#Bárid x Reader

[author-morgan]

Title: The Hands of the Queen Pairing: Bárid x fem!Reader Rating: T Summary: Reuniting with old friends brings new woes. Contains spoilers for the Wrath of the Druids DLC. @angstygunslinger​ come get Eivor’s brother cousin.

“DO MY EYES deceive me?�� You query, watching the Norsemen disembark the longship at the docks. Norsemen in Ireland were not a rare sight, but those bearing the sigil of the Raven clan are. He steps onto the wharf, cool blue gaze darting around the new land —Dublin. Despite the long years, Eivor Varinsson is unmistakable, even if the last time you saw him was as children. You turn back to your apprentice, motioning for her to take leave with the basket of herbs and flowers —you would see the poultices and elixirs made after a reunion with an old friend. “Eivor!”

He spins on heel, eyes widening and lips curving upward beneath his golden whiskers. Yours is a face he’s not seen in what seems a lifetime. Eivor is quick to take you into his arms as one of his oldest friends. He steps back after a moment, still smiling even when you lift your hand to his scarred cheek —oh, the stories you could tell one another since the days of childhood passed. “You are a long way from Norway, friend,” he notes, resting a hand on your shoulder.

Your lips quirk upward. “And yet, I am not alone,” you tell him, stepping back. The King of Dublin confided in you that he sent word to his cousin and old friend, asking for Eivor’s aid in trying times upon hearing of his deeds in England. “Come” —you motion for Eivor to follow, thanking Azar for her assistance— “I will take you to see my husband.” Bárid had grown anxious in recent weeks, worrying his message had not been received as the coronation of Flann grew nigh.

“Husband?” Eivor questions with a brow raised and mirth lacing his tone —struggling to believe the headfast and independent girl who would take no help from anyone would ever decide to be tamed by a man or woman. He glances at you and finds a flush of color on your cheeks, a rare and stunning sight. It takes only a moment longer for Eivor to piece together your position here in Dublin and that in the years past, you must have wedded his cousin. “You and Bárid?” He almost laughs, recalling how often the two of you were at odds over trivial things.

“He has his charms.” You’ve known many to lead unhappy marriages, but the gods truly blessed you when you married Bárid —even after all the times you squabbled as children. Eivor chuckles, glancing around the port city. It looks as though the people are preparing for a feast. “You’ve always had spectacular timing, Eivor” —you smile, half-thinking of the night Eivor came into the world squalling like a warrior. A reminder of the cold spring night when your own son was born. Banners are hung on the path to the King’s Hall, and lanterns strung from low tree branches. Today is a good day, and not just because of Eivor’s arrival.

“You’re just in time for a feast in my son’s honor. Sichfrith is seventeen today.” Eivor shakes his head in disbelief —so much time gone, and yet it all feels as though it were only yesterday when he, you, and Bárid were playing in the snow in Norway, all giving your parents more grief than they deserved. “We’re getting old, Eivor,” you laugh, guiding him into the longhouse where people bustle about in preparation for the night’s feast and where Bárid sits on his throne —holding court.

WITH FLANN’S CORONATION as High King, you hoped to hear word of from Bárid —that he would be returning to you sooner rather than later, but no raven or pigeon comes bearing news. It remains as such until a stormy night. Horns resound across the city in the black of night; had you been able to sleep in an empty bed, their cry may have woken you. Donning a cloak, you exit the longhouse in the pouring rain and lashing wind, seeing a procession turn toward the knoll. “Eivor!” You greet, quickly embracing him before heartache and fear take hold of you. “Where is my husband?”

Eivor draws in a shaky breath, turning to the wain drawn by two war horses. His cousin clings to life, but barely. The blade had cut deep —an avoidable folly had Flann trusted his pagan friends. “Bárid,” you whisper, fingers trailing down his muddy cheek. Your name rolls off his tongue, barely audible and pained. Steeling yourself, you move the blanket covering Bárid’s middle. If he is to live, you must act quickly.

Recovering the wound, you turn to the longhouse, calling for your son to wake. “Sichfrith!” He stumbles into the hall, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, but stands alert when he sees the tears on your cheeks and Eivor carrying his father. “Go, wake Luigsech,” you tell him, pushing him toward the raging storm. “Quickly!” Sichfrith darts into the storm, seeking out your apprentice. Taking an ornate dagger from the bedside table, you place it in the hearth —letting the flames lick the steel until it glows. Fire is the only way to cleanse this wound. Silently, you and Eivor work to rid Bárid of his ruined armor. The gash is long and deep; the flesh below his right armpit torn open across his breast and nigh to his ribs. You pray to Eir and that she may guide your hand in what is to follow.

The first rays of the morning sun flood the room by the time you're able to sit back —brow slick with sweat and hands bloodied. There is nothing else you can do save wait for the gods to make their decision. Eivor presses a cup of cool spring water into your hands, then moves to the opposite side of the bed. It does not feel right to leave you alone with your thoughts just yet as Sichfrith had gone pray and unleash his sorrow on some poor straw-stuffed soldier. “I always feared the day this would come,” you admit, eyes flashing up from Bárid to Eivor. For so long, Bárid had traded his sword and shield for diplomacy and trade, a false hope you might grow old together —watch your son ascend to the throne for a long reign. You take a long drink from the cup, setting it aside while shaking your head. “You warriors and your Valhalla.”

Eivor reaches across the bed, seizing your hands. Now is not the time to resign to despair. “Do not give up hope,” he breathes, knowing his cousin is strong, strong enough to overcome this —strength ran in their family. “Had the High-One called his name, he would not be here now.” It is a type of poor consolation, but consolation, nonetheless.

You hold Bárid’s hand against your chest, lips brushing his knuckles when ire strikes you. Eivor sees the shift in your eyes —a woman scorned. “They will suffer for this.” The Abbot of Armagh’s last days on Midgard had begun. Drawing in a slow breath, you look to Eivor, appearing to him now as a leader and commander. “Take Sichfrith” —it was time he saw battle; you could shelter him no longer from the woes of the world— “and all our forces to ally with Flann.”

Eivor Wolfsmal rises, dipping his head in genuflection, happy to wrought destruction on those who would harm his friends and family. “As you command, queen,” he says, leaving with no delay.

In solitude, you allow yourself the time to grieve and beg the gods not to take this man from you. “Come back to me, Bárid,” you whisper, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead and another to his cracked lips.

“SLOWLY,” YOU CHIDE, almost laughing while helping Bárid to the entrance of the longhouse. The cry of the horns had come in the early hours of the morn, and after naught but two days of being conscious, Bárid sought to spring from bed to welcome the return of his victorious son. You press your hand against his chest, reminding him it will be weeks before he is fully recovered from his injuries —even with your skillful hands and vast knowledge of the healing arts. Holding tight to his hand, you smile, seeing Sichfrith ride next to Eivor with the pride of victory etched on their faces. Glimpsing Bárid, you see the same pride echoed in his smile and know never had there been a prouder father.

Sichfrith dismounts, untying a blade strapped to his saddle —a token from Flann of his friendship and a promise the High King of Ireland will support Bárid’s title of King of Dublin, and Sichfrith after. You watch as your son kneels, presenting the finely crafted sword. Silently, Bárid takes the blade, looking over it for only a moment before passing it back to Azar. He urges Sichfrith to rise, holding his son an arm’s length away before bringing him into a tight embrace. Your smile widens, gaze flicking to Eivor in hopes he will see how thankful you are for his deeds.

Despite himself, Bárid reaches out with his sore side, pulling you to him. Both he and Sichfrith wrap an arm around your waist. The tears on your cheeks are those of joy and relief. You brush your hand through your son’s hair, kissing his forehead. Bárid’s smile grows wider when he sees you looking at him with the same love and adoration from when you were both young lovers. He stoops forward, pressing his lips to yours —the two braids of his mustache tickling your jaw. The gods smiled down upon you the day you wedded Bárid, and now, as you embrace your husband and son, you begin to realize they have not stopped smiling upon you since then.