Gyda to trudge through the mass until she was at last able to push open the door. A rush of warmth greeted her, followed by a thin wail, a protest against the dash of cold. 

���I have him, m’lady,” the nursemaid stated before Gyda could even reach for her youngest. The typically cheerful boy had just found his ability to walk but still needed his afternoon rest in order to maintain any sort of good spirits.

“Thank you,” Gyda replied as she looked around at the gathering rooms at the front of the longhouse that made up their home, “Where are my husbands?” 

Before the thrall could speak, another voice joined the room, cradling their eldest child against him, dozy and cradling her doll. “Well one of them is right here.” 

Gyda’s smile was broad. She’d deny it of course, if ever asked, but as much as she loved Harald, Halfdan remained her favourite. She met him first. He was a friend of Bjorn’s, who was the first man she had met that rivalled her brother’s passion for exploration. A warrior when he needed to be, Halfdan had the gentle heart of a poet. She had always been particular about her lovers, refusing many who sought entry to her bed. Many of them were gruff, rude, liars, or painful fools who thought their prowess in a raid meant she would be inspired enough to elevate them to the status of husband. 

They were all fools.

Halfdan was no fool. He was her friend long before he was her lover and even longer before she asked him and his brother, Harald, to commit to her for eternity, in this life and in Valhalla, where they would stand before the Gods and all the warriors who had gone before. Harald often drove her to madness but still she loved him. Halfdan was her respite. 

She crossed the floor to greet him and their daughter. Running her hand over young Lagertha’s fair head, she leaned in to dust a kiss over Halfdan’s lips. “Hello, my love.” she whispered quietly.

“Does this mean you’ve decided?”

Gyda sighed and stepped back as Halfdan set down their daughter and she toddled over to play by the fire with her soft toys. “Halfdan.”

“If we are going, we need to prepare.”

It was an old argument, one the man had repeated many times. Harald was advocating to stay behind, to use the absence of the Queens of Mercia and Wessex to attack the settlements. Harald was ambitious but not in the same manner as Queen Thyri. Harald saw Gyda on a throne, which had never been her desire. However, persuading her husband was another matter.

“Halfdan.” she whispered, leaning in to touch her cheek to his shoulder, occupying the place so recently held by their daughter. His arms circled her waist and held her close. “If we go…we may not return.”

His lips dusted her forehead and he chuckled, soft and warm, “We will be travelling with three of your brothers and just one of mine, two bloodthirsty queens, one of whom is madness itself and the other as cold as winter.”

“Is that intended to inspire me?”

Halfdan’s grin broadened as their eyes clashed, “It is our fate, Gyda.”

“Now you sound like my mother.”

“Lagertha was a mighty shieldmaiden and the right hand of the Queen until the day she died. She conquered lands, saved our people time and time again. There is a reason our daughter is named for her.”

“And?”

“And she believed in our fate as do I. As should you. Do you not believe in us? We could show our daughters a world unlike any we have seen before?”

Gyda growled and pushed back and away from her husband. She crossed the floor and waited as Halfdan poured them each a goblet of mead. She took a sip and let out a soft sigh, “And the boy?”

“Would be safe in the house of his many cousins, with our Queen, being spoiled by being surrounded by even more women than he has at home. This is an excuse and you well know it. He would be well. Our daughters would travel with us.”

“It’s dangerous.”

Before Halfdan could reply, another voice joined the conversation. Harald stepped through the door and snapped it closed behind him. They were greeted by the rush of cold air that sent a shiver down Gyda’s spine. The elder of her husbands tugged off his jacket and hung it by the door. His boots followed, lined up neatly next to the fire.

“We were talking about…” Halfdan started

“I know.” Harald replied crisply and Gyda sighed internally. Her verbose husband was being curt. An argument was blooming and frankly she was not in the mood for it.

Gyda tossed up a hand, defeated at last, “I think we all know we’re going. I’m just…unhappy at the prospect. I fear what the fates have in store for us. We are content. Our children are well. Our lives are peaceful. Why must we face such upheaval once again?”

Harald laughed as Halfdan crossed the floor. She set down her glass in anticipation of the embrace to come and she wasn’t wrong. He tugged her into a warm hug, spun her around and straight into the arms of Harald. Soft kisses dusted over the curve of her face and she sighed, satiated by their presence. These men, she thought with a soft laugh. 

“It is this practical nature of yours, our beloved wife, that makes you the best choice to be our Queen’s emissary.” Harald assured her, soft kisses meeting the hollow of her throat. 

It would have become more, as it so often did, but the children rarely allowed such things when they were awake. “Father!” Their little boy squealed, running for Harald. The man released her to bend low enough to capture the scrambling child and lift him high in the air, feigning as though he would drop him before catching him again. Giggles filled the space as Halfdan knelt by their eldest daughter. The middle child, another daughter named Ragna, was playing at the Great Hall with her cousins. 

Gyda smiled at the thrall and murmured, “Would you please fetch Ragna? We shall have a family meal tonight, yes? We have a great deal to plan before we go on our adventure.”

“Yes m’lady. If it pleases you, I’d like to remain here with the boy but my son, he is trained in the care of children and he is old enough now to travel with the daughters.” the slave replied.

“A good idea. We can discuss this more later.” Gyda replied with a graceful nod. A respectful bow followed before the woman scurried away to dress for the weather and then collect Ragna from the Queen’s residence.

That night, her head on Harald’s chest as Halfdan’s cheek rested on her own, Gyda continued to worry. “What if…”

“Trust.” Harald assured her.

“In the fates? I’m not sure I can.” 

“No, in your husbands. In your Queen. None of us will ever let you down, my love. I swear it.”

“Now that I can trust.” Gyda assured the men. 

Tender Leavetaking

The ice broke early that year. Deep cracks formed as the sun rose brighter each day. Helga and her pair of husbands, both tinged in madness, ensured the boats hit the water as soon as it was passable. The Queen of Kattegat had a fleet worthy of her name, worthy of the Gods themselves. The ground was soaked with the blood of the sacrifices given in prayer for the safety and prosperity of the journey ahead. Thyri’s slippers were stained with those prayers. 

She swayed with the movement, her belly still round with the arrival who had yet to come. She knew some of Bjorn’s prayers were that he would return to Thyri and a sweet new infant to hold - another daughter to dote upon or perhaps their first son to grow strong enough to wield a sword or find his spirit on foreign shores. Thyri laughed at herself, bemused by her fanciful notions. She always became more of a dreamer when carrying. 

Pushing open the door to their private quarters, she watched as Athelstan rose from his prayers, his expression at once perfectly serene and yet sheepish at being caught. Thyri was not and had never been inspired to move her good Christian from his devout ways, as long as that devotion was directed to her and their children as well. A gentle touch to the back of his head, where the soft curls wove between her fingers. A kiss warmed his brow but that was as far as she could bend. 

He laughed gently as she swayed, using his leverage to keep her steady as he stood as well. His lips found hers, a gentle caress from her most gentle man. He could fight but only when pressed to do so. However, he taught their daughters clever things, things even Thyri did not know, such as reading and painting the illuminated manuscripts that recorded the tales of her people - the ancient sagas. 

“Are the ships ready?” Athelstan asked, his voice soft as his arms wrapped around her, swaying back and forth as if in tune to music only he could hear. The sweet sounds of his faith, perhaps, Thyri mused fancifully. 

“Yes, they will leave with the dawn’s tide, with the blessing of the gods.”

“And mine.” 

She smiled, her cheek touching his and drawing from him the strength that she had come to rely upon. “Will you be sorry not to join Bjorn? To see foreign shores?”

His hand traced over her back as the other curled over her abdomen. “There is a reason Goddess has blessed each good woman with two husbands.” It was an old refrain, one that never failed to make Thyri smile.

“One to stay.” she whispered.

His eyes met hers and he nodded, “Always. And I hope Bjorn will return to us soon. Because I love him.” 

“I know. As do I.” Thyri confirmed with a nod as she traced her fingertips through Athelstan’s curls. In the beginning, she had wed another, who had died an honourable death in battle and found his way to Valhalla’s doors. Bjorn was old enough by then to wed, much to Athelstan’s relief. They got along better, coming to care for one another, the way husbands ought to when they shared a woman and children. Bjorn was as tolerant as Thyri of their good Christian and his beliefs, protecting him from those who might not be so understanding.

The door clattered open and, as if conjuring him from their dreams, Bjorn stepped through. Broad shouldered and towering over both of them, he approached in a cascade of noise - like a wave washing over them. The man was large, taking up so much everywhere he went, as if he couldn’t help but consume all of the space around himself. He shrugged out of his fur, tossing it onto a low chair before reaching for them. 

“I am going to miss you.” Thyri whispered, unable to maintain the coolness of her reserve, her voice broke. Bjorn’s arm tightened around her just as Athelstan did the same. 

“The Fates will make sure we see one another again. It is our destiny.”  Bjorn assured her, his forehead brushing against hers, “And if not our Fates, perhaps our Athelstan’s Goddess.”

Underway

His arm was a weight over her shoulders, holding her spirit in place as the rage boiled under her skin. “Shhh…my love.” Halfdan murmured as Harald settled their eldest daughter near the prow of the ship so she would be out of the way and yet still able to see the open water. Gyda tracked his movements with a suspicious eye. 

“He did not go with her.” 

“She had her hands all over him.” Gyda snapped in reply and then regretted her words. After all, Halfdan had done nothing to attract the attentions of the wild Wessex Queen. She was prickling at him because if she spoke to Harald at this moment, no gentle touch of her kind husband would satiate her boiling rage. 

The journey had just begun. They were scarcely a week into the long voyage that would take them to the great sea and their destination - the city of Constantinople, where the Queens of the North, East, South and West met to resolve trade between them. This time the Queens of Kattegat, Wessex and Mercia resolved to be among them. As Queen Thyri was unable to join the journey, Gyda was in her place. On behalf of her court was her eldest daughter, Asa, and her husband, Bjorn, who also happened to be one of Gyda’s beloved brothers. However, it was Gyda who spoke with the Queen’s authority. Asa was here to learn, as were her own daughters, Lagertha and Ragna.

Gyda turned her head to observe Bjorn seated, thick fur around his shoulders and his daughter, Asa, on his knee, buried in that plush comfort. She could not hear the words being spoken but knowing her brother as she did, she was confident that he was regaling his small daughter with wild tales of the sea and the people to be found in the far flung lands. Of course, they would all have tales after this journey. That was presuming that they survived it and of course, that Gyda did not spoil their attempted negotiations by slaying one of their allies along the way. A war would not further her Queen’s desires and Gyda knew she was selected for her calm and rational mind. However, Queen Kwenthrith was testing the limits of that patience. 

The last two nights, Gyda and the dozen ships which accompanied her vessel, had camped along the shores of Francia, shortly after being joined by the ships of their allies. Queen Judith was, as always, an elegant creature, her dark hair done up in a coil, her shipboard attire nearly flawless. It was as though her gown and cloak did not hold the mud that seemed to cling to everyone else. Queen Judith was not a favourite of her Queen Thyri, for obvious reasons. After all, Athelstan was deeply beloved by the woman and his first child was born to Queen Judith. Thyri did not demand fidelity from her husbands when they travelled abroad but there was something about Queen Judith that filled Thyri with a spiteful sort of jealousy. Gyda suspected that the two were simply too similar to ever be friends. 

Queen Kwenthrith, on the other hand, was a wild card. She could be brilliant but she was also unpredictable. Gyda did not know her well and her first impression on this particular journey was not positive. The first time she had noted the woman, Gyda had been conversing with her brothers, Ivar and Hvitserk, and Queen Judith as to the negotiating tactics they would use when dealing with the unknown Queens of the markets of Constantinople. Gyda, now that the journey was undertaken, was wildly curious as to where it would all lead. She had looked up just in time to see the Mercian Queen flirting with Harald. Her hand gliding over his chest and down to his hips. Gyda’s gaze narrowed and the anger bubbled within. 

Ivar had looked up from the maps spread out between them and he smirked at the coiling rage he spotted on his elder sister’s ordinarily pleasant face. “Ah I see we are family after all, Gyda. You should go remind him that you are his wife and he is to serve you.” It was all the right words but with Ivar’s mocking tone, it belied every syllable. 

“Do you think he needs reminding?” Gyda returned with an arch to her brow and a tip of her head, still trying to contain her boiling anger. Finally she set down her mug of mead but she hadn’t crossed the small clearing to speak to the Mercian Queen before she danced away. Apparently she had more sense than was initially evident. Harald however, only looked smug. The more Gyda glared at him, the greater his amusement seemed to be. 

That amusement faded when she turned from him in bed that night, curling around her daughters with Halfdan at her back. She did not deign to speak to him more than necessary as they boarded their ships to begin the next leg of long sea journey. Their holds were full of the food and mead needed to sustain them over the weeks ahead. Queen Judith had ten fine ships of her own but Queen Kwenthrith had only six, each overflowing with her warriors, who appeared to only be half the size of her Northmen warriors. At least in this, it appeared as though they grew giants in her lands, but Gyda was not fool enough to underestimate the Mercian Queen or her warriors. She wondered if the Queen understood how well her playtime with those warriors carried over the waters. Perhaps it was intentional - making everyone else listen as she screamed out her pleasure all hours of the day and night. 

Ivar shifted over, that familiar glint of madness in his eyes that always seemed to strike when he was about to speak an unwelcome truth. Gyda turned to look at him, “Why are you not with Amma?” It seemed this time she would strike first. Of course, as was common with Ivar, the blow glanced off him like he was composed of shields. 

His smirk broadened as he nodded, “She is enjoying our brother’s company at the moment.”

Gyda pinched her lips together and Halfdan shifted away, leaving her to speak with Ivar alone. “Why does she…” 

“Because she is mad. I should know.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at that. “You are not as mad as she is.”

“Perhaps not. But only because I had you.” Ivar responded quietly.

Gyda froze at that turn of phrase and glanced down at her brother, whose gaze was now fixed on the horizon. He didn’t often speak of the near constant pain that riddled him, the burdens of being unable to walk as other men did. Amma had taken him as a husband, liking his cleverness but what went on in the privacy of their home was unknown to Gyda. Her hand came to rest on his shoulder. “I have never regretted your arrival.” 

“You’d be the only one.”

“Well that is what the Saxons say.”

Ivar barked out a laugh, a rare enough sound in Gyda’s opinion. So much so that the others around them glanced over, puzzling as to the nature of their quiet conversation. “Why do I hate her so?”

“Because she has no husbands.” Ivar stated it as though it were a fact. Gyda froze, the words tumbling over in her mind. Ivar might be right. Even Judith was wed to two men, one of which was the father of the other. This was a little unusual among the Northmen but common enough they had found in Francia and among the Saxons. 

“Oh. I…” Gyda was stunned at the thought.

“How can you trust a woman that cannot earn and keep the loyalty of her husbands. None of her children have a claimed father. There is even a rumour that one of them is the son of our father, Ragnar, but no one but the Gods themselves would know the truth of it. Her word cannot be trusted. And it is for this reason you do not like her. You are an honest woman, Gyda, but sheath your blade, for now.”

“It is not often that you advocate for peace, Ivar.” Gyda retorted but the words were softened by the indecision that raged within.

“Perhaps I’m getting old.” 

“Considering you are young enough for me to have borne, I would appreciate it if you refrained from taking us both to an early grave.” Her words were laced with laughter. “Thank you for the good sense, Ivar. Now, what do you think of Queen Judith?”

“As long as it also serves her, she can be trusted. However, she is envious of our Queen and for this alone, we must tread lightly. She is the ice of late winter just before the thaw. She is treachery. Queen Kwenthrith’s madness is present for all to see.”

“And me?”

Ivar glanced up, “As clear as summer’s day. It is your flaw. Fortunately you have me.”

Gyda was laughing again but despite this humour, she knew that Ivar spoke the truth. As her giggles faded, she nodded, “I will go speak with my husband.”

“Ah, let him have the delight of your jealousy for a bit longer. Come, let me show you this game some of the Wessex warriors taught me. Chaturanga it is called. It is a game of strategy. I think of all my siblings, you might be the only one good enough to play with me.”

“Hvitserk might have something to say about that.”

Ivar shrugged as he shifted forward and further into the stern of the ship, “He is too busy attempting to make a child with our wife to care.”

Gyda was still laughing as Ivar was attempting to explain the game to her. 

Constantinople

It had been a dozen nights since their feet had touched land. In the north, the villages and cities that spread out along the coasts were accustomed to the sight of their great sails. In his father’s time, it filled the citizens of those communities with terror. However, Queen Thyri and the other Northmen Queendoms had brought peace and trade in recent years. There was still some terror but it was always sensible to be wary of a force so much stronger than one’s own. 

It became evident as they journeyed into the great sea leading them to their destination that they were a mystery to the people who lived along these shores. The shieldmaidens and the warriors that served under them longed to strike hard and fast, decimate and raid these cities filled to overflowing with goods they could steal and people they could enslave. Gyda stilled their ambitions with a sharp look and a few crisp words. So they passed, quiet and watchful, by these ports. Their eyes hovered on the prizes that lay so richly before them and yet, were denied. However, they were not here to raid. They were here to make peace. 

Bjorn longed to explore. Ordinarily he savoured these journeys away from home, taking lovers among the shieldmaidens and in the places they visited. However, this time, he was charged with a task beyond any other. He was originally to have several of Thyri’s daughters, the Princesses of Kattegat, in his company. However, in the course of the winter, it was decided that only their eldest, Asa, would go with him. She was to join her cousins, Gyda’s daughters, in this great undertaking. One day she might be tasked with such negotiations and therefore the learning was important. 

With a daughter to care for, Bjorn had put aside the playtime he usually engaged in during such journeys to ensure she understood all that lay before her. She had learned to read and illustrate from Athelstan and was making a point of marking the thick paper her other father had given her as they travelled. Bjorn remained awed by his clever daughter. 

“Come, wake up,” He whispered as he shook awake his daughter. She rose quickly, hands flying up to smooth away the strands of her bright hair from her small face. After she had relieved and groomed herself sufficiently, she walked toward him in the prow of the ship. He lifted her onto his shoulders, so that she could see above everyone else, the great port that lie ahead. On the shoreline, the people watched as the ships passed, their sails painted, the sides of the ships lined with their shields. The gods had blessed their journey. Only two ships had been lost in the great journey, one of which was due to the Wessex Queen having a serious flaw in the hull. It sank off the coast, leaving a ship’s complement on the shore, and having to return to her northern Queendom in whatever way they could. The other was lost in a wicked storm, sinking one of their ships in the night, and Bjorn could only pray that the warriors aboard found their way to Valhalla where the Goddess Freya would hold them in her hand. 

“Papa.” Asa whispered, distracting him from his thoughts. Her voice was laced in awe and Bjorn did not have it within him to disagree with her. On the land was a trio of creatures unlike any he had seen before. The colour of ash, they rose to the size of a longhouse and perhaps above in height. On each side of its head were two great flaps like the sails of a ship. Four great legs, stout like a barrel, allowed it to move about but on its face was another appendage, which the creature was using to follow the commands of the man who appeared to be handling it. The creature’s long appendage was flexible like a tail of a cat but more useful. The creature was carrying long pieces of wood and then stacking them quite neatly onto a flat sort of boat. 

“I see it. We will ask what they are called.” Bjorn assured his daughter. 

Kattegat was not so isolated as to be unaware of the variety of shapes and sizes of people. They had seen the people whose skin bore the gentle touch of dark night to those whose hair was as deep in tone as a raven’s wing and whose eyes took on a different shape. But to see so many people, together, each as different as any other could be, was fascinating to Bjorn. It seemed Asa was of a similar mind. 

A camp was permitted outside the City, although Bjorn had yet to discern precisely whose authority the community operated under. For a few silver pieces, they were able to secure some guidance around the community, which towered over Paris in both size and population. The buildings towered over them, the paths laid out in thick stone and the markets were lively. They were introduced to the Baths with some gesture that indicated to Bjorn that they were being begged to make use of them. He certainly had no objection. All the Norsemen were pleased to do so. Those from Wessex and Mercia were less inclined but not wanting to look the fool in front of the others, they went alone. Bjorn sent off his daughter with his nieces and let himself savour the experience. He wished Athelstan was here to see it. 

~

Gyda felt more herself with her skin clean and braids rewoven with gold thread. Thyri had provided additional jewels for her to wear, to impress these Queens, but as she looked about Constantinople, she knew her burnish was dim in comparison. She saw women with golden bands wrapped, one after the other around their throats until their necks seemed impossibly slender and long. Others wore gowns in colours Gyda had never seen before or so heavy with jewels that it seemed impossible that they could move. Gyda was pleased to change out of the breaches and tunics she had favoured over the sea journey. The gown spilled over her limbs, the light fabric cool in the heat of day. There appeared to be no particular rules regarding attire in the City. Some wore skirts or breeches so short they bared the whole of their legs. Others had gowns or tunics that dipped forward baring their shoulders and breasts. At least Kwenthrith would have a contender for her scandalous gowns, Gyda mused to herself.

Giggles echoed through the small foyer of the beautiful baths that were designed for the women of the community. As Amma took care of the payments, Helga and Torvi tried to gather the wandering children. Young Lagertha, Ragna and Asa danced around, making their skirts float as they spun. Helga was laughing as she tried to held her daughter, Angrboda, on her knee and wove braids into her silky hair. 

Gyda laughed at the scene but her humour faded as Queen Kwenthrith stepped into the room. Her gown was artfully embroidered and her dark hair was a silken waterfall, tumbling to her waist and shining in the sun. Gyda felt a spark of envy at the other woman’s sharp beauty. She could see the temptation the power offered to many. Her beauty made her an even more tempting prospect. 

“Hello little emissary,” Kwenthrith stated as her lips curled into a broad smile. She stepped close to Gyda. Too close, in her opinion, but she was unprepared to back down or step away for fear of appearing cowardly. “Are you quite sure that you are up for this task? The Council of Queens is to be feared and respected. You are a farmer.” Kwenthrith’s hand lifted, delicate fingers traced over Gyda’s cheek and Gyda had to resist the urge to slap it away like the touch was a bug crawling over her skin. 

“I will not apologise for knowing a hard day’s work or what it means to see the fruit of my labours.” Gyda returned, trying to keep the snap from her words but it was impossible. Kwenthrith’s laughter was an icy trill but before Gyda could respond again, a small hand closed over hers. 

“Queen Judith says it is time.” Asa announced. As the Princess of Kattegat and one day, hopefully, its Queen, Asa would be attending the Council session with them. 

“After you, Kwenthrith.” Gyda stated as she gave her niece’s hand a gentle squeeze in appreciation for her well-timed intervention. 

“My pleasure.” The Mercian Queen replied with a light shrug as she turned away and left the entrance to the baths. The others trailed afterward with Amma turning at the last moment to smile encouragingly at Gyda. 

“May Freya grant you wisdom,” She then paused and shook her head in some amusement, “and patience.”

“I suspect I will need it.”

“Hvitserk always said you were his smartest sister.” 

Gyda’s laugh bubbled up, almost as refreshing as the bath, “I am his only sister.”

Even Asa was giggling as the three of them trailed after everyone. She was confident that the bath attendants were quite delighted to have much to tell the others in Constantinople about these strange arrivals. The others fell away as the two Queens and Gyda, the emissary of Kattegat, continued on their path toward the great palace at the heart of the City. The mounts they were offered were unlike any Gyda had seen before. They called the animal a camel and said that it was designed to travel long distances over vast deserts. Gyda had to wonder what such an expanse of land would look like. The camel swayed as it moved. It wasn’t precisely comfortable but once you settled into its movement, Gyda was unbothered. Kwenthrith looked delighted, clapping her hands together in amusement and claiming she needed a dozen of them for her Queendom. Gyda rather suspected these camels would not find her territory much appealing. Gyda glanced over at Judith and had to stifle a laugh. The rigid woman looked horrified by the shifts of the animal as it moved its long legs and shifted its enormous feet. 

Gyda turned her attention back to the City around her. Asa’s small arms were around her waist and it was a comfort and connection that could not be underestimated. Constantinople was a maze and all the more wondrous for it. Parts of the city were low, with spiralling low buildings seemingly woven together with oddly shaped pitched roofs and elaborate mosaics around each entrance. The air was fragrant, seemingly perfumed with the smell of rich spices and cooked food. They passed by open markets with towering piles of brightly coloured powders, fruits and seeds, many of which she suspected would accompany them on their return journey to delight their Queen. 

The palace seemed carved out of a dream, unlike anything she had seen in her life. The walls appeared carved out of clouds, soft enough to touch and yet when a fingertip passed over them, the stone was smooth. It towered above them, with gates so wide a ship could be floated between them, sails proudly unfurled in the effort. Gyda had to stop herself from staring, open-mouthed at the sight of it all. They were allowed to dismount from the animal and for this Gyda was grateful for her busy life as a farmer because both Kwenthrith and Judith stumbled from their animal. She and Asa managed the task easily enough, even if the muscles between her thighs pulled. She longed for family - for Halfdan’s gentle encouragement, Harald’s fierce pride, Hvitserk’s bemused humour and Ivar’s good sense. 

Judith surged ahead forcing Gyda to trail through the gates behind her. Asa hovered at her side, fingertips buried in the skirts of her gown as she nervously glanced up at Gyda and then forward again. Gyda pressed one hand to Asa’s shoulder, drawing comfort as much as she gave it. 

It was time to begin.

Negotiations

The moon gleamed overhead, so unlike the bright light of the day, casting a soft silver glow over the golden city. That fragrant air cooled, adding a measure of relief from the heat of day. Asa’s body rested against her, the sway of the camel, had put the child to sleep. What wonders the child had seen today. What wonders she had seen that day. However, she could not claim the day to be one of success.

She delivered the child to her brother’s waiting arms and he carried off the child after she assured him she would share all the details over their morning meal. She knew the others would also be wildly curious but she didn’t have the heart to share her thoughts at this moment with a crowd. She was never quite the story teller as Bjorn or Hvitserk, whose gift of words made them desirable companions as Ivar’s prowess in strategy made him a boon companion at any leadership meeting. Right now, Gyda needed the sweet relief from being with her own family.

Halfdan knew the minute she stepped into the tent. He approached quickly, pulling her in close, and holding her against his lean frame. Harald settled at her back, his strength and mass enough to allow Gyda’s knees to give way. He held her as Halfdan danced soft kisses over her cheek and over the curve of her lips. “What happened?” he whispered against her lips. 

“It was… oh let me sit. Let me drink some mead. Kiss my children and then I will tell you all. I pledge it.”

She saw her husbands exchange a glance but she didn’t have the heart or wit to protest or reassure. She broke from the comfort of them and scurried to where her beloved daughters lay, curled up with one another, soft toys tucked under their chins. She pressed soft kisses to their rosy cheeks, making them grumble in light protest as they turned over. She brushed a hand over their fair heads and finally left them in peace, although it was a wrench to step away.

When she turned back, she noted that her men had stripped off and Harald was holding out a cup of mead toward her.  Gyda accepted it gratefully, taking a deep swallow before passing it back. She passed the cup back and then waited patiently as Halfdan began to strip off her gown. Usually a thrall assisted with such tasks but at this moment, she only craved their company. The jewels were placed with care into an ornate box that Thyri had given her for this purpose. Her hair was unwoven from the artful braids, letting the strands tumble over her shoulders as his strong fingertips scratched at her scalp. A sigh of blissful relief rose from her lips and Halfdan chuckled indulgently at the sounds that issued from her. Harald placed the cup in her hands again and she took several swallows to satisfy herself. 

“So, tell us.”

Seating herself on the bedroll, she patted behind herself and they settled into place as they had a thousand times before. Harald was behind her such that her back was pressed to his chest. Halfdan was in front, his back to her chest so she could trace her fingertips over his tattoos. It was a place of comfort and it felt like home. 

“We entered through the most extraordinary doors. At first I thought they were gates because you could have sailed our ship right through them, with the mast at full sail. It was extraordinary. Every part of it was beautiful. We were ushered into this chamber where this vast table was set out. I thought there would only be a few Queens at this Council but there were more Queens there than warriors we brought with us on this journey.” Gyda started.

“How did anything happen?”

“Oh well, it was quite organised. These people, ones they called their Clerks, who appeared to be lesser nobles, were assigned to speak with us, determine which languages we spoke. And how to communicate. It was here that things started to slide.”

Harald jerked behind her, clearly astonished that things had gone awry so quickly. “Let me hazard a guess.”

“My love, we both know the cause.”

Halfdan sighed and nodded, “No one is surprised. Not now.” She knew he didn’t want her and Harald to slip into conflict over the Mercian Queen, not again at least. Gyda sighed in reluctant agreement. 

“So first I met Queen Meghighda and her Clerk, Massa Defne. I think Massa is a title, like Mistress or M’Lady. I could be wrong. Otherwise it is an extremely common name for women of all complexions here. So Meghighda has a vast kingdom but it is sparsely populated. Or so she says. Others indicated she understates the facts of the situation. Her Queendom is apparently a great producer of wine and spirits, which unfortunately Kwenthrith imbibed deeply.”

“Oh no.” Halfdan chimed in.

“I see you have predicted the end of my tale. Perhaps you have seeress blood in you.” Gyda teased lightly, shaking off some of the day’s exhaustion now that she was so cosy with her husbands. Harald wrapped his arms around her a little tighter and she was soothed. “But oh you should have seen these Queens. One drew on her makeup so fine that I could have sworn it could cut me like a blade should I have touched it. Lips painted the colour of blood. Jewels that make Thryi’s finest pieces look like they belong to children. In fact, a particularly beautiful Queen named Ebbaba told me that I do not need to be modest when coming before the Council and dress to seem humble. I didn’t have the will to share that I was already wearing the most beautiful pieces I own.”

Harald barked out a laugh at that, “If I thought you favoured jewellery I would make sure you were draped in the finest. But you would likely let our daughters play with it half the time and barely give it them a moment’s thought. You are too practical for such things sometimes.”

Gyda giggled in agreement, “You know me too well, Harald.”

“About this time, I was called forward to give a gift to Constantinople, as each Queen must do. I will say Kwenthrith’s offering of a particularly fine set of pottery was impressive and well-received. Judith also gifted a lovely bit of statuary.”

“And ours?”

“I will say that Athelstan did a wonderful bit of work writing and then illustrating the Sagas. Most of the Queens and their Clerks were unfamiliar with them. Oh it was exciting to see them so interested in our people and this is when it all started to decline. Kwenthrith made comments about how anyone who did not follow their Goddess was a heretic and would face her wrath. She was well in her cups by now and she could not handle herself with any decorum. She was alternating between flirting and aggressively baiting any Queen who caught her eye. Admittedly the beautiful ones. Queen Yarra hit her so hard that Kwenthrith fell to the floor in a puddle and didn’t move but to wail for about an hour. This was sadly the most peaceful part of the entire day as Judith and I managed to finally start speaking to the others.”

“Ohh I do not think Kwenthrith would much appreciate being ignored.” Halfdan chimed in.

“Oh you are right about that. Finally, frustrated by us not catering to her, I suppose, she rose up again, strode over to where we had gathered and attempted to interject. Then she lunged for the Sagas. I don’t know what she intended to do. Tear it up? Throw it into a brazier? Regardless, she did not succeed. Asa intervened before anyone else could move. The Queens called her a clever girl. Kwenthrith then proceeded to drink again, continuing to intoxicate herself. It was dark by the time they finally shoved that drunken fool back onto her camel and sent her on her way. Judith and I followed, with not nearly enough progress on our negotiations. At least they seemed interested.”

“We shall see what the fates have designed for us tomorrow.” Halfdan assured her, plying with her soft kisses as he spoke. 

“Well the next time we go, we are to bring our families. Some of these Queens have a full harem. A dozen men to serve their every need. Can you imagine?” Gyda teased, giggling as she spoke. Halfdan tickled her in retaliation

Harald sat up, “Are you getting ideas, my wife?” Gyda couldn’t answer for the spill of laughter that flowed out of her. 

The next morning, she found Ivar, seated by the water, staring out at the skyline. “I need your help.” she said by way of greeting. His eyes were their brightest shade of blue, unlike any other, which she knew meant the pain was particularly cruel this morning. 

“Good morning to you too, my sister.” His smile was laced in cruelty. There was a touch of madness to Ivar as well. She hoped it was enough. She needed a little madness, the kind she had never possessed. 

~ 

Ivar’s strategy was not her favourite but it was brilliant in its simplicity. Eight days had passed since their discussion along the waterfront. Eight days of sending man after man to distract the Mercian Queen. Some did not seem to object to the task, although not a single one wished to repeat the experience. Fortunately, Kwenthrith did not seem to mind the lack of consistency and seemed to relish the flirtations. 

In that time, she and Queen Judith had managed to make some progress. It was slow going. Kwenthrith’s ill first impression had coloured every interaction. Fortunately, Queen Yarra had found favour in Queen Judith. However, Gyda had to admit that her favourite new acquaintance was Massa Defne. She shared Gyda’s practical tendencies. 

Tonight, however, was something extraordinary. They were close to resolving the arrangements that would include Kattegat, Wessex and yes, even Mercia, in the trade route known as the Silk Road. Gyda was relieved. There were pleasures to be had in Constantinople, that much was certain. Her gowns were of finer quality and Harald had obtained a few jewels for her, ones that would even impress these regal Queens. The Council's authority was unmistakable. This City was a marvel and yet, Gyda longed for the quiet of the farm, the coolness of the breezes that drifted from the sea and the comforts of her home. Still, going to tonight’s festivities would be an experience that she would share with her grandchildren while balancing them on her lap and rocking in her chair.

If the Palace had been impressive during each of her prior visits, it did not compare to the beauty of it during this one. Lanterns cloaked in brilliant coloured paper hung from every post. Beneath them, servants painted in gold held trays in perfect stillness, offering goblets that somehow remained chilled despite the warmth of the night air. Gyda’s gown was unlike any she had worn before. The golden embroidery over the dark blue made her skin glow and her eyes shine. Or perhaps that was due to the good company. This was the first occasion whereby both Harald and Halfdan were at her side. Within minutes, they were greeted by Massa Defne and one of her harem, who happened to be a fierce scholar in his own right. The man was what was known as a cartographer. Bjorn and Halfdan were instantly enraptured and drew the man into a quiet conversation as he described his maps. They didn’t really speak one another’s language but it appeared some interests transcended the banality of language. 

Gyda sighed as Massa Defne relayed that Kwenthrith was an early arrival to the event and had managed to corner several of the most powerful Queens on the Council. It was rumoured that the Mercian Queen was trying to somehow orchestrate better terms of trade for her Queendom and to build her own harem in the north.  

Bjorn had managed to avoid the task of keeping Kwenthrith’s attention as of yet. Amma advised that if the Mercian Queen even looked at Hvitserk or Ivar, she would slit the woman’s throat herself. Unfortunately, Kwenthrith was growing bored with the warriors they had tossed into her path and had turned her sights on others. 

Queen Meghighda stopped by the group to speak to her clerk, Defne, as well as Gyda and Harald. As others ebbed and flowed around them like gentle currents, Gyda found herself setting aside her worries about the Mercian Queen. Meghighda leaned in and murmured, “The Daughter of the Empress will be arriving within the week. The Council will likely await her word on the matter. However, it is unlikely she will reject our recommendation.”

Gyda’s smile was soft, cautious, as she regarded the regal woman, “And will the Council recommend the trade arrangements.”

“At this time, there is every reason for optimism, Gyda. It has been a privilege to meet you and meeting your husbands has assured me of both your taste and good sense.” 

Gyda couldn’t help but flush at those words. Her gaze flashed between the two men who held her heart and her loyalty, “I cannot deny that at least.”

“Nor should you.” Meghighda replied, laughing softly, “Now come, let us teach you one of our traditional pairs dances.” 

Gyda didn’t need to be asked twice. She quickly claimed Harald’s hand, leaving Bjorn and Halfdan with their enthusiastic cartographer and their passionate conversation. The steps were easy enough to follow but Gyda had to admit it was a delightful dance. She tried to keep the lessons in mind as she moved and spun. She wanted to teach it to young Lagertha and Ragna, something they would have to treasure above and beyond the jewels and fabrics they had acquired in their time in Constantinople. They had considerable treasures accumulated to honour their Queen Thyri.

They were learning another dance when Halfdan opted to join them and wanted a turn. Gyda was giggling, her cheeks flushed and happiness running through her as her husbands bantered as to which of them would lead her in the next dance. She spun in Halfdan’s arms and was about to return to Harald’s when a terrible scream rent the air. The music screeched to an immediate halt. The guests ran, some heading for the exit, uncertain as to their safety. She didn’t blame them for the caution. These Queens and their men played at diplomacy but many of them held their Queendoms against all challengers. Many of their thrones were awash in blood. Thyri’s calm succession to lead Kattegat was the exception and not the rule.

Gyda, however, recognized one of the voices immediately. She did not have the grace to simply flee and bury her head in the sand, no matter how much she wished that she could. “Oh no no no,” she prayed to Freya as she rushed toward the sounds of shouting. Harald was at her side and Halfdan at her back as they pushed their way through the crowd. There, surrounded by food, was the nude Queen Kwenthrith of Mercia. She was standing on the table, her blood doused in blood, fresh enough to trickle down her pale flesh. She seemed out of place surrounded by the elegance of this glorious Palace and yet Gyda could not tear her eyes from the Mercian Queen. 

Beneath her was the prone form of a man, his face half hidden behind the fabric of Kwenthrith’s abandoned gown. In Kwenthrith’s hand was a blade, tainted red, as she sauntered down the length of the table, making sure to catch the eye of every person in the crowd. A man rushed forward, his hand tracing over the body left abandoned on the table. The shouts continued in a language Gyda did not know but it was easy to hazard a guess. The man was dead and all evidence was that Kwenthrith had slain him. 

Another scream, softer this time, and laced in grief. It was Queen Yarra, who until this moment, Gyda considered an ally and potential friend. She had a practical attitude and much like Gyda loved her husbands and children immensely. She was one of the few from her part of the world that did not also have a harem. Instead she used those quarters to house and care for the elderly men of her family. Gyda admired the woman, whose heart was now evidently broken by this sudden and cruel theft of life.

“Get her out of here now. Go. Depart our shores as soon as you can or it will be a slaughter. Go!” Defne tugged at Gyda’s arm. 

“No but…” She lifted her hand in protest, not because she doubted Defne’s words or intentions but all she could see was the destruction of all she had hoped to achieve, all that Thyri had hoped to achieve, for her Queendom and her people. She had wanted to create a legacy that would see Kattegat thrive for generations to come. Now, every dream was dashed and every careful plan lay in tatters at her feet. 

She glanced at Harald, “You and Bjorn get that woman. Bind her if you must and carry her to her ships. Tie her to the mast. I do not care. We must leave.” 

“Yes, Gyda.” Harald was quick to see the sense of Gyda’s instructions. The crowd surged around them as she stepped away, just that fraction further, and looked over at Defne. She might not have the chance to speak to her again, something she simply could not allow without one further effort. 

“May we speak in the morning? One last time before we set sail?” 

Defne’s eyes bloomed in sadness and somehow that wonderful complexion of dark night grew almost pale. To see the woman so disheartened struck at Gyda’s heart unexpectedly. “Please, I know the trade arrangements are…well, dust I suppose. But I would like to see you one last time.”

“Come to my gate at dawn. By midday, every warrior in the City will be looking for that woman and anyone wearing her colours. They might not make a distinction between you.” Defne warned. 

“I understand. To be fair, there is no Queen of the Northmen who would allow such an event to stand either. It would be war. I know this. I will see you at dawn. Thank you for your kindness.” Gyda replied before dusting a gentle kiss over the woman’s cheek. Kwenthrith was now in hand, screaming as it took five men to cart her away and out of the grand palace. The hatred in her chest was a living creature, full of poison. The Mercian Queen had ruined everything in one petty moment that robbed a Queen of her husband and robbed the North of access to the greatest route of trade ever known. 

Halfdan kept his arm around her as they travelled back to the encampment. It was already in the process of being packed up. There was one thing that could be said of a Northman and that was they knew when it was practical to retreat and in that, they could move quickly. The ships were being laden as rumours, truths and lies, flew through the City, most of whom were being woken to hear of the great scandal that shook Constantinople. 

Ivar was perched outside her tent as she emerged. The sky was dark and his eyes seemed to glow, welcoming the gradually brightening day. “Ivar.” she sighed out and gave him a hug, seeking comfort almost unconsciously. It was rare she sought comfort from this particular brother. Usually that task fell to Ubbe or Sigurd. Bjorn was too prone to teasing her to ever provide much gentle consolation.  

“I have an idea.” Ivar started, his voice a quiet hiss, “We must speak to one of the Queens.”

“I am on my way to say my farewells to Massa Defne. She isn’t a Queen but she has the ear of many of them. Will that suffice? I cannot promise much of a reception.”

Ivar shrugged, clearly not entirely pleased but then nodded, “It’ll do. Hopefully she will have the influence we need.”

“Then come, brother of mine.”

Endings

His skin was still polished from his time at the baths operated in the great City of Constantinople. The men of Mercia and Wessex were not as accustomed to bathing frequently. The Northmen, however, had found these baths to be a true pleasure, relishing in the time they spent getting their skin polished as if they were fine gems to adorn their ladies’ gowns. 

His tattoos seemed to gleam in the fading light of day as Queen Kwenthrith ran her fingertips along his shoulders. “I knew you couldn’t resist me,” she trilled, a soft laugh falling from her lips as she spoke. She had scattered her warriors, mixing them among the others, at his request. He had whispered in her ear, advising her that no one could know. 

His hands remained at his side as he replied, “I held as long as I could, m’Lady but you are a goddess among women.”

She scoffed as she pushed back her long dark hair, freshly washed after they came ashore. “I see now why your wife is so possessive of you. Such a sweet tongue.”

“Are your men well-scattered? I will not lose my children by being seen…”

“I know,” Kwenthrith cut in sharply, clearly not prepared to listen any further to his worries about his status or his position, “I am not seeking a permanent connection. Just a lover. However, you may long for more when we are done, Prince Harald Finehair.” Her hand cupped his cock and Harald stepped back in sheer surprise. Only his Gyda was so forward with him. There was danger in the air, as though it had a taste on his tongue. He was surprised she couldn’t sense it as well. The woman was insensate - the goddesses had not favoured her with good sense to accompany her immense privilege. It was said she had two daughters at home and he prayed that they had more wit than their mother.

“And your men?” he repeated.

She rolled her eyes, the derision evident, his worries dismissed. “Scattered among Gyda’s men and Judith’s…Some are hunting, others caring for the camp, as they should.” 

Finally, it was a sensible answer from an insensible woman. Harald’s smile was edged in cruelty as he considered the wild Queen of Mercia. “Good, although I suspect none of them are hunting so much as being hunted.”

Kwenthrith had been tracing her hands over him, smug satisfaction in every line, and then she faltered, seeming to finally grasp his words. Her smile faded. “What?”

Another voice joined the conversation. “Unfortunately we have other plans for you, Queen Kwenthrith.” 

Kwenthrith spun around, meeting Queen Judith’s fierce gaze. The woman was nothing if not ruthless, everyone in Mercia knew of the Wessex Queen’s rise to power. “I assure you, however, that your eldest daughter, Cwenthryth, will be raised in my court. The other, Kenelm is it, will also be safely fostered. I assure you.”

“No!” Kwenthrith squealed. “You will not make my lands a puppet Queendom of your own. I refuse it. My warriors will crush yours. My army is worth ten of yours!” Her voice seemed to boom in the small clearing. She was a woman accustomed to authority but as she spun back to seek his support, he was no longer standing where she expected him to be.

Instead he was standing next to the woman who was truly the centre of his life. His smile took on a cold edge, “Did you think yourself interesting enough to tempt me into betraying my wife?”

Kwenthrith tossed her dark hair back, running smoothing hands down her gown as she appeared to gather her courage around her, like a cloak. She truly was a woman of power and beauty. She however was not his wife or his queen. “Everyone knows that the Northmen may lay with others when they are across the waters. You cannot deny that!” 

“You couldn’t even lure Bjorn to your bed when his Queen is an ocean away, did you really think you stood a chance with Harald or Halfdan? You make a mockery of us.” Gyda’s words were soft and derisive and she stepped around Harald to stare down the other woman.

Judith circled around Kwenthrith to stand next to Gyda. “And that is the arrangement that has been made.”

The Mercian Queen laughed, “Arrangement? The negotiations failed. Your miserable attempts to trade with the Queens of the East and the South have failed. They want nothing to do with any of us. ” 

Judith’s hands folded together neatly as she nodded, “Yes, we realise you tried to kill any opportunity to finalise any arrangements between us. However, did you not question why our sailing was delayed and we were not overrun with the warriors of the Queens.” Her smile was suddenly warm, perhaps for the first time during this journey. Her voice dipped into her quiet authority as she continued, “In truth, we met with the Council and in particular, the daughter of the Empress herself. Before we left Constantinople.”

“What?” Kwenthrith’s expressive face dissolved into confusion, her confidence leaking from her shoulders as she stepped back warily. 

Gyda stepped forward and nodded in agreement with the Wessex Queen, “We have an agreement. In exchange we must live up to our part of the arrangement. Your Queendom will benefit as well, Kwenthrith.”

“Unfortunately, you will not.” Judith stated.

A Promise Fulfilled

The doors opened, spilling the light of early morning over the hall’s polished floors. The daughter of the Empress looked up as her warriors stepped toward her, framing her with their strength as their visitors’ approached. One girl, not yet budded into womanhood, approached. She was recognized of course. It had only been one full turn of the moon since the Northmen departed. Yidu smiled in recollection and gracefully dipped her head in acknowledgment of the child. 

The child’s embroidered tunic shone in the sunshine, nearly as bright as the gold of her hair. Yidu had to admit that she envied that brightness. Perhaps she would take a lover with those glittering locks, she mused to herself as young Asa, Princess of Kattegat, approached. Behind her was the towering figure of her father. They did seem to grow tall, these northerners, like flowers straining for the sun. Perhaps this accounted for the brightness. 

Finally, the young princess stopped in front of her and dipped her knee in a respectful curtsy worthy of her mother’s crown. “I bid you good day, Princess Yidu.”

“And I you, Princess Asa. May I ask what has brought you back to Constantinople?”

The child seemed to gulp and then straightened her shoulders once again, “I have brought you a gift.” She waved her hand toward her father, who stepped forward and lifted a satchel. He gestured to lower it but there were scrolls and other miscellanea in his way. 

Yidu lifted a hand in a gesture of permission. All items were cleared away with haste. The satchel was lowered, a dull thud resonating through the room as the parcel met the wood. The consort bowed his head and then stepped back, behind his daughter, lending her his support while not overtaking her words. A good father, Yidu acknowledged as she nodded respectfully at the man. These Northmen were fascinating to say the least. They had certainly brought some liveliness to the ancient trading port. 

Asa dipped her knee once again, “We bid you good day, Princess Yidu.”

A wave of the hand dismissed the Northmen from her purview but she couldn’t resist a small smile for the young princess who had conducted her delivery mission with such dignity. Asa departed the hall, the doors closing behind her and her towering father, somehow taking all the brightness from the room at the same time. At that moment, Yidu resolved to request permission from the Empress, her mother, to travel to the lands that made such towering giants and dignified girls with hands rough as those of a peasant but sharp eyes the colour of the ocean. They were just so very interesting.

“Would you like me to open the parcel for you, M’Lady?” her handmaiden asked, extending a graceful hand toward the rough parcel.

“I shall do it.” Yidu replied, crisply. Her handmaiden withdrew, chastened by the Princess’ tone. She folded the fabric aside to reveal a box of some kind. After considering all angles, Yidu tugged up the straps, pulling off the lid. She glanced in and a slow smile formed.

“What is it, Princess?” The handmaiden asked, the curiosity evident in the optimism of the question. She hoped the Princess would answer but didn’t count on it. Yidu was as changeable as she was beautiful. However, she was also clever. She was truly her mother’s daughter. 

“It appears that the Northmen have kept their word. The bargain is sealed. Let trade begin with our new allies.” Yidu stated as she stepped away from the table, leaving the opened parcel on the table. The Princess walked out of the room, a smile playing over her lips as she strode away, knowing the others would wait just until the door closed to lurch over and spy into the box. The warriors would be amused by its contents as much as the handmaidens would be horrified. The head of Queen Kwenthrith of Mercia was a gruesome sight, ugly in death as lovely as she had been in life. 

Yidu knew the tasks that lay ahead of her, establishing a new location of trade, with new allies, who could sail seas untenable by most. However, she had the measure of it and them. It seems Lady Gyda was a noble ally indeed. She hoped her Queen was worthy of such loyalty. She had to update her mother, the Empress, of these events. In that missive she would request permission to travel. 

Princess Yidu wanted to meet the Queen of Kattegat.

[non-un-topo]

Hi siggy!! Hope work gets better soon! In the meantime:

💕 Your two top fave fictional characters

🎥 Fave film

📻 Fave song currently

If you will

Hi Lina, thank you beloved!! <33

💕 Your two top fave fictional characters

Answered!

🎥 Fave film

My partner will say Elf, because we used to put it on whenever I had a bad day (which was a lot I guess sddghfd yikes) but I will say probably Little Miss Sunshine (and The Old Guard but that's obvious lol).

📻 Fave song currently

Oh man, my permanent favourite song is Animal Instinct by The Cranberries, but the one I can't stop listening to lately is Hounds of Love by Kate Bush. Now it's in my head.

[chroniclyst]

i love you regal i love you atlas i love you mutt i love you violet (/gay)

i love you siggy i love you orphie i love you nobyl i love you starshine i love you mags i love you taako (/kiddos)

i love you king i love you clarence i love you blair i love you claudia i love you stirling i love you jordan i love you liz i love you rj i love you crobsy i love you ezriel i love you lily i love you martin i love you milf max rebo i love you wynn i love you mercury i love you thomas (/good friends)

i love you clarith i love you dogma i love you bipper i love you jay i love you sam i love you lewis i love you karma i love you emoticon i love you sunny i love you molly i love you syd i love you claire i love you zagreo i love you qrow i love you visi i love you lucky i love you val i love you rowan i love you rowan 2 i love you fox i love you rio i love you esmae i love you rene i love you vei i love you emmett i love you thunk (/beloved mutuals)

i love you twahly (/my parent)

[sleepy-mercury]

Episode 33

!!! Spoilers under cut !!!

my unfiltered thoughts as i watch the latest TPK episode

I am late again... but siggy and cricket have gone hunting? Why do I feel like this is gonna end badly...

Their suggestion "too quiet for hunting" oh dear lord this is gonna go so badly

"We're all each others drengr now" found family my beloved found family my love I cannot take this /pos

Siggy was ENGAGED???

Aro cricket? We dont really do romantic love? Aromantic cricket? Poly cricket? Or am I queer-coding a minor detail that was invented for fun...

Alsabar (how tf do you spell that...) is me in student halls telling everyone to keep it down

Willow and the disappointed mum speech 😅 I felt like I did something wrong and I wasnt there

In 5 (maybe) days of mountains, they have almost died like 3 times...

Siggys mum! We get to see siggys mum!

Toni had the nickname "shins" suggested? How sleep deprived were siggy and cricket? (However getting it from what is between a toe and a knee is kinda genius ngl)

Not me in twitch chat saying hi to kendal with the name shins lol

Also GREN GREEN not mountains!

“should we go to the spooky tower” no. the answer is always no.

why is it so hot bit sus

uh oh blightlands part 2…. also jets of flame oh no

wait actually it’s a nexus point? the world is bleeding?

poor babs got burned :( but toni healed her :)

[viking-chaos]

Sigtryggr Ivarrsson | Eysteinn Sigurðarson The Last Kingdom | 5.01

[breitzbachbea]

Drabble #84

Opposites attract and nothing show that more than clashing magnets finding each other as soon as they return. Or - Magnús walking into hell while Freyja, walking first, gently holds his hand. (These two belong to my beloved @swabianmapley )

Drabble Collection on Ao3 Ship: SigFrey

“Oho, pretty lady, where are you going at this hour?” Magnús asked, his hand still on the key.

Freyja rolled her eyes, but the sated smile on her face never waned.

“Into bed, big boy,” she said, clung to his arm and rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. Magnús chuckled and took the hand from the key to put his arm around her instead.

With the other, he turned the key and pushed the door open. Freyja’s hand found his arm again.

The two stumbled into their hotel room. The door was closed with more force than expected and louder than perhaps welcome at the time.

“Seems like you had a fun night out,” Magnús said. He was glad to be back with her after their group of Irishmen and Scots had split.

“The funnest. What about you?”

“It was alright.”

Freyja swung around to stand in front of him and let go of his arm. Despite her slight stagger, she was steady on her feet. “Would have rather that we stayed back in Reykjavík?”

Her gall, her good-natured taunt, amplified by the alcohol in her veins. He smiled, much softer than her grin.

“I didn’t say it was bad,” he answered. He turned as he got out of his jacket. “I got invited to a whiskey tasting.” He opened the closet.

“Oh, did you now?” Freyja asked and when he looked over his shoulder, he saw her curious and elated smile, her eyebrows arched.

“Mhm.” He hung up the jacket. “Well, they’ve planned a whiskey tasting in front of m.” When he turned around to Freyja and closed the door behind him, her excitement was less radiant and she had crossed her arms in front of her. “They talked about it like a big event, with everyone involved. Told me to tell Emil about it.”

“Oh, great! So, we’ve been invited to a whiskey tasting.” She let herself fall onto the bed and untied her boots.

“If anything even comes of it and it wasn’t just a wet idea…” Magnús sat down on the arm chair to remove his shoes.

“I think it sounds fun! I’m sure Emil will love it!” Magnús cocked an eyebrow and waited, until Freyja looked at him. “Come on, Siggi, it’s basically like the get-together after the sheep and horses returned from the mountains. He’s comfortable at those.”

“Those don’t have insane people. I’m pretty sure this is going to end in chaos, something he is decidedly less comfortable around.”

Freyja threw her boots to the side and waved her hand. “He’s been doing fine on his family weekend with Chun and Fen in the Icelandic wilderness so far, he can handle a little drama.” She shrugged. “Also, remember that time the Danish were over for the sheep and horse handling?”

Freyja caught a glimpse of Magnús’ face and burst into laughter. He hadn’t unhunched his shoulders yet, although the pure rage and repulsion had been replaced by a thoroughly miffed stare into space. “Regrettably so.” Every time Jóhann asked about Frej and if he wouldn’t want to come again next year, admiration and a little bit of excitement in his voice, it was hard to grin and bear it.

Freyja had fallen onto her back and held her stomach. Once she stopped laughing, she went limp and sighed. She fumbled with her belt, opened it and unzipped her pants.

However, she struggled to strip out of them.

“Do you need help?” he asked.

“Yeah, if you could pull from the bottom, that’d be great.” She pulled her pants off with little struggle. “Thanks, sweetheart – Oh my god, you’re such a square.” She laughed again as he folded her pants to put them away.

“Your square,” he replied and put her pants on a chair. “Looking out for you.”

She crossed her arms behind her head and he avoided to look at her naked legs. “I know. You don’t have to be at attention every possible moment though. Like, I know. Yes. That comes free with this life, but .. the whiskey tasting sounds nice.”

“With normal people it would, I’m sure.” She shrugged. She still had to take her piercings out. “Like, danger aside, people like those aren’t exactly the company I’d choose for a fun evening.”

“Normal-Schmormal. You chose me, didn’t you?” She smiled at him. It wasn’t beaming, it wasn’t smirking, but it radiated kindness that seeped right through his skin into his heart. “You love my weirdness. You followed it all the way into hell.” Gratitude. Apologies written in her eyes.

“I … yes … I mean …” He was at a loss for words. Instead, he got onto the bed, laid beside her and took her hand. As they gazed into each other’s eyes, their fingers intertwined.

[tappdancing]

Ahem, off topic but ...

Sobs, of course I'll help you Lanchan

Ahem. Now. Back to angst and sobbing

... don't mind me TT.TT

[mearpsdyke]

Anyways I'm a Leicester blog now

[csny]

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